Chapter 1
“Are you sure this is right?”
My ears reverberated from the thunderous humming of the airboat as I stepped onto the brown planked walkway and tried to ignore the murky green water below the gaps. On my head, my big floppy hat—one that I had worn to countless poolside soirees and garden parties—was now a drooping, shapeless mass. I brushed down my white jumpsuit and cursed my lack of forethought in choosing my attire for the day. A relaxing boat ride I was expecting. A choppy airboat ride? Not so much.
“Yes, ma’am.” The boat operator grinned broadly. “Darkly Island.”
My fashionably messy bun, which had taken my stylist two hours to create, was undone in less than twenty minutes; it now stuck out all over my head as if a family of swamp rats had moved in and redecorated. I tried to tuck some of the stray chestnut brown hairs back into place, gave up, and plopped my ruined hat back on my head, protecting my pale skin from the blistering sun. The earthy smell of wood rot and wet grass hit my nose, along with an undercurrent of something sweet and delicate, perhaps honeysuckle, or frangipani. A thicket of bald cypress trees ran along the shoreline surrounded by tall swaying cattails. Beyond the dock, a few low-growing palms swayed next to a gravel path.
As I looked around my new home—contemplating returning to the boat and hightailing it back to New York—the boatman set my designer trunk and matching vanity case on the dock. With a flourish, he tipped his hat and hopped back onto the boat, sliding deftly behind the air shield. The engine cut on with a roar, and I threw a hand on top of my hat, waving hysterically with the other.
“Wait! Aren’t you going to help me with all these bags?”
The man waved back, gave one last toothy grin, and spun the boat around, heading back the way we came.
I stomped one high-heeled boot in frustration. Without the rush of air from the boat ride, the Louisiana heat smothered me in its heavy cloak. Within minutes, my whole body felt hot and sticky, and I wondered how I would ever get used to living in this devilish heat.
With a sigh, I heaved my tote onto my shoulder, swatted at a dragonfly trying to hitch a ride, and grabbed both pieces of luggage. Never one to overdramatize things—and I mean that quite sarcastically—I stomped my foot one last time for good measure and was repaid with a booming crack as my heel crashed through the rickety dock. I toppled sideways, over adjusted, and then fell forward, butt up in the air. I clutched my precious bags beneath me, not daring to move an inch. My ruined hat slid from my head and lodged itself in the cattails lining the shore.
I shook my head. “Oh, for Pete’s sake!”
“Need some help, chère?” A smooth Southern voice called to me from the shore.
Leaning against the willow tree was a tan, blond man in khaki pants and a short-sleeved silk shirt. He appeared to be in his thirties, like me, and held himself with a laid-back assurance I desperately craved at that moment.
I might never get accustomed to this blazing heat, but I could definitely get accustomed to Louisiana gentlemen, especially if they call me chère and happen to be as movie-star attractive as this man.
“Yes, please. If you would.”
“You must forgive Char,” he said as he ambled over to inspect my intertwined luggage and legs. “To his detriment, being in that wretched boat every day has left him almost completely deaf.”
He pulled his hands from his pockets and bent over until he was at my eye level. “You’re going to need to let go of these bags if you want me to deposit them safely on terra firma.”
Once I had relinquished my hold, he easily untangled my luggage. Without launching either of us into the marsh, I might add. He then picked up both the trunk and the case, deftly skirted the gaps in the dock, and deposited the bags next to the gravel path.
He sauntered back to the dock and crouched down, examining my foot dangling above the muck. “Looks like you’ve got it stuck tight.”
I nodded my head. “It won’t budge.” I pulled and shook my foot, but no matter what I did, my ankle remained lodged in the planking.
“Sorry to tell you, darling, but that boot’s gonna have to go,” he said with a commiserative shake of his head.
“Can’t you just—I don’t know—cut a hole in the dock?” I cried, panic rising in my voice.
His smile was back. “I could. But do you really want to wait here in that position—as adorable as it is—while I try to find someone with the tools to cut out a piece of this dock? And who knows if they’ll even be able to do it without cutting off a chunk of your foot?”
“Oh fine,” I said. “Do what you have to do.”
Levering the heel of my boot up against the dock to hold it in place, I tugged and wiggled my foot as I grasped the man’s arm. After a few minutes of twisting and pulling on my foot, it finally popped out, as my sweaty hands slipped off the man’s arm and I tumbled backward into the green waters below.
My butt hit the water first, and I splashed and sputtered as I tried to find my footing on the slimy mud bottom. The soft, warm water swirled around my legs as I finally stood and squelched my way to the shoreline. To his benefit, the man neither laughed, nor ran away. He simply extended a hand to me through the cattails and pulled me to dry land.
“Sorry about that, dear,” he said in his soft, Southern twang.
I waved a hand and a dripping cluster of duckweed flew off and slapped me on the forehead. “Not your fault. You have just witnessed the past three months of my life condensed into a brief thirty-second vignette.”
“C’mon, let’s get you to town,” he said, chuckling. “By the way, I’m Chase Abernathy-Wyatt. My husband Lorenzo de Zavala and I own the Spells & Gels Salon right up the road.”
I looked down at the wet, brown mess that had once been my trendy jumpsuit and sighed dismally. Was the universe trying to tell me something?
“Are you staying at the Green Gator Tavern or White Hart Inn?”
“Neither.” I hobbled down the walkway, tiptoeing as best I could in one stiletto boot and one bare foot. “I own a house here in Darkly.”
Insecurity getting the best of me, I stared down at the gravel path. I was uncomfortable with being willed a house from someone I didn’t remember ever meeting.
He stopped and raised an eyebrow. “Well, bless my stars! Are you Windsor Ebonwood?”
“I am,” I said, extending my hand. “But most people call me Win.”
Chase shook my hand heartily.
“Minta’s granddaughter! It’s wonderful to meet you, Win.” His voice dropped its jocular tone. “I’m terribly sorry about Minta, dear. She was a hoot, and we all miss her.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I remained silent, continuing to hobble and drip by his side.
“Do you have a ride to Fernwood? It’s not far, but with all this luggage and only one boot, it might take you awhile,” Chase said.
“Fernwood?”
“Fernwood’s the name of your new home, hun.”
“Oh. Right. Yes, my grandmother’s attorney will pick me up. Mr. Hathaway, I believe.”
At the end of the gravel path, a paved road passed over a stone bridge, where it changed into cobbles, then curved through a row of two- and three-story brick buildings, with iron scroll balcony railings and overflowing flower boxes.
I gasped. This was not at all what I expected.
Chase smiled proudly. “Yep. Our little town does have quite a bit of charm.”
Just then, a white Jeep passed us, swung around, and screeched to a stop.
* * *
“Hi, Chase.” A brown-skinned woman with a platinum blond pixie-cut waved.
“Hey, Tzazi.”
The woman turned to me. “Are you Windsor Ebonwood?”
“Win,” I said.
The woman hopped out of the vehicle and strode to where we stood. As she drew closer, tattoos of black and red roses twirling up and down her arms caught my attention. Huge diamond studs decorated her ears, and I envied the light cotton dress and sandals she wore. I looked down at myself again—yep, I still looked like a mess—and cringed. At least the heat was now bearable.
“I’m Tzazi. Tzazi Strangeland, an attorney at Hathaway & Strangeland. Mr. Hathaway is tied up with a client, so he sent me in his stead.” She shook my hand, giving me an up and down look. “Whatever happened to you?”
Chase snorted, picking up my bags and placing them in the back of the Jeep.
I ignored him.
“My heel crashed through the dock, and I fell into the swamp,” I said.
“Char really needs to fix those docks. C’mon. I’ve got a blanket in the Jeep.” Tzazi turned to Chase. “Will I see you at the Gator tonight?”
“You bet, mon amie,” he replied. “See you around, Win.”
Chase waved, slid on his sunglasses, and strolled up the lane toward an old man selling poppets from a metal pushcart.
Tzazi removed a midnight blue quilt from the back of the Jeep and wrapped it around me. I climbed in, carefully placing my foot on the floorboard. The skin burned where it had scraped against the wood, and it felt good to take the pressure off my raw ankle.
Tzazi frowned as she turned onto the lane and pointed at my foot. “Do you need to see a doctor for that? And what happened to your other boot?”
“It’s only a scrape.” I frowned. “And the boot’s found its final resting place at the bottom of the swamp.”
Tzazi laughed. “That swamp has taken in more designer duds than a harpy on a bender.”
“Huh?” I had never heard that one before.
“Nothing,” she said, waving a hand. “Would you like a quick tour of Darkly, so you can get your bearings and see a little of our town? Only take a minute.”
I nodded my acceptance and off we went.
As she drove, Tzazi pointed out various shops and buildings on the main thoroughfare, Tataille (pronounced Tah-tie) Street—such as the butcher, the grocery store, and her law office—along with a few notable residents, like the mayor, whose bushy red hair I wouldn’t easily forget, and Mr. Sugarloaf, the owner of the sweet shop. At odds with its name, I found Darkly to be a lively town with window boxes full of showy ferns and bougainvillea. The sidewalks, shaded by the balconies above, bustled with townspeople, who smiled and waved as we drove by.
“What kind of law do you specialize in?” I asked as we turned next to the tavern called the Green Gator, and the road ascended a small hill. A Tudor-style mansion with an expansive, green lawn appeared outside my window, and I craned my neck to take it all in.
“Well, in a small town, we do a bit of everything,” she said. “Contracts. Divorces. But my favorite? Criminal Defense. Dewey—Mr. Hathaway—says I’m like a shark smelling blood in the water. That might not be the nicest thing to say about an attorney”—she shrugged—“but it did get me into the Top Forty Under Forty list this year. I don’t enjoy seeing good people being pushed around.”
“Is there a lot of crime around here?” I asked. We drove past several small homes, long and thin, painted vividly in greens, yellows, purples, and reds. Shuttered windows stretched from floors to ceilings.
“Not really. I usually end up going out to Strawbridge or Wychwood. Those towns are a little larger. Here, the worst we get is too much drinking on Solstice. I’m guessing you do something in books?”
I laughed. “Good guess! I’m a book conservator. Taught at a university until, well, things fell apart recently.”
“That sounds like an excellent story to be told, and listened to, with a glass of wine. I’ve got a few of those stories myself.”
After we turned around on the outskirts of town (She was right; it did only take a minute!) and drove down the hill back into Darkly, Tzazi stopped before one of the taller three-story buildings in the center of town. While this building shared the distinct brick walls and cast-iron decorative railings of the others, no bright awnings, nor overflowing window boxes, graced its front. Instead, stained-glass windows rose from sidewalk to roof, split by an arched wooden entryway. The building was flanked by Dianthe’s Oopsie Daisies and a shop with the odd name of Besoms & Britches.
“This is your bookshop,” Tzazi said with a flourish. “Mr. Hathaway has the keys. He’ll be in touch with you in the next few days. He wants to give them to you himself.”
“My bookshop.” An overwhelming urge to reach out for the structure overcame me, and I placed my palms longingly on the car window.
The building appeared regal, almost cathedral-like, and I felt a strange bond the moment I saw it. The stained-glass pieces in the windows portrayed various life scenes—like a shepherdess and her herd, birds in flight, and a spectacular castle with spires and flags. There were hundreds of them, each one depicting a completely different scene.
I startled, Tzazi’s voice drawing me out of my reverie.
“Maman’s coffee shop.” She pointed at the corner building only a few doors down from the bookshop, one with an outdoor seating area and a colorful sign written in fancy script: The Magic Cup.
“Maman also serves the best tea and scones in town,” Tzazi said.
She hesitated for a moment and then pointed across the street to an imposing metal entryway. An intricate wrought-iron fence, embellished with winged demons and openmouthed gargoyles, ran alongside the property. Beyond the entrance, a path threaded through lush green foliage and twined around oak and magnolia trees. In the distance, a stone bell tower stood tall in its center like Tolkien’s Treebeard.
“This is Darkly Cemetery,” she said softly. “When you’re ready to visit Minta and your mom.”
I pushed back the sudden onset of sadness and found that I could only nod.
Tzazi watched me for a few moments.
“You ready to see Fernwood?” she asked.
Despite the emotions threatening to overpower me, the thought of seeing my family home raised my spirits.
I smiled and gave Tzazi a thumbs up, not trusting myself to speak.
As we left town, the cobblestone street soon gave way to a dark asphalt road, which we drove on for only a few minutes. Turning right next to a Herculean oak, one that looked to be over five hundred years of age, we passed through a gateway with a simple metal sign: “Fernwood.” The Jeep rolled onto a curved driveway laced with terracotta pavers.
I gasped as the home came into view.
Tzazi reached over and patted my arm reassuringly. “Welcome to Fernwood.”
Chapter 2
Fernwood stretched out before me like a lazy yellow cat in the sun. The French Colonial-style house sat on raised brick pillars, with a wide veranda and seven shuttered glass doors spaced evenly across the front of the house. The center entryway featured adornments of intricately carved molding, along with stained-glass images in greens and blues.
Tzazi parked the Jeep under a magnolia tree covered in gigantic white blooms. As we passed through the wrought-iron gate, a giant hibiscus bush trailed its deep green leaves down my shoulder and frangipani bells of pink and orange swayed in the warm breeze.
Ahead, purple passion vine coiled around a lamppost, its rich red fruit plump to bursting. Behind it, a pair of white staircases led to a covered porch where a trio of ceiling fans lapped lazily in the heat. I ran my hand through a rosemary bush, its powerful scent following me up the stairs to the front porch.
Tzazi met me in front of the double doors. “Here are your keys,” she said, placing a metal key chain into my hand. She stared at my flushed face for a moment. “It’s a lot to take in, I know. And I don’t just mean this house. We’ll get you some water from the icebox.”
As I inserted the key in the lock, my heart raced, and I had to agree. Never had I felt so excited and terrified at the same time.
Still, I bore up, took a deep breath, and turned the key.
As the door swung open, all I could do was stare.
“Yes, it’s quite remarkable,” Tzazi said, stepping into the cool foyer. “Your ancestors built Fernwood over two hundred years ago, but as you can see, Minta wasn’t a doily and afghan kind of lady. Fireplaces and ceiling fans in every room. All the modern conveniences. A/C. Heating. Plumbing, of course.”
Inhaling the fresh scent of lemon and wood polish, I clomped along behind Tzazi on deep brown hardwood floors, finding myself in a room full of plump velvet sofas and tufted chairs. A flatscreen TV, no less than six feet wide, hung at an angle above the large, elegant fireplace.
“This is your sitting room,” Tzazi said.
“Oh, I like this room,” I mumbled, brushing my hand against a small round table, meant for storing knitting materials. The room was homey, and relaxing, and I could see a person spending a lot of time here.
Reluctantly, I followed Tzazi out the back door, where I found myself on a narrow, screened-in porch, running along the backside of Fernwood.
“The dining room and kitchen are separated from the main house by this screened-in walkway,” she explained. “Shows you how old this house is.”
Pushing through the door in front of me, I discovered an opulent dining room. The ornate wooden table easily accommodated a dinner party of ten, but how they’d be able to see or speak to each other through the three silver candelabras, I couldn’t imagine. More shuttered glass windows overlooked a dense forest on one side, and a swampy pond with a small tropical courtyard on the other.
“Minta liked dinner parties,” Tzazi said. “Do you cook?”
“Not really,” I admitted.
She shrugged. “Me neither. C’mon. I’ll show you the kitchen anyway.”
We passed through a set of double doors and into a bright kitchen leading to a back deck with wooden railings. Black-and white tiles crisscrossed on the floor, edging up against stainless steel appliances. I was relieved to see that what Tzazi called an icebox was a state-of-the-art refrigerator, with an ice and water dispenser.
“I stocked the kitchen for you this morning. Of course, I didn’t know what you’d want, so I got you all my favorites.” She shrugged and handed me a bottle of water from the fridge.
Tzazi walked to a thin pantry in the corner and withdrew a tube of antibiotic and a large first aid bandage. Handing them to me, she said, “Your housekeeper, Hilde Orso, has her own place above the kitchen. She’s visiting family, but she’ll be here Monday.”
“Thanks,” I said, accepting the items. “Orso? That name sounds familiar.” I climbed onto a stool placed alongside a center island to examine my injured foot. The scraped area on the top still stung but had already begun to heal. I applied the ointment and bandage. Much better.
“Yeah, Hilde has worked for the Ebonwoods all her life, and her parents did the same before her. Minta promised her a job with the family for as long as she wants it. Your grandmother was like that. Hilde took it hard when she died.”
Tzazi glanced at her watch. “Ooh. I’ll let you get cleaned up and settled in. I’ve got court this afternoon.”
As we passed through the sitting room, she pointed out the door leading to my bedroom, and the ones opposite, which opened to the library. Afterward, I followed her back to the foyer, where she opened the top drawer of a narrow cabinet.
“Almost forgot. In here are Minta’s will, along with all the house keys. Oh! And be on the lookout for Pyewacket. He’s been very upset since Minta’s death.”
“Don’t tell me my grandmother had a boyfriend!”
Tzazi laughed. “Pye is Minta’s cat. They were inseparable. I’ll get the rest of your bags. Be right back.”
I wandered around the room until I paused in front of a small, tarnished hand mirror, propped up next to a photo of an elegant woman wearing a string of white pearls. She cradled a tiny baby in her arms; I recognized my grandmother and myself immediately. Next to us stood a woman with long, wavy hair and a bright smile. My mother.
I replaced the photo on the sideboard as Tzazi rushed back in with my bags and set them down.
Giving me a quick hug, she turned to leave and then hesitated. “Do you want to come with me to the Green Gator tonight? Casual, Southern comfort food. Just what you need on your first night in Darkly.”
As tired as I was, the thought of sitting down to eat by myself in that large dining room wasn’t appealing.
“Sounds wonderful!”
She looked at me wistfully.
“You know, you remind me of Minta. I think it’s the stiletto. See you tonight.”
* * *
After Tzazi left, I lugged my bags into the bedroom and squealed with delight. Decorated in soft creams, the room was a haven of delicate French provincial furniture, including a gorgeous, beveled mirror and matching dresser. Most of all, it was the giant four-poster bed that really grabbed my attention. I desperately longed to burrow into its soft comforter for the rest of the day. Instead, I shed my smelly jumpsuit, tossed it into the hamper, and then stepped into a much-needed shower.
Feeling refreshed afterward, I threw on a comfy tank-top and jeans and unpacked the rest of my clothes. I threw the last of my PJs in the drawer and then rebandaged my foot. Now it was time to go exploring.
Interestingly, the house contained no hallways connecting all the rooms, unless you counted the outdoor porches running along the front and back of the house. My bedroom linked to a small study, with a kidney-shaped wooden desk and a blue-and-cream Persian rug. Stepping into the next space, I found an airy music room, with a white grand piano and several potted palms. On a small side table rested an old phonograph with an LP still lying on its turntable. Paintings of ballet dancers graced the walls. The next doorway led me back to the entry foyer, and I grinned like a silly schoolgirl as I turned to the library.
Tingling with excitement, I threw open the doors and—to my delight—found the most magnificent personal library I had ever seen. Barrister bookcases made of glossy walnut wrapped around the entire room. I lifted one of the glass doors, slid it back into the bookcase, and pulled out a few of the volumes inside: Shakespeare, Lumière, Keats, Rowling, Dostoevsky. All first editions. All in impeccable condition. All with that wonderful, bookish smell.
I probably spent an hour that first day, pulling out books and breathing in their heavenly scent. Finally, I collapsed into a cozy chaise lounge in the corner, immersing myself in Wuthering Heights, a book I hadn’t read since high school.
By the time I left Heathcliff and Catherine on the moors, the sun was low on the violet-tinged horizon. On an end table, I found a ceramic vase holding a variety of bookmarks. I used one to mark my chapter before placing the book on the back of the chaise.
Heathcliff would have to wait until another day.
* * *
Before Tzazi arrived to pick me up for dinner, I wanted to take a quick stroll around the grounds and gardens. Behind the house, visible from my bedroom windows, swamp waters covered in white water lilies, rippled softly, while outside the guestroom windows on the other side, lay the woodland forest I had spied from the dining room. I knew little about forests, and even less about swamps (except that they were teeming with alligators, snakes, and who knew what else). I decided to hike into the forest for my first quick jaunt around the property.
Pulling on a pair of low-heeled boots, I grabbed a papaya from a fruit bowl in the kitchen, my umbrella from the coat stand, and stepped out onto the porch. Dark clouds were gathering in the distance; however, they were far away, and I didn’t plan to spend much time in the trees anyway.
The droning of the cicadas followed me as I pushed open the metal gate. A well-trod trail led through a field of tall grass and wildflowers between me and the forest. A warm breeze ruffled the stalks, as a large blue and black butterfly zig zagged through the blooms alongside me.
The forest immersed me in a cool, earthy shadow the moment I stepped under its branches. Birds raucously chirped and tweeted around me, while leaves rustled in a breeze blowing through the canopy above. I found a path and followed it deeper into the trees. At one point, I heard the crunching of leaves, and when I turned, glimpsed a deer with a mouthful of green leaves before it scampered into the brush.
The forest was alive, and I found the chatter of small animals and whisper of falling leaves unexpectedly calming. I’d finally decided it was time to turn back when I saw a flash of movement in front of me. Peering through the branches, I saw a woman, her long hair flowing wildly. She wore a black, flowing dress and spun in a circle, arms stretched wide, until she fell to the ground, laughing (or crying, I wasn’t sure) hysterically.
“Hey!” I yelled.
The woman turned toward me. Without a word, she raised her hands in my direction and disappeared.
I hurried to the spot where the woman had sat only moments before and spun around myself. I stood there for a few seconds, dumbfounded. Where had she gone? Had I imagined her?
Deciding it was best I got myself out of this forest and back to the house, I looked around for the path I had traveled. I hadn’t walked far from it when I thought I saw the woman. I studied the ground, hoping to retrace my steps, but all I saw were leaves, fallen branches, and twigs.
I pulled out my phone. No signal, of course.
As a raindrop plopped on my forehead, panic rose in my throat. What was I thinking coming out here on my own?
I took a deep breath, calming myself, and examined the area. I thought I recognized a curiously bent tree I had passed earlier, and so I warily set a path in that direction.
The forest was growing dark, and I was aware of forest sounds —small animals creeping, water drops on leaves, the hoot of an owl. Somehow, it was comforting to know I wasn’t alone.
A break in the canopy gave me a peek at the sky. The sun hadn’t yet set, but storm clouds were indeed pushing in. A flash of movement caught my eye—something large flying over the trees—and that was when it began. A deep, guttural howling erupted all around me.
Taking a few hesitant steps, the hairs rose on the back of my neck as a low growl issued from somewhere directly to my right. Without daring to look, I turned and ran. Shrieks, howls, even cackles filled the air, driving me on.
Somehow, I found the path again, and following it at full speed, I glimpsed the lights of Fernwood in the distance. As I grew closer, I could see a figure standing at the edge of the trees. Tzazi! I’d never been so happy to see someone.
Upon approaching the clearing, I slowed. Lights from the house backlit the figure, preventing me from seeing her clearly, but I knew something wasn’t right. The arms were extraordinarily long, fingertips grazing the knees. The body hunched forward, pulsing with the tempo of its erratic breathing. I stopped. The person stepped forward a few feet and I screamed. Jagged teeth protruded from a snarling, grinning mouth, oozing saliva.
Yelping, I thrust my umbrella in the beast's direction and rushed back into the forest. The creature howled once, then loud footsteps plowed into the brush after me.
Daring to glance back, I almost stumbled in surprise when I saw a gigantic black dog—perhaps even a wolf—instead of the hunched figure I had seen earlier. Whatever it was, it was the size of a refrigerator and coming at me fast. Hot breath huffed against the back of my legs, and the dog yipped and nipped at my boots, almost playfully, like it was just having some fun. It gave a small leap and snapped its jaws at my face.
A few yards ahead stood a tall oak, its large, gnarled branches curving and spreading along the forest floor. When I reached it, I leaped over a low branch, hoping to put some space between myself and the dog. A flash of light through the brush caught my attention, and I strained to focus on it. My burning lungs threatened to burst. I dashed through a thick curtain of leaves when I saw the light again. Safety! Wait, maybe not. What if the dog lived there? What if the dog’s owner lived there? Forget that. What if Freddy Krueger lived there? I didn’t see how I had a choice, and so pointed myself toward the fiery glow.
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