1
AVERY
Blackwell Hollowdefinitely wasn’t my scene. That much was already obvious.
I was mindful of the speed limit as I crept down Main Street. The town square, verdant and leafy, stretched to my right, separating Main Street from State Street, the town’s parallel main drag. I didn’t drive in the city — the subway meant I didn’t have to — and I was still a little wobbly behind the wheel.
I caught glimpses of the storefronts as I passed, shops with names like the Sugar Pine Creamery (ice cream shop) and Petals on Main (flower shop) with matching green awnings that made them look straight out of a storybook.
Except I’d left storybooks behind a long time ago, right about the time my parents divorced and my dad replaced me with his new family. I was (mostly) over it, but I knew that happily ever afters only happened in books.
Which was why Blackwell Hollow wasn’t my scene. The city was more my speed: practical, hurried, filled with people focused on their next big accomplishment.
Not that I was a heavy hitter. I mean, I was twenty-one, had only a year under my belt as an intern for an urban housingnonprofit. But I liked the energy of the city, liked the way it kept me too busy to think too hard about things I couldn’t change.
I was staring at a flock of vibrantly colored parrots in the window of a pet shop called Good Dog & Co. when I caught a flash of movement in my peripheral vision. I returned my gaze to the road just in time to slam on the brakes, inches away from a middle-aged man wearing a layered getup that included a vest and at least two silk scarves and pushing a hairless cat in a stroller.
I winced and mouthed the word “sorry” as he glared indignantly.
Jiminy cricket, I needed to pay attention. I wasnota good enough driver to be looking around like some kind of looky-loo on vacation.
Plus Iwasn’ton vacation. Not at all.
I waved weakly at the man as he continued across the street with the cat, then glanced at the GPS and continued down Main.
In the distance Hollow Lake glimmered like an oasis in the spring sunlight, a handful of boats motoring lazily on the water. It looked almost too quaint to be real.
I was a block away from the lake when the GPS instructed me to turn left. I followed the instructions, drove past the Bramble House Bed & Breakfast on the corner, and slowed to look at the houses on either side of the street. According to the GPS I was less than a minute from my destination, and I read the numbers on the mailboxes, looking for 36 Foxglove Lane.
And there it was: brass numbers on a well-maintained wood mailbox painted white.
Then I turned my gaze to the house and my mouth dropped open in shock.
“No fudging way.” There was no one to hear me say it, but the words were instinctual, a gut reaction to the house at the end of the long brick drive.
I’d been nine years old when my mom and I had moved away from Blackwell Hollow after the divorce, and my memories of the house were vague: large, high-ceilinged rooms filled with fancy furniture, a lush green lawn perfect for playing tag with the neighbor kids, and the faint scent of my Great-Aunt Evelyn’s perfume.
I hadn’t realized the house was so big.
I hit the brakes on my rental car when I realized I was drifting down Foxglove Lane.
The house was set back from the road, accessible via a curved driveway, the lawn stretching from the white wraparound porch and flower beds overflowing with multicolored blooms.
I turned the wheel and started up the driveway, the first flutter of nerves taking flight in my stomach. I’d been surprised to learn that I’d inherited the house from Aunt Evelyn — I was embarrassed to admit that other than the thank-you notes I’d sent for her birthday gifts, I hadn’t kept in touch — but since I planned to sell it, I hadn’t bothered looking at pictures online.
Now I realized that it was more than a house. It was basically a mansion.
Okay, maybe not an actual mansion, but compared to my minuscule apartment in the city, the pale pink Victorian might as well have been a palace.
There had been some stats in the legal paperwork — I knew the house had been built in the late 1800s and that its market value was over a million dollars — but I hadn’t bothered looking up pictures.
Now I saw that it had been restored and was meticulously maintained, at least from the outside. I’d pictured a dark, spooky house with boarded-up windows and overgrown landscaping, but as I made my way up the driveway what I saw instead was a proud three-story structure with multiple peaks rising into the sky, including a real-life turret. There was more than onechimney, which meant the house had multiple fireplaces, and looking at the house, I actually dared to believe they might work.
Aunt Evelyn had died nearly three months before — it had taken that long to deal with the legal stuff and arrange leave from my job — but the house looked like it was still occupied, probably because of the caretakers.
Oh yeah. I forgot to mention that.
The house came with one caveat: the three caretakers had to remain as long as I owned the house. Their salaries were paid out of Aunt Evelyn’s trust, and if I sold the place, they would receive a large lump sum as severance pay.