“This is the ballroom.” She flung open two wide decorative doors. “They say the daughter of the family can still be heard waltzing here in the dead of night.” Coyly, she arched her overplucked eyebrows. “Right up your alley, I’m sure.”
The room they entered was long and paneled in black oak. Ornately carved trim decorated a high plaster ceiling. At the far end, latticed windows and French doors faced onto vast front lawns and a wide terrace. Rowe could imagine a happy throng spilling from the room on a long summer’s eve, the tinkle of champagne flutes, laughter echoing into the night.
Right now, drifts of red and yellow leaves swirled around the wrought-iron balustrades, serving notice of the winter to come. And it looked like Dark Harbor Cottage hadn’t seen a glittering party in years.
Rowe crossed the creaky hardwood floor and stood before the windows, picturing how it would be to walk her dogs in this corner of Maine. They wouldn’t know what to do with themselves, having spent their entire lives in a Manhattan apartment. She could see them now, careening across the huge meadow that extended from the cottage to the woods at the boundary of the property.
This remote place was as picturesque as a scene from a jigsaw puzzle. Standing sentinel on either side of a long driveway, hundred-year-old oak trees shimmered in their bronze foliage. To the east, a stand of birches glowed bright yellow against balsam and spruces, undaunted by the late-October winds. Beyond these woods lay the ocean, serene and winter blue beneath a mackerel sky.
“Secluded enough for you?” Bunny inquired with the breathless confidence of an agent who could smell a sale.
“It needs some work,” Rowe said, trying not to sound like she would be willing to pay full price. “The kitchen’s in terrible shape.”
Bunny waved a hand. “It’s a Victorian. You’d never get a fully restored property in this area for what this seller is asking.”
“I’m amazed it hasn’t sold sooner. Is there something I should know?”
Bunny laughed that off breezily. “What can I tell you? The market’s been slow. I’ve only shown the place to a few families, and they didn’t want to deal with the renovations.”
Rowe thought about the turret room upstairs with its astonishing views of Penobscot Bay. It was the perfect place to write. “Tell me about the neighbors.”
Bunny consulted her clipboard. “Well, you’re on six acres, so they’re not going to bother you. To the north, there’s a cottage owned by a family from New York. It’s closed up for most of the year—they’re only here for a few weeks each summer. And over there is a Shingle Style house.” She pointed vaguely past the birches. “I believe two sisters live there. They keep to themselves.”
Rowe pictured a pair of maiden aunts in their seventies stitching quilts on their front verandah. Who could ask for more? “Sounds ideal.”
“I knew you were going to love the place!” Bunny ushered her back into the hall. “Want to see upstairs again?”
“Sure. Why not?”
From the bottom of the grand cherrywood staircase, Rowe stared up. She could imagine how spectacular the entrance vestibule would look with the woodwork fully restored and the curved stained-glass windows sparkling clean, shafts of tinted light beaming down. She wouldn’t be able to do everything at once. She didn’t have unlimited money. But she could start work on the entrance and stairs right away.
The second floor needed improvements, but it was not in bad shape. There were six bedrooms, one of which had been converted in recent times to a master with its own half-decent bathroom. Above this, up a narrow spiral staircase, was the airy turret room Rowe had earmarked for writing. She climbed the steep wooden steps to this retreat and crossed to the grimy bowed windows.
The view was surreal, the bay a netherworld that rose from the mists at dawn and glowed like a jewel as its gossamer cloak dissolved in the sunlight. Countless islands studded the seductive waters, their rocky shores populated by black guillemots and puffins. Rowe had taken a windjammer tour of Penobscot Bay a few months earlier when she’d first thought about relocating, and had fallen under its legendary spell. The bird life amazed her. Circling squadrons of gulls and razorbills tracked the lobstermen and schooners across the chill waters. Ospreys had made a comeback in recent years, even nesting occasionally on the roofs of homes in this area.
The turret room opened onto a widow’s walk that ran along the roofline. Rowe could see herself pacing its length on a tranquil summer’s day, the extraordinary seascape shifting at her feet. This place was light-years away from Manhattan. In other words, perfect.
Bunny chattered on about climbing values for the waterfront properties of Islesboro, about the sought-after position this one enjoyed with its cove frontage and privacy, its proximity to Camden, and the easy drive to Portland airport. All that, and a carriage house.
Rowe listened with only half an ear. She felt remarkably contented in this room perched dizzily atop the cottage. Of all the real estate she’d viewed in the past few months, this was the home that instilled a sense of belonging, and more importantly, the feeling that she could write within its walls.
“Let’s talk price,” she said.
*
“We have new neighbors. Make that ‘neighbor,’ singular.” Cara dropped her hat and gloves on the kitchen counter along with a couple of bags full of groceries. The pervasive aroma of Chinese food greeted her, and yet again she gave thanks that her sister loved to cook, otherwise they’d be living on Marie Callender frozen entrees. “I spoke with the movers,” she continued. “You’ll never guess who it is.”
Phoebe glanced up from her wok. “Someone famous?”
“Rowe Devlin, the author.”
“The guy who writes those horror books?” Phoebe looked mildly dismayed.
“Actually, it’s a woman.”
“A woman writes that stuff? I had no idea. She must be weird.”
“They’re fiction,” Cara said. “She’s probably really normal.”
“Well, I can talk.” Adopting a singsong tone, Phoebe proclaimed, “Hi, I’m Phoebe Temple. I see dead people.”
Cara laughed at this parody, relieved that Phoebe’s sense of humor was back. Her sister was always in the doldrums for a few weeks after a Dream. “Maybe stick to the forensic botanist handle,” she suggested.
“One of these days someone is going to ask me about plant spores or pollen signatures.”
“And you’ll tell them palynology is a science so riveting you could talk about it for hours. They’ll change the subject.”
“I’m counting on it.” Phoebe slid their stir-fry onto a serving plate and carried it to the kitchen table. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat of the wok, and she pushed a few fine ebony curls away from her face as she sat down. “Do you have to go to L.A. next week?”
“Put it this way.” Cara picked up her chopsticks. “If I don’t, they’re not going to hire me again.”
Phoebe’s straight dark eyebrows drew together in consternation. “Did you stay home the past two weeks because of me?”
Cara avoided her sister’s moody gray eyes. “I had things to do.”
“You and Vernell are up to something. What is it?” Phoebe slid the soy sauce across the table before Cara could ask for it.
Cara chewed slowly on a piece of broccoli and considered several ways she could respond. Opting for the direct approach, she said, “He wants you to work more proactively.”
“What does that mean?”
“For a start, he’s wondering if there’s some way you could invite the process intentionally. You know, instead of waiting for the dreams to come along.”
Phoebe looked alarmed. “How would I do that? I can’t control what happens when I’m asleep.”
Carefully, Cara said, “Vernell thinks it might be a good idea for you to spend some time at Quantico in Virginia.” She steeled herself for the inevitable. Her sister wasn’t going to like this idea one little bit.
“The place where Jodie Foster trained in
Silence of the Lambs
?” Phoebe’s low, soft voice sounded strained.
“Yes, training is part of what they do there.” Cara tried to sound reassuring as well as enthusiastic. “They also have a big forensic science research unit and you’d be working with profilers and people like that.”
“They’re going to think I’m a nut.”
“No, they’re not. Vernell says everyone is hanging out to meet you.” Hearing a small, horrified gasp, she added hastily, “Everyone who knows, that is—just a handful of people, really. They even have a code name for you.”
Phoebe calmed down a little, releasing her chopsticks from a death grip. “Like a spy name?” She seemed slightly tickled. “What is it?”
“Golden.”
Phoebe gave this some thought. “Is that a joke name?”
“No. Nothing like that,” Cara hastily assured. Phoebe was hypersensitive about what she termed her membership in Crazies Unlimited. “Vernell says it’s because you’re what they always dreamed of. Back in the 1980s the CIA tried to create people like you to spy on the Russians. They had a secret training program called Star Gate.”
“Did it work?”
“I don’t know.” Cara dripped extra soy sauce over her meal. “But some of the people they trained are still around. Every now and then the FBI hires one for a case. They’re called remote viewers.”
Phoebe chewed reflectively. “Remote viewers. Yes…it is kind of like that.”
Sensing she had secured her twin’s interest, Cara said, “I think you should do it. You have a gift, and you can help people. It can’t hurt to see if there are other ways you could make it work.”
The FBI was also offering an astonishing amount of money, but Cara didn’t want to discuss that. It would only cause performance anxiety. Phoebe already worried that she was letting everyone down if she didn’t dream often enough.
“How long will I have to stay there?” Phoebe asked.
“Maybe a week or so.”
“And you’ll be there, too?”
Cara had known this was coming. “Of course.” Hopefully, within a couple of days Phoebe would feel comfortable and she could escape and deal with the backlog of work that had piled up over the past several weeks.
Phoebe twiddled with her chopsticks. “I don’t want to feel like a circus freak.”
“You know I would never let that happen.”
“It wasn’t all that long ago they’d have burned me for being a witch, and now I’m hired by the government and I have a spy name. Funny, isn’t it?”
“Hilarious,” Cara said without smiling. “I’ll phone Vernell. We can leave as soon as I get back from L.A.”
CHAPTER TWO
Rowe buttoned her peacoat and braced herself for the rush of cold air as she hauled open her huge oak front door and unlocked the security screen. Her Labradors, Jessie and Zoe, stepped out into the morning with the disbelief of dogs who had never seen an expanse of lawn unpopulated by people, other canines, and hot-dog carts.
“Come on!” Rowe called and took a couple of tennis balls from her pockets. She hurled these across the dew-drenched meadow.
It took less than ten seconds for her pals to get the picture. They lost their minds then, running and barking like a pair of inmates fresh out of the insane asylum. Rowe strode briskly toward the birches that divided her property from that of the reclusive sisters. She had considered calling on her new neighbors to introduce herself, but decided to leave that for a day when she was looking presentable and did not have two unruly dogs in tow.
Jessie, the alpha female, briefly returned to Rowe’s side to check in before bounding deep into the woods, her golden coat bright against the gloom. Zoe, seven years old, black, and built like a brick house, could never keep pace with her taller, sleeker sister. All the same, she gave chase, her stumpy legs propelling her at double time. Rowe trailed after them, thankful her property had some kind of fencing, at least according to the realtor. The last thing she needed was her cloddish dogs drooling all over the old ladies next door by way of announcing the new neighbor’s arrival.
There was no sign of the panting pair by the time she reached the birch stand, so she whistled a few times, expecting yellow and black shapes to hurtle from the trees. Instead she heard a shrill bark, and a split second later an odd whimpering noise filtered through the woods.
“Jessie?” Rowe broke into a jog. “Zoe!”
Through the branches she could make out a sprawling Shingle Style house. Calling again, she headed toward it. There was a fence, just as the realtor had claimed, but it was no longer standing. On the other side of the decaying wooden remnants lay her neighbors’ backyard, a carefully tended garden that would be superb in the summer. Dotted around the perimeter were mysterious shapes swathed in bright blue plastic tarpaulins. Rowe took these for a sign of impending winter in Maine. The Midcoast was littered with them.
Hunkered down in the middle of a square of lawn, Jessie and Zoe were frozen on their haunches, intently watching a woman who stood on the back steps. Rowe found herself rooted to the spot as well, transfixed by a pale face clouded with jet black hair that fell in narrow waves almost to its owner’s waist. Large, luminescent eyes dominated features that belonged to another time. Angled slightly toward the prone dogs, the woman’s head seemed almost too heavy for a neck unusually long and slender. She looked up, and a mouth Rossetti might have painted inched into a remote smile.