"Get out of here, Hank," Josie commanded as Hank helped unpack the groceries. Hank let out a heavy sigh in protest. "I'm sure there is something you would rather do in the garage," Josie pushed on Hank's thick torso to no effect.

Hank set the carton of eggs on the counter and moved around the island, out of Josie's way. He didn't want to be in the garage; he wanted to be where Josie was.

"This dinner is for me," his voice shook a bit as he tried to gather selfishness. Josie lifted her eyes from checking for cracked eggs. "I want to help you make dinner," his voice came steadier now.

"You handy with a grill?" A sparkle filled her eyes from his want.

"I can make do."

"Fine, but you don't just get to play with fire. If you are going to help, you also have to peel the parsnips."

"Yes, ma'am," Hank gave a dutiful nod as he slid onto a stool. He focused on his peeling as he let Josie's hum fill his mind. He wondered if she even knew she was humming; it was her constant companion. "You want me to chop these too?" He held up the last freshly peeled parsnip.

"No, you can start on grill duty." She picked up the plate and paced around the counter. Her proximity sent electricity through Hank that he tried to stifle, or at least mask. She placed it down in front of him. "Be careful; burns take a while to heal." It was a mix of a warning and a tease that came to a flourish with a kiss on his cheek.

Hank froze for a moment, grateful that Josie had turned her back to him to tend to the potatoes in the sink. He composed himself and hurried out the door before Josie could catch his unsettled state.

The cool fall air soothed him, as did the grill, keeping his hands and mind busy. There was a certain level of reciprocation that he was feeling from Josie, but deep down, he feared she was teasing him for sport. As hard as he tried to hide his affection, he found it seeping through with a painful obviousness. He scolded himself in his mind, not knowing what to do with himself. He should focus on Peter. His mind shifted momentarily to ideas of clearing his father's name, but a flame-licked a steak calling him back to the warmth that Josie's touch could inflict.

As if his mind beckoned her, Josie was there with a gentle hand on his back. "How is it going?" She gazed down at the steaks.

"Good," he flipped them, "another five minutes or so."

"Thanks, dear," her tone wrapped around 'dear' playfully, as though they were amid a game of house. He let his eyes linger on her as she paced back to the house.

The sun was setting in vibrant colors of reds, yellows, and purples. Hank's eyes settled on the fleeting beauty. Years of sunsets had slipped by with little notice. Josie inspired him to notice, to open his eyes to the world around him. The sizzle of the steaks snapped him back to focus.

"They look perfect." Her genuine smile was subtle but flickered to her eyes, drawing out the green.

Dinner felt like a holiday. Hank didn't recall seeing Clara smile and laugh as much since before his father passed. Even the house was alive as it twitched to the breeze that was kicking up from an incoming storm. It felt like time for a storm, clearing out the old while they stayed in the warmth and comfort of the house.

"I guess no garden swing tonight." There was a mournful tone to Josie's words as she rinsed a plate absently.

Hank wished he could chase the storm away now to please her. But the thought was also sobering. The intoxication of the house-play was subsiding to reality. She was leaving and taking all she knew. Hank watched his hands swish over an already dried plate with the towel. The flesh and bone easily grasped the plate. As he gripped the plate harder, the knuckle of his thumb turned white. When she left, so did the mysteries that she carried with her.

They finished the dishes in silence. Hank's mind clung to the thoughts of his father he had long avoided: hands gripping tightly to a slender neck, the draining of life, the panic, the blur of scattered thoughts of sacrifice, the icy feeling of metal on his temple. He was grateful the storm distracted Josie; she missed the tremble in his hands.

Clara was waiting for them in the sitting room. Hank knew she would be; he expected a last demand for a dance. The look in her eyes was unmistakable; she may as well have screamed, "don't let her go," from the top of her lungs.

"I'll pick the song tonight," Josie spoke in a determined tone that signaled she already had a song in mind.

Hank was eager to see what she would pick. His mind swam as the song rose around him; I Put A Spell On You. She swept to him so naturally, like a leaf caught up in the breeze. He instinctively caught her at the waist, her hand bracing against his chest. He couldn't help but sense she was teasing him when she caught his eye. Still, he gripped her tighter as the song dropped, making way for the more jovial Tomorrow Is My Turn. He turned her faster, refusing to let her out of his grip. She did not protest. It was all so dizzying. Hank's head was still swimming at all she knew that he needed to know. Yet, he found all senses being pulled back to the warmth of her body melting to his.

The song was simmering, and with one last twist, Josie came to his ear. "Something you want to say, Hank?"

It was just a whisper, but it was enough to drain all reasoning from his mind. All he felt was Josie's body flow back down his side, her cheek resting on his chest. There was no thought, just a tightening of his arms around her, pulling her further into him. He let his face drop to the crown of her head, taking in her thick scent before allowing his lips to glide into her hair briefly.

She seemed to cling to him, but if she were, he was too lost in his senses to qualify it. There was no twisting or spinning of a waltz any longer. They just clung to each other as though a storm were about to rage against them, but all that came was more music. Track after track slipped by before they snapped back to reality. Clara had slipped away; Hank could almost sense her satisfaction bursting from her room.

"Josie," his voice came coarser than he had wished. She lifted her eyes to him with almost a sleepy haze in her eyes. "We need to talk." His words pulled them both back to reality.

This was not a love story; instead, this was careening close to a ghost story.