“Hello,” she said. Her eyes were on Rowe.
At the sound of her voice, both Labradors whimpered and rolled onto their backs. Rowe could relate. Urging herself into motion, she followed a cobblestone path through what appeared to be an herb garden.
As she neared the beautiful stranger, she said, “Good morning. I’m Rowe Devlin. I was planning on a more civilized introduction, but—”
“Your dogs had other ideas?” Eyes the bruised purple-gray of storm clouds drew hers. “I’m Phoebe Temple. I live here with my sister.”
Phoebe
, Rowe thought. The name suited her. So much for the two old ladies. This woman was probably in her late twenties, although her slight build made her seem younger. She wore a somewhat old-fashioned dress in a dusty rose color. Below the collar, a large baroque pearl rested on her chest suspended from a black ribbon. Its color was breathtaking, platinum with a hint of lavender.
Rowe knew a good deal about pearls, having purchased some fine examples for her mother, who loved them. This huge pear-shaped gem was natural, not cultured. It was the kind you were more likely to find in a museum than around the neck of a woman living on an isle in New England.
Phoebe bent and extended a narrow hand, patting Jessie and Zoe in turn. “Your dogs are beautiful.”
Instead of leaping to lick her face, the dogs remained on their haunches as if they were obedience trained. Unable to account for this personality transplant, Rowe said, “You seem to have a way with them.”
“I’m lucky.” Phoebe straightened. “Animals are always civilized around me. Even wildlife.”
“Wildlife?” Rowe tried to imagine what species there could be. Islesboro was not exactly Madagascar.
Phoebe pointed to a long, narrow barn east of the house. “We have deer. They’ve been in these woods for a hundred years. In winter, they come in to shelter and feed.”
“That’s great.” Rowe could picture a fawn feeding from this woman’s hand. She moved onto the lawn and optimistically slapped a hand against her thigh to signal Jessie and Zoe to heel. To her complete shock, they obeyed as if this were second nature.
“Of course, your dogs are very well trained,” Phoebe observed. “I wish I had one of my own, but my sister and I are away too much. It wouldn’t be fair.”
“You travel for your jobs?”
“Yes. Cara makes music videos, the kind of thing you see on MTV. She left this morning for L.A.”
“Are you in the music business as well?”
“No.” A pause. “I’m with the FBI. I’m a forensic botanist.” Phoebe sounded embarrassed, even slightly ashamed.
Rowe thought it must be quite interesting examining seeds and pods connected with a murder. But some people probably found her occupation distasteful. She hastened to take a positive line. “That must be fascinating.”
“Enormously.” Phoebe did not expand. No doubt she thought Rowe was just being polite.
“I’d love to talk more about it sometime,” Rowe said, determined to emphasize her complete comfort with the topic.
Despite these efforts, Phoebe wrapped her slender arms around her body and changed the subject. “Forgive me for keeping you talking out here in the cold. Would you like to come in for some coffee? I’m about to light the fires.”
Rowe glanced uncertainly at the dogs.
“They’re invited, too.”
“Coffee sounds great. Thank you.”
As she followed Phoebe indoors, Rowe knew she was being reckless, maybe even insane. She had made a rule for herself when she left Manhattan:
If she’s a babe, run.
*
“You’re an author, aren’t you?” Phoebe asked a short time later as they sat before a log fire in a shabby-chic parlor with an incredible ocean view. “My sister told me. Horror novels, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
Rowe glimpsed a trace of dazed incomprehension before Phoebe lowered her eyes. It was not her genre, that much was obvious. “I’m sure you know Stephen King lives not far from here, in Bangor.”
“I’m not in his league,” Rowe said. That was the truth. Even more so after her last dismal effort.
Phoebe seemed to be vacillating over a question. In a rush, she asked, “Do you believe in the supernatural?”
Rowe laughed, pleased to have the opportunity to let her captivating neighbor know that she wasn’t crazy. “God, no! It’s my market niche. That’s all.”
“Oh, I see.” The light faded from Phoebe’s remarkable eyes and she prodded the fire.
Wondering which way to jump, Rowe covered her bases. “Of course, I believe there are mysteries none of us can explain. Things beyond our present understanding. But my books are your basic schlock. Crap, really.”
Phoebe turned toward her once more. In a sweetly reproachful tone, she said, “I’m sure they’re no such thing,” then asked Rowe if she wanted more coffee.
Without waiting for a reply, she picked up their mugs and gracefully left the room. Rowe forced herself not to stare after her, instead pondering her question about the supernatural. Perhaps, given her gruesome occupation, Phoebe needed to believe in comforting fantasies like ghosts and the hereafter. If so, she was living in the right neck of the woods. From all accounts, Maine was the paranormal portal for half the country.
When Phoebe returned, she carried a tray of muffins as well as the coffee refills. Apparently she wanted Rowe to stay a little longer. The dogs seemed fine with that. Both were stretched out on their sides, sound asleep on a well-worn Persian rug behind Rowe’s chair.
Rowe finished a muffin in short order. It was light and buttery, crammed with huge blueberries. She could have eaten five, but held back. Lately she’d been comforting herself with food, and it was showing in the beginnings of a spare tire. She’d also noticed more gray in her ash blond hair. Another legacy of Manhattan—aging before her time. She was only thirty-five. Surely it was way too soon for her to be seeing silver at her temples and frown lines between her eyes.
Surreptitiously, she checked herself out in a large wood-framed mirror on the nearest wall. Not bad. But it had been a mistake to allow her usual short haircut to grow out over the last few weeks. If it got any longer, people would think she wanted that Ellen Degeneres style. Depressed at how she had let herself go lately, she succumbed to another muffin, thinking,
Too bad. Who cares?
“Did you make these?” she asked. “They’re delicious.”
Phoebe smiled shyly. It was as if a child peeped out from behind the mask of an adult. “Thank you, yes. I like to bake.” She indicated a paper bag sitting next to a huge vase of flowers on the walnut sideboard nearby. “I packed some for you to take home. Since you won’t be cooking much over there.”
Rowe was a little taken aback by this observation. “That’s really thoughtful of you. But actually, I’m pretty reasonable in the kitchen.”
Phoebe’s expression was cryptic. “Jasper—the man who owned your place before—he always came here to make his meals.”
And who could blame him? Was there a middle-aged male living alone who wouldn’t cut off both hands for the chance to play happy families with
this
neighbor? Rowe wondered if Phoebe had a boyfriend. There was an untouched quality about her that suggested not, but that was probably wishful thinking. Unless the entire male population of Maine was gay or blind, Phoebe Temple had to be clubbing them off.
The upscale floral arrangement on the sideboard drew her attention once more. Stargazer lilies, creamy roses, and pale pink dianthus—fragrant and romantic. A florist’s card was propped against the vase. Someone called “Vernell” conveyed his warmest regards.
Rowe’s heart sank by degrees. Phoebe was straight. Any woman who had ever made her look twice was straight. We all have our afflictions. Hers was lusting after the unattainable. Already she knew how her relationship with the neighbors would pan out: the hermitlike writer lurks in the woods hoping for a glimpse of the siren next door. The sister—Rowe pictured an older, hard-faced version of Phoebe with a sensible haircut and a cynical edge—eventually shows up at Dark Harbor Cottage to let Rowe know she’s making a nuisance of herself. Yet again, she gets writer’s block and can’t meet a deadline.
It was like some kind of cosmic joke. She had abandoned Manhattan to escape her futile passion for the wife of an author buddy. Now here was another Pasternak situation in the making. The signs were horribly familiar.
Rowe drained her coffee and got to her feet before Phoebe noticed her staring like the village idiot. “I must get going,” she said. “Thanks for asking me in. It was very nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.” Phoebe walked her to the back door, the dogs at their heels. “If you need anything, please ask. Let me give you our number.”
She took a card from an art deco hall table and handed it to Rowe. Her fingertips barely brushed Rowe’s hand but set off a flurry of sensory alerts. Rowe drew a sharp breath and her nostrils were flooded with Phoebe’s scent, a delicious Oriental blend of sandalwood and vanilla. Hints of juicy peach. Edible. Incredibly sexy.
Run, don’t walk
, she advised herself, and thanked her alluring neighbor once again for the coffee.
Pocketing the card, she crossed the immaculate backyard and resolved to see as little of Phoebe Temple as possible. The last thing she needed was another distraction. She had sent two books in well past deadline over the past eighteen months. They were both real dogs.
There was one novel left to write on her current contract, and it had to be a hit, otherwise she would not be getting the new seven-figure deal her agent dreamed of. So far, she had no bright ideas, and she was counting on the change of scenery to get her creative juices flowing. If nothing else, moving here meant she would never need to see Marion Cargill again.
Marion.
An oily nausea invaded her gut. Marion, who tossed smiles like crusts to beggars, aware she had the power to crush, starve, or tempt. Marion, who pretended not to notice she was coveted. Sexy, heartless Marion, who spoke wistfully of love between women, as if it were a fascinating foreign land, the one stamp missing from her passport. She had teased, and Rowe had foolishly conjured a future for them. For a time, she had truly believed they would share this magical tomorrow. But here she was. Alone in Maine. A place Marion scorned.
She paused and stared back at her neighbor’s house. There was a movement at the window. Phoebe Temple was watching her.
*
The doorbell sounded like it came from a distant planet. Grumbling, Rowe stopped writing mid-sentence and dragged herself down three flights of stairs. She reached the front door just as the bell shrilled again.
“Give me a minute,” she yelled, wrestling the dogs into the parlor. Promising treats later, she shut them in, then answered the door.
Two young men stood on the opposite side of the ornate wrought-iron security screen Rowe had installed before she moved in. They looked like escapees from a quantum mechanics symposium, both blinking rapidly behind unfashionable eyewear. They cut their own hair, she decided, and were wearing clothes their mothers gave them for Christmas five years ago. Perhaps they had received their first male cologne that same year and reserved it for special occasions such as this. Rowe tried not to inhale too deeply. They had obviously doused themselves before leaving their car.
The taller of the pair complemented his sallow complexion and carrot-red hair with an orange plaid hat tied like a bonnet beneath his chin. “Excuse me,” he said with a marked stammer. “Are you Rowe Devlin, the author?”
The autograph hunters had tracked her down already. In a tone of brisk unwelcome, Rowe confirmed, “I am.”
“We’re really sorry to disturb you,” the shorter man babbled. “We know you must be busy writing.”
The dweeb in the plaid hat cut in. “I’m Dwayne Schottenheimer and he’s Earl Atherton. We came about the cottage. Uh…first, congratulations. Kick-ass decision.”
“This cottage?” Rowe ventured.
Dwayne fumbled in his jacket and produced a dog-eared business card, which he pressed to the grille. Rowe read it with a sense of impending doom:
Paranormal Investigators of New England.
The day had just gotten worse. These bozos were here to express concern about her recent vampire novels and to explain why that subgenre was passé and she should return to more rational themes like demonic possession and undead who cannibalize.
“We were hoping you might be able to spare five minutes to talk to us, given the importance of the topic,” Dwayne said.
“The topic?” Rowe could only imagine. The same species of disgruntled fan showed up at every author event, eager to provide guidance and counsel.
“The infestation.” Her carrot-haired visitor pressed on. “We’re available twenty-four/seven. Uh…in case you need professional help.”
Confused, Rowe said, “I take it you are not referring to rodents.”
Like she’d made a joke, her fragrant visitors chortled.
“We used to be with the MPRA,” short, dumpy Earl said. “Not any more. Ecto-mist isn’t everything.”
“Have you by any chance spoken with the MPRA yet?” Dwayne inquired.
What the fuck was the MPRA? Rowe decided not to ask. If this was another paranormal society turf war, she didn’t want to be the entity in the sandwich. “Guys, I’m working at the moment. This really isn’t convenient.”