Yes, I put off telling my wife, Grace, about the ghosts. I know, I know—people who are guilty of lies of omission are usually guilty of more than one. But I did tell Grace about the snowshoer kiss. I told her the entire history of that kiss. I wasn’t trying to put her off. I’d been hearing about Grace for years—foremost from my mother, long before Molly jumped on the Grace bandwagon.

I heard that Grace did this, and that Grace did that, when Grace was still in high school. Thanks to my mom, Grace was reading my novels when she was seventeen—when I was thirty-one. It’s a good thing I resisted my mother, who wanted me to meet Grace then. How could that have turned out well?

“Maybe later would be better, Ray,” was all Molly said at the time, or words to that effect. Later the trail groomer joined forces with Little Ray. I didn’t give in to my mother’s nagging at me to meet Grace until Molly wanted me to meet her, too. When Molly and my mom joined forces, I gave in.

“I’m just saying you should meet Grace, sweetie,” my mother usually began. This time, Molly was making pancakes in the Manchester kitchen; no doubt it was the ski season in Vermont, because it was dark outside when Molly was making breakfast, and my mom and Molly were wearing their long johns and their ski socks. “Grace is thirty-three, she’s beautiful, she works in publishing—she’s been reading your books since she was in high school, sweetie,” my mother carried on.

“Grace is thirty-two, Ray,” Molly corrected her.

“She’s almost thirty-three, Molly,” my mom said.

It was 1988, I think. Those two old ski jocks, who were spilling their coffee while they were trying to put on a second underlayer of clothes, were working at Bromley Mountain. Molly was a couple of years older than my mother, who was sixty-six.

“You wanted me to meet Grace when she was still in high school,” I reminded my mom.

“It’s just as well that didn’t happen, Kid—I think now is a good time to meet her,” Molly said.

“Grace was a darling little girl—I gave her ski lessons, you know,” my mother reminded me.

“You gave me ski lessons, too, and look how I turned out—the serial bad-girlfriend guy,” I said.

“I wouldn’t go there if I were you, Kid,” Molly told me. Too late.

“If Grace was a bleeder, sweetie, we would have heard about it,” my mom assured me. “Manchester is a small town—a woman with continuous uterine bleeding would be a big deal here.”

“Come on, Ray—no bleeding,” Molly said.

“I know Sophie was a writer, sweetie—I’m not saying all she did was bleed!” my mother said. “But did Sophie ever publish anything?”