“You think I would trust that old charlatan with my ledgers?” I shook my head sadly. “You must be as deluded as she is. Besides, she’s in the wind.”
There was a distinct pause. “She’s gone incorporeal?”
“Not incorporeal. Incommunicado. She missed three appointments today. No call, no show.”
“That’s unlike her.”
It was indeed. The woman was weird, but she was not stupid. She never missed an opportunity to line her pockets with any money she could convince vulnerable marks to fork over in exchange for missives from the Great Beyond.
“I’m sure she was just overcome by the spirits again,” I said wryly. “I’ll track her down tomorrow. Another line item on my list of joyful Friday activities.”
“If you need an actual joyful Friday activity, that cover band we like is playing a set at The Witches Brew tomorrow night.”
“The guys who go full on eye-rolling Exorcist mode while head-banging toZombieby the Cranberries?”
“Yep.”
Damn. She was right. I totally loved those guys. I’d hate to miss their set. “If inventory doesn’t take too long… and I’m not dead on my feet… and assuming no other livestock is ritualistically slaughtered on my doorstep… I’ll try to swing by afterward.”
She whooped with glee through the line. “Excellent! They go on at eight, but I’ll get there a bit early to grab our favorite table.”
“No promises, Flo. I mean it, there’s a good chance I won’t—”
“See you tomorrow!” she chirped, clicking off before I could protest any more.
I stared at the dark screen of my phone for a long moment before I shook my head and sighed. There was no fighting with Florence. She was a gravitational force, refusing to be denied. After draining the last sip of my wine, I brushed my teeth in the master bathroom, washed my face, slathered on moisturizer, and climbed into bed.
It must be said, I freakinglovedmy bed. It was large and it was old, crafted of wickedly cool antique wood. It took forever to dust and polish all the intricate carvings on the headboard and posts, but I didn’t mind. As soon as I’d clapped eyes on it last summer at a flea market, I knew it was meant to be mine. I’d haggled it down to half the original price, then bribed Desmond and Florence with dinner in exchange for their help lugging the disassembled pieces into their hatchback, then out of their hatchback, then through my historic — read:narrow— entryway and up my classic — read:curved— staircase to the second floor. Reassembling it took an entire day.
It was worth it.
Now, the master bedroom was finally complete, a result of months of pouring through architectural digest magazines and combing through what felt like a full palette of paint samples. Flo thought I’d lost my goddamned mind, but she didn’t understand my fixation. In twenty-four years of life, this was the first bedroom I’d ever called my own, not counting college dormitories — which I didn’t — and I’d been determined to make it utterly perfect in every regard, from the curtains to the color scheme.
I’d settled on a soothing array of cream tones, covered the walls in chunky gold-framed French art prints, and repurposed one of Aunt Colette’s handwoven rugs from the downstairs living room to anchor the bed arrangement. The result was a space that radiated calm, that encouraged restful nights and peaceful mornings.
Something I’d certainly never had growing up.
The rest of the house was still, to put it generously, in transition. The vast majority of the rooms — and there were many of them, too many for any single person to know what to do with on her own — sat empty. I’d long since cleared out all of Aunt Colette’s more eclectic belongings — the orange floral sofa, for instance, was straight out of the disco era, perfect for a hippie chick’s abode but not exactly my style — and boxed some salvageable pieces away in the basement. The rest, I’d donated to a local charity, knowing that’s what my ever-generous aunt would have wanted. However, after the big clear out, I hadn’t found the time to redecorate in my own taste. Besides the master bedroom, attached bathroom, and kitchen, the rest of the house sat essentially vacant. A blank canvas, waiting to be painted and filled with furniture.
As soon as I had a spare minute, I told myself I’d pick a room at random and start. I’d always wanted a home office. No, not an office — a library. Full of built-in bookcases that soared to the ceilings, with a ladder that rolled the length of the room and a sunny picture window where I could curl up to read. If I had my library, maybe I’d finally feel settled enough to decorate the rest of this place. Maybe it would finally begin to feel like a proper home.
A permanent one.
Snuggling deeper beneath my thick ivory duvet, I switched off the lamp on my bedside table and switched on my e-reader. I made it approximately three pages into a book about a Regency-era debutante forced to marry a black-hearted pirate on the high seas before, like the timid Lady Scarlett beneath Captain Tristan’s smoldering gaze, I too succumbed to the needs of my body, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Chapter Seven
I confess, I am full of sin.
- Gwen Goode, after eating approximately two deviled eggs
I stepped out into the sunny, late September morning and locked the front door behind me.
“Hiya, Mrs. Proctor!” I called, catching sight of my next door neighbor across the wrought-iron fence that divided our front yards as soon as I turned around on my narrow stoop.
I’d decorated for the season with pumpkins and gourds of various sizes and shades, two hay bales, and a pair of cornstalks lashed to the bannisters. A smiling scarecrow with button-eyes and straw filling stood guard beside my mailbox. It may’ve seemed a bit overboard, but my autumnal decor was tame when compared to the surrounding houses. Every season, my block looked like something out ofBetter Homes and Gardens. In the summer, buntings and American flags galore. In the winter, dazzling Christmas displays of white lights. Only white allowed, to keep the color scheme consistent. (One year, someone had the audacity to put up one of those tacky inflatable Santas… I think they were tar-and-feathered by the historical society.)
People were proud of their homes, proud of their long legacies. This whole stretch of town was historic — the little gold plaque beside my door proudly proclaimed “EST. 1672” — and since we directly abutted the Common, a nonstop parade of photographers and visitors and history buffs and Instagrammers wandered down our block. As such, my neighbors were a bit intense when it came to the aesthetics of our street. Mrs. Proctor — and her prize-winning gardens — was no exception.