Chapter One
Rachel Emerson drew her brown wrap close and fisted the wool at her neck to block out the damp mist from stealing the little warmth she had. Crazy, that’s what she was. Who in their right mind goes out at 8:00 a.m. on a New England beach road in late October? Really? No one would describe her as compulsive, but what else could explain her uncontrollable urge to come here? Now. Before the house was gone and nothing was left.
Rachel reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded note for the umpteenth time. Meet me tonight. R. She put the unsent note away with a satisfied sound and continued on.
Constitution Boulevard, a grand name for a small strip of asphalt, was almost wide enough for two cars. Right off the interstate, the local road cut inland through a forest of evergreens that thinned and morphed into manicured grounds of the mansions near the beach. This close to the water, tall grass grew on either side of the roadway. Rachel followed the faded double yellow line in the center of the street, which was wet from the early-morning rain.
The cadence of crashing waves in the distance created a familiar, soothing rhythm. A breeze picked up and blew down the road from the beach. She pulled her wrap closer. For a moment, she regretted her early start.
“My own fault,” Rachel muttered, “for putting this visit off.” At midnight, the Historical Society took ownership of the estate property and its contents. She had to be gone by then. Yeah, nothing like leaving things to the last minute.
“Come on, Rachel, one foot in front of the other,” she said to no one.
This was her last chance to walk through Havencroft Manor and find what was most precious to her. Deep down, the comfort of home called to her, one last time. Finding that feeling again would warm her soul. Anything else would be a miracle.
Welcome to Havenport, Rhode Island Founded 1640, the town sign greeted her at the crossroads. Against the backdrop of an overcast sky, fingers of fog roiled at the sign’s base and made it appear as if it hung in midair.
She squinted down Manor Road on the right. Visibility was poor. No way anyone could make out the wrought-iron entrance to the cemetery a quarter mile away—or the entrance to Havencroft Manor on the hill a mile past that—thanks to the mist.
As a seasoned Havenporter she knew the watery morning sun struggling through the clouds would make it difficult for the haze to clear.
Another look at the gathering mist sent a chill up her back. Rachel rubbed her arms, unable to be soothed. Easy. Stay calm. She cast a quick look from the short shrubs at the edge of the road to the thickening mist around her. Anyone could be hiding in this fog and she wouldn’t know until they stood nose to nose.
“Breathe. Nothing’s there. It’s your overactive imagination.”
The tall grass twitched. Her chest pounded. She dare not make a sudden move. She sniffed the air and caught the tangy order of brine, seaweed, and mucky sand. Another sniff. Some people were concerned about the coyotes and fisher cats that roamed the area. Not Rachel. Skunks terrified her ever since she was five.
“What were you thinking?” her father asked. His voice had a nasal twang probably caused by the clothespin on his nose.
“I wanted to pet the kitty,” Rachel told him. “Why are we going to the boathouse now? Doesn’t the party start soon?”
“You’ll have to be brave, Pumpkin.” His words were somber, but his eyes twinkled as they reached the water. In minutes, he had a fire blazing in the pit, and Mother had supplies on the outdoor table.
“Brave?” Rachel asked.
“Yes.” Her mother pulled off her costume and gave it to Father.
“My costume,” she cried, reaching for it. Shiny sequins covered her beautiful costume and made it twinkle in the light. “You don’t let anyone into the party without a costume.”
“Hmm…not in this Halloween costume. Unless you want to go as a skunked pumpkin,” her father said, holding the smelly mess of orange fabric and stuffing at arm’s length. Five-year-old Rachel watched in horror as he tossed it into the fire.
“Farewell, old pumpkin and brave clothespin.” He ceremoniously removed the clothespin from his nose and tossed that into the fire pit as well. “Life is not always a smooth ride. Sometimes it’s even stinky.”
“Oh, Daddy. Don’t be silly,” she said with a laugh. He always made her laugh.
“Thank goodness,” her mother said, sniffing her like a puppy, making her laugh even more. “I can’t smell anything. The stuffing in the costume must have absorbed the spray.”
“Can I be a witch like you, Mommy?”
“I’m not sure,” her father said. “You have to be pretty special to be a witch like your mother.” He raked the fire and made sure nothing remained of the costume or the clothespin.
“Don’t give her any ideas.” A special look passed between her parents. “You know Rachel has to be at least six before I can teach her spells.”
Her mother washed her down for good measure and wrapped her in a soft towel while her father put out the fire.
“Mission accomplished,” he announced. He sniffed around her. “You smell sweet as a rose. I’m sure Janet will have something for you to wear to the party.”
“In the future, Rachel—”
“Edythe, she’s learned her lesson. Haven’t you…Hmm. I can’t call you pumpkin. How about…pussycat?” Her father picked her up. “I want you to have happily-ever-afters. Rachel, wild animals are not safe. Promise me you won’t go near them again.”
“I promise, Daddy.” He carried her back to the manor and brought her to her room where Janet waited.
“Oh, Janet. I love it.” On her bed were her black leotard and ballet slippers, along with glittery, furry ears.
“All you need is a little eye pencil in the right place, and you’re transformed into a black kitten.”
After that incident, she had a healthy respect for skunks. Now, a grown Rachel took one step backward, and another, before turning and doubled-timing toward town. Better to wait for the fog to lift before going to the house.
“Coward,” Rachel mumbled. “You didn’t come this far to run away. Shush,” she said, as if a reprimand would quiet her mind.
It would take her another thirty minutes on Constitution Boulevard to get to Havenport. By the time the buildings on the outskirts of town were in sight, the sun had made its way through the clouds and took the edge off the chill.
The corner of Washington Avenue and Constitution Boulevard hadn’t changed. It still was a middle-class community of hardworking people who cared about one another. New England Cape Cod–style shingle houses with steep roofs and gabled fronts lined the streets. Neatly landscaped yards surrounded the houses. Cars filled driveways, and children’s toys littered lawns. Jack-o’-lanterns, with wide smiles and missing teeth, stood guard on steps and porches, ready to welcome tomorrow’s trick-or-treaters. Lawn signs stuck in the ground announced the local elections. Evan Washburn. The last name was familiar. Yes, one of the families from the country club.
Rachel turned down Washington Avenue. People, busy chatting with one another, sauntered at an easy pace, and others hurried along. She passed old landmarks and headed toward the center of town.
Seasonal decorations dressed the town square and the rest of the business district.
The large white gazebo, built on a mound in the town square, provided a panoramic view of Havenport. Rachel climbed the steps, something she’d done hundreds of times. She viewed the harbor on one side and shops on the other.
Private and commercial boats bobbed in the water, tied to the new pier that jutted out into the bay. The old commercial marina at the far end of the bay was gone, replaced with footings for a new structure.
Places and people move on. Did she think they would stay the same for her? How foolish to not realize Havenport would change. She turned away from the harbor, as if ignoring progress would make it stop, and tried to swallow around the knot in her throat. What else had time changed?
Benches and trees lining Main Street gave a pedestrian mall appearance rather than the traffic-filled roadway of the past. New businesses sprinkled among the old storefronts. The Bacchanalia restaurant—it looked upscale to her—occupied the far corner where the stationery store used to be.
Pumpkins and large flowerpots brimmed with chrysanthemums and bright-yellow, red, and brown leaves along the sidewalk, creating a festive look. Ghosts, witches, and goblins hung from old-fashioned lampposts. Rich colors and trappings of a New England autumn were all around. Yes, fall was her season. Havenport was her home.
“Havencroft,” a voice whispered in her head. Half in anticipation and half in dread, she walked down the gazebo steps. People who laughed at the cool weather sat at the stone tables with their morning brew and Danish.
The aroma of coffee and fresh baked bread filled her nostrils. She imagined the taste of warm bread slathered with fresh butter—or better, raspberry jam—and she licked her lips. Tony’s morning roll with fresh butter was legendary. He also made the best pastries in Havenport. His bakery was a daily stop for her and Pam on their way home from school. A small detour. Her mouth watered as she traipsed down Main Street, determined to satisfy her sweet tooth.
She stopped across from the bookstore, now called A New Chapter. Disoriented, Rachel looked up and down Jefferson Avenue. This was the right spot. She searched for the large white building that should be on the corner. She didn’t recognize it now that it was painted bright blue. Above the gay yellow-and-white-striped awning, there was a sign: Led Zeppoli, Italian Pastries.
She jumped at a soft, playful bark from a West Highland terrier that sniffed her feet. Before she could bend to pet the pup, the dog rolled on its back, begging for a belly rub.
“I got my ticket for the masquerade ball at the bookstore. Sure, I’m out front. I’ll be right with you. One minute,” the woman holding the dog’s leash said into her phone. “What’s up, McDuff?”
“McDuff. That’s a great name,” Rachel said. Unable to resist the white powder puff, she bent to pet the dog. Rolling on the ground, its tail beating the pavement, this puppy would melt anyone’s heart. Masquerade ball? Her mother used to host one every year at the manor.
“I just gave you a bath. Heel,” the woman commanded, and put away her phone. “Sorry, no time to play.”
“That’s all right,” Rachel said, straightening. McDuff went obediently and stood at the woman’s feet, but kept his eyes on her.
The dog walker bent to pick some leaves off McDuff’s coat. “They need us inside.” Before they entered Wags and Walks, McDuff, more leaves stuck on his clean coat, looked back and gave Rachel a soft woof.
“Yeah, boy. I’m sorry, but I have to go, too.”
She crossed the street to get a better look at the bookstore window and stared at a poster.
Edythe Emerson’s Annual Masquerade Ball
October 30 at Havencroft Manor (the former Emerson Estate)
Nine to midnight (if you dare to stay to the witching hour)
Costume required
The Women of Havencroft Manor, available at Serendipity
An arrow pointed to the right.
It would be wonderful to go to the ball. Rachel looked at the sign. The Women of Havencroft Manor. Curious to see where to find the shop, she stepped back and laughed. Serendipity was next door.
A metaphysical shop. Edythe Emerson had fancied herself a witch. As a guest lecturer, her mother taught two community college courses that were always scheduled in October: Magic, Witchcraft, and Religion and Witches, Myth, and Reality. A metaphysical shop would be right in line with her thoughts.
Rachel stepped inside. With her first breath, the familiar woodsy fragrance of bay, and earthy and minty aromas of sage and rosemary, greeted her. Drawn in by the warmth, further into the shop floral notes of lavender, honeysuckle, and rose mixed and created a bouquet of fragrances. She didn’t stop; instead she passed the lotions and jars and followed an overhead sign that directed her to the back of the shop. There she found a large table against the back wall with neatly displayed books. But it was the picture next to The Women of Havencroft Manor that caught her attention. She stared at a formal family portrait of her as a teenager with her mother.
A wave of loss rolled over her. She hadn’t realized how much she wanted to hear her mother’s voice, touch her warmth, feel safe at home in Havencroft.
The moment ebbed until her emotions calmed. Rachel turned to leave and stared into the eyes of a woman wearing a purple scarf.
“You’d better hurry if you’re going to Havencroft,” the woman said softly, and turned to leave.
How did the woman know she was going to Havencroft? What else did she know? Emotions in turmoil, Rachel followed the woman out the door and looked everywhere. The street was deserted in every direction but one. Rachel rushed in the only direction she could have gone, toward the throng of people by the town square.
Small groups, mostly women, congregated in a knot and chatted. Rachel walked through the crowd and searched for the purple scarf.
“Okay, everyone,” a woman with a clipboard said.
“Shush. Ina’s speaking,” someone called out. Rachel kept moving through the crowd as the group quieted. She fisted her hand and smashed it into her thigh. Had the woman vanished into thin air?
“It’s nine. Please line up. The bus to Havencroft Manor is around the corner.”
Rachel spun around. Havencroft? Were these people all going to the manor?
“The driver will let us off at the front door. When you arrive, go directly to the assignment table in the Great Hall. You’ve all done a wonderful job to make this masquerade ball a sensation. Edythe Emerson would be proud.”
“Ina, what about getting back into town?” someone in the crowd asked.
“Good question.” Ina flipped some papers on her clipboard. “Buses will return promptly at three and bring us back here. That should give everyone plenty of time to get ready for the evening. Please remember to stay on the first floor. We’ve closed the upper floors for this event. If there are no other questions, please get in line.”
Rachel gave one last look at the crowd. Deciding it was better to ride than walk to the manor, she inserted herself at the back of the line.
The clattering noise of a large vehicle grew louder as it approached. Finally, an old-school bus pulled up, and the volunteers filed in. She walked down the aisle of the half-filled bus and searched each face. Disappointed the woman wasn’t there, she took a seat in the back.
From where she sat, the moorings were mostly empty. The boats must have been put into dry dock for the winter. The water looked a bit choppy, but it still looked like a picture postcard.
“Hurry, ladies,” the bus driver called. Ina and a few latecomers took their seats. He closed the door and pulled away from the curb.
The woman with the purple scarf must have thought she was someone else or another volunteer. Rachel was sure no one cared that she had returned. Going to Havencroft was purely voluntary, or was it?
Rachel gave the waterfront a last glance then looked down the aisle.
Four rows in front was the profile of Pam Dawes. Her best friend.
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