“You’re making those balls too big,” Grandma Burke said to me.

My sister giggled, perched on a stool, doing more observing than baking.

Grandma shot her a glare. “What’s so funny over there?”

We were in my kitchen, up to our eyeballs in flour and sugar and eggs. I may have gotten overly ambitious with the cookie baking. It was amateur hour and I was botching it. “Smaller balls. Got it.”

“They won’t bake right if they’re too big. They’ll be raw in the middle.” Grandma Burke was standing on a stepstool so she could have the right leverage to mix ingredients, given she was barely five feet tall, but watching her stir vigorously on that perch was a little unnerving.

So as I rolled I kept an eye on her. Jen was claiming she was too pregnant to bake.

We had Frank Sinatra Christmas music playing and Grandma hummed along as she worked. If it wasn’t for the plywood across my picture window blocking every ounce of light, and my mostly bare Christmas tree, it would be a perfect scene.

The current cookie situation was raspberry almond done, ginger snaps in the oven, and snow balls in progress. I wanted to do a thumbprint cookie too but that might be overkill. I approached baking the way I did everything—with a plan and a to-do list. Which Grandma had crumpled up and tossed in the trash. She told me cookies were made with heart and a good recipe, not neuroses.

“Did I ever tell you I see ghosts?” she asked, sprinkling more flour on my quartz countertop.

I dropped the dough I was rolling. “What? No. Never.”

“I do. It’s an Irish thing. A lot of the women in our family see ghosts.”

That might have been nice to know. “I told you before I thought I had a spirit in my house and you never mentioned it.”

“I didn’t want to brag.”

Somehow, I doubted that. “So, what, you tell me now? Why?”

“Because there’s a ghost here.”

“What?” Jen squeaked. “Grandma, that’s not funny! I’m pregnant!”

Because ghosts could hurt pregnant women? Not getting the connection.

“Relax,” Grandma said, while I swiveled in all directions, wondering who this latest spirit was to drop in uninvited.

Maybe I needed to have a holiday Open House for ghosts so I could get it over with all at once then enjoy Christmas alone with my family and boyfriend.

But then I felt my heart squeeze when I saw who it was. “Ryan.”

He was leaning in the doorway, looking at ease, dressed in what he’d been wearing when he had died—a flannel shirt, jeans, and work boots. A familiar grin was on his face. “Hey, Bai. Got any eggnog? Getting booted out of the pearly gates makes a guy thirsty.”

“You heard him,” Grandma said. “Pour the man a drink.”

I wasn’t sure if I was sad that he was clearly in trouble on the other side or selfishly grateful to see him again. But I couldn’t even process any of that because Ryan realized what my grandmother had said.

Ryan started at her words. “You can see me?” he asked her.

“Of course I can. I’m old, not blind.”

I pulled out the carton of eggnog. I poured three drinks and slid one to Grandma Burke, and one to Ryan.

My sister was looking very annoyed. “I can’t drink that, Bailey. It’s alcohol.”

“I know that, Jen. It’s not for you.”

My grandmother raised her glass and took a sip.

I did the same. “Merry Christmas, Ryan.”

“Merry Christmas, Bai.”

Now I was really in the holiday spirit. Pun intended.