Ghost Letters Read Online Free

York to catch a flight. Warning his son to “behave yourself and make up for what you’ve done,” Gil’s father drove off.
    â€œHe’s a busy man, your dad …,” said Prescott, tugging at his moustache to hide his disapproval.
    Gil looked at the old man with an uncertain smile. Prescott was close to seventy, but his shoulders carried his age lightly. He picked up one of Gil’s bags and led him to his room at the far end of the house, up a flight of stone stairs. The bedroom was a large, gloomy space with a tilted wardrobe and bookcases filled with murder mysteries. The one window looked out into the woods.
    Setting the suitcase at the foot of the bed, Prescott put a reassuring arm around his grandson’s shoulder.
    â€œDon’t worry,” he said in an understanding voice. “Your mother probably never told you this, but I was kicked out of McCauley too. It isn’t the end of the world.”
    Gil glanced up with surprise. “Why were you thrown out of school?” he asked.
    â€œWe’ll talk about that later,” said his grandfather. “Now, I imagine you’re thirsty. How about some tea?”
    Gil had been to the house a couple of times before. It always reminded him of a medieval castle with heavy stone archwaysand turrets supporting a slate roof. After passing through several doorways, down a long hall, they came out into the kitchen, which was much brighter than the rest of the house. On the counter was a plate of cookies.
    Gil sat down as his grandfather opened the refrigerator and took out a jug of tea. Filling two glasses with ice he poured the amber liquid over the cubes. Though he hated tea, Gil didn’t want to say anything to Prescott, who squeezed a wedge of lemon into each glass.
    â€œTwo spoons of sugar or three?” his grandfather asked.
    â€œJust one, thanks,” said Gil, hoping he wouldn’t gag.
    â€œHere you go,” Prescott said. “Have a cookie.”
    Still dazed from his journey and the dizzying ride up the coast, Gil felt a little sick to his stomach. But when he took a cookie and tasted it, he realized that he was hungry. The gingery sweetness crumbled on his tongue, and it was gone before he knew it. After this he helped himself to another, which went down just as quickly.
    Kipling edged closer to the kitchen counter, his nose snorting expectantly and his mouth slobbering. Prescott gave him a cookie from the plate, then told him to get lost. Gil’s tea sat untouched until the ice cubes had almost melted. Raising the glass at last, he sniffed the fragrance, surprised at how different it was from the soapy, dishwater smell of the tea his mother made at home. Cautiously, he tried a sip and the flavor startled him. It actually tasted good. Gil closed his eyes and took a large swallow.
    â€œDarjeeling. Orange pekoe. First flush,” his grandfathersaid. “Made with rainwater so it doesn’t ruin the taste. You know this house was built with tea and ice.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” said Gil.
    â€œMy great-granduncle—your great-great-great-granduncle—Ezekiel Finch made his fortune as a Yankee trader, shipping tea from India to America,” said Prescott. “He also used to ship ice from America to India.”
    Gil gave his grandfather a skeptical glance.
    â€œIt’s true. The ice came from the pond on the other side of the hill. This was long before there were refrigerators. During winter, Ezekiel hired teams of men to cut the frozen surface of the pond into rectangular blocks, which they hauled down to the harbor on horse-drawn sleighs. The ice was covered with sawdust for insulation, and loaded into the holds of clipper ships. Half of it melted by the time they reached India, but the ice could still be sold to English colonials living there, so they could have cold drinks in summer.”
    Gil took another sip from his glass and listened intently as Prescott