The Ghost Belonged to Me by Richard Peck

would say, “You know our daughter, Lucille, of course.” And everybody agreed.
    Mother had to look at Lucille severely pretty often because she kept craning her neck trying to catch sight of the Hacketts. Lucille even took to whispering to me, though she is not in the habit of confiding in my direction.
    â€œI know Tom’s coming,” she muttered, “because he gave me his word on it. But if his folks come too, then that’s a sign they know he and I are—serious and they put their stamp of approval on it.”
    I was not sure I followed Lucille’s reasoning, since people have been known to attend a party out of nothing but curiosity. But I supposed she had it all worked out in her own mind.
    Mother was surveying the crowd pretty sharp too and would occasionally poke Dad and say things like, “Here come the Breckenridges and there are the Hochhuths behind them, so be on your best behavior.” But Dad is pretty much on the same kind of behavior regardless of the company he’s in.
    Mother gave me the nod to start around the crowd with the iced cakes. I was just heading down off the porch when a big white and gold automobile turned into the lane. When it got closer, Dad said, “Why that’s a new six-cylinder Coey Flyer touring barouche.” When it got closer still Mother said, “Dear Lord, it’s the Hacketts.” When it rolled to a stop, Lucille sagged. In it was Mr. and Mrs. Hackett, but not Tom.
    â€œHey there, Joe!” Mr. Hackett called out to Dad from the lane.
    And Dad said, “Hey there, Walter,” back to him. But when Mrs. Hackett climbed down out of the Coey Flyer, she kept her head over on one side and seemed not to take too much notice of anything. She wasn’t dressed quite like the other women. She had on a big hat, though it was plain, and she carried a little tiny pocketbook on a chain.
    â€œOh, I guess that dress came from Chicago. It’s very smart,” Mother whispered sadly. And she made a gesture like she was trying to flatten out some of her ruffles.
    Dad and Mr. Hackett go back a long way together as they pointed out to each other. But Mrs. Hackett was quite cool and passed off the porch with record speed, just glancing into Lucille’s bouquet and smiling a small amount. Mother told me to conduct her personally down to the pavilion and Cousin Elvera. Mrs. Hackett took my arm and nodded a bit to people we passed. She asked me if I thought this was an amusing party, to which I didn’t know how to reply. It was about to get amusing, but I did not foresee that.
    Dad and Mr. Hackett were old friends together. It wasn’t long before they had their coats off and their cuffs turned back to poke around under the hood of the Hacketts’ new Coey Flyer.
    I was in front of the snowball bushes by the porch trying hard to rid myself of the rest of the cakes. I heard a rustling down near the ground. The thought of Trixie came to me, so I set the cake platter on the grass and parted the branches.
    There was a quaint face looking out at me from under the porch, but it wasn’t Trixie’s. It was Blossom’s. She was hunkered down out of sight, having a view of people’s feet.
    â€œYou are everywhere at once, aren’t you, Blossom?” I said to her. We were both down on our knees and nose to nose.
    â€œI just wanted to have a look at what was going on,” said Blossom, “and kindly don’t tell my mama.” Then she darted a look past me at the platter of cakes.
    â€œHow would I have the chance to do that?”
    â€œWell,” she said, “she’s working out in your kitchen this afternoon, piling the cakes on the trays.” So then I knew who the woman was with the gold crosses in her ears who looked at me with the same black eyes as Blossom’s. And that was the same woman who said I was receptive to the Spirit World. It worried me somewhat. I offered Blossom the tray and