The Invited (ARC)

by Jennifer McMahon

  “But right now, you should get back home before your father finds out you’re gone,” Helen said. “I can’t imagine how worried he’d be.”

  “Right,” Olive said, happy to be dismissed. “See you tomorrow then.”

  “Olive,” Nate said, “one more thing.”

  Great, Helen thought. Is he going to make her sign a waiver or something?

  “It was a deer tooth, wasn’t it?”

  “Huh?” she said.

  “The little bundle with the old nail and tooth you left on our steps? I’m just wondering what kind of tooth it was and where you got it. It looks old and I can’t figure out what animal it might have come from.”

  The girl shook her head, looked confused. “Whatever it was, it didn’t come from me. I took plenty of stuff, but I never left anything.”

  “You’re sure?” Nate asked.

  She nodded. “Positive. Cross my heart.”

  Helen opened her mouth to say something more, but no words came.

  “Okay if I head back now?” Olive asked.

  “Sure,” they both said in unison, Helen’s answer gentle, Nate’s more of a harsh dismissal.

  They watched as she ran off into the woods, moving quickly and surely through the trees, the white of her old nightgown glowing like the ghost she’d tried to be.

  CLOSING IN

  S

  CHAPTER 12

  Olive

  S JULY 8, 2015

  Olive knew Nate didn’t really like her. He didn’t trust her, that was for sure. As helpful as she’d been over these last three weeks, as much work as she’d helped them accomplish (they’d finished framing the walls and roof and had moved on to putting plywood sheathing up), he kept looking at her like he was just waiting for her to screw up, to try to slip something in her backpack when they weren’t looking. He even went through a show of making her open up her backpack each day before she went home. Once a thief, always a thief.

  Helen, she’d been great. Olive heard her snap at Nate, “Christ, Nate, what’s next—are you gonna strip-search the poor kid?” when she thought Olive was out of earshot. Helen had been a history teacher back in Connecticut, but Olive could tell she hadn’t been the boring kind of teacher at all. Olive wished Helen was one of her teachers. The way she talked about history, about how people used to live back before there was electricity, before cars, it made Olive feel like she was right there, like she could really imagine what it must have been like.

  And she did it so naturally, just working all these cool facts into everyday conversation. Like now, they were driving through town in Helen’s pickup, passing by one old house after another, Helen pointing out the different architectural styles in a typical New England village like Hartsboro.

  “That house on the left, it’s a classic colonial. See how it’s a simple two-story box—no eaves, shutters, porches? Such a clean design. The saltbox, what we’re building, is a variation on the style. And see that one across the street?” Helen asked, slowing as she pointed at a huge white house with peeling paint. “Greek revival. Look at the columns, the way the peak of the roof faces the street. All the cornice detailing. It’s really a work of art.”

  A car behind her blew its horn and Helen sped up.

  “It’s amazing that all these old houses were built in the days before electricity,” Helen said as they drove. “Just think of it—no power tools. Everything was cut with a handsaw. And they used axes to hew the lumber. Chisels to do all that finely detailed carving on the columns and trim.”

  “Building a house must have taken for-ev-er,” Olive said.

  “Sure, things might have taken longer, but there was more of a level of craftsmanship. There was real skill involved in shaping posts and beams and joining them, in doing all the delicate trim work by hand. Builders were artists.”

  Olive liked this. She doubted folks back then would be so quick to tear down a wall and put up another the way she and her dad did constantly. Part of her kind of wished to go back to a time without power tools and plywood and drywall.

  Along with all the cool stories she told, Olive also loved that Helen was really interested in Hattie. Not just in all the creepy ghost stories, but in the real woman behind them. Helen had been doing research—looking online and asking around in town—but was frustrated that she hadn’t yet learned any real facts. Olive had told her that her aunt Riley might be able to help—she volunteered at the historical society and could get Helen in. Today, they were on their way to the salvage yard where Riley worked.

  “You’re gonna love this place!” Olive promised as they pulled up in front of the Fox Hill Salvage Yard. “And you’re also gonna love my aunt Riley.”

  Olive led Helen into the big salvage warehouse, past the old hand-hewn beams and milled lumber, the rows of old bathtubs, racks of plumbing fixtures and copper pipes. Helen stopped to look at sinks and tubs.

  “You were right,” Helen said as she walked up to a deep soapstone sink like she was being pulled by a magnet. “This place is amazing! Oh my god, look at this sink!”

  “I’m gonna go find my aunt,” Olive said. “You look around.”

  Olive found Riley behind a big desk on a raised platform in the middle of the store.

  “Hey, Ollie!” Riley called out. She came around the desk, jumped down, and enveloped Olive in one of her bone-crushing hugs. “This is a nice surprise! What are you doing here? Where’s your dad?” She looked around.

  “He’s working. I came with my neighbor Helen, you know, the lady I’ve been telling you about?”

  “Cool! Can’t wait to meet her.”

  “She’s over by the sinks I think. She kinda has a thing for old stuff.”

  Riley smiled. “Well, she’s in the right place! Hey, I’ve got something for you,” Riley said. She went back up to the desk, pulled her messenger bag out from underneath it, and rummaged around for a minute. “Here it is!” she chirped, coming back down and presenting her gift to Olive.

  It was a small brass compass, tarnished and scratched.

  “I picked it up at a yard sale.”

  “It’s amazing,” Olive said.

  “It’s for helping you find your way,” Riley told her, and Olive had a feeling she meant a whole lot more than just getting in and out of the woods.

  “Thank you,” Olive said. Olive looked down at the compass in her hands, the needle spinning, wavering, until it settled on north. She told herself to be brave, to just ask—it was now or never. “Hey, Aunt Riley, can I ask you something?”

  “Sure, kiddo. What’s up?”

  “It’s about my mom.”

  This seemed to catch Aunt Riley off guard. She smiled a worried smile. “What about her, Ollie?”

  “I’m wondering if you can tell me anything about those last couple of weeks. If you knew what she was up to. Who she was seeing.”

  Riley let out a long, deep sigh. “Have you talked to your dad about this?”

  Olive shook her head. “No way! We don’t talk about that. Only about how things will be when Mama gets home.”

  “That’s for the best, maybe.”

  “I know. Dad can’t handle it. He just . . . can’t. But, if you know anything, if there’s something you’ve been keeping from me, I want to know. Please. I can handle it, whatever it is. I’m not a little kid anymore.”

  Riley reached out, took Olive’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “I know you’re not, Ollie. You’re growing up fast. I can’t believe you’re going into your second year of high school in the fall. I remember the day your parents brought you back from the hospital, how tiny you were, how perfect. Where does time go?”

  “You’re kind of doing it again, Aunt Riley,” Olive said.

  “Doing what?”

  “Changing the subject like you always do when Mom comes up. I’m sick of not talking about her, about wha
t happened—aren’t you sick of it, too?”

  Riley looked at her for a few seconds, thinking and frowning.

  “Look, I’ll tell you what I told your dad,” Riley said at last. “The truth is I don’t know what your mom was up to. She was real secretive all of sudden. I could tell something was up. Something was different.”

  “Me, too!” Olive said. “She was like that with me, too.”

  It felt good to be talking about it at last, to get everything out in the open.

  Riley nodded. “There was definitely some kind of change in her.”

  “Do you remember the last time you saw her?” Olive asked.

  “Yeah. She was at Rosy’s Tavern. I stopped in with some friends after work and she was there.”

  “Was she alone?” Olive asked.

  Riley hesitated, bit her lip. Olive gave her a pleading come on, we’ve gone this far look.

  “No,” Riley said. “She was with a guy.”

  “What guy?” Olive asked.

  Riley looked away. “No one I know.”

  “Well, what’d he look like?”

  She looked back at Olive, shrugging her shoulders. “I don’t remember exactly. Dark hair and eyes, maybe. A leather jacket.”

  “Do you think maybe Sylvia knows who he was?”

  Sylvia tended bar at Rosy’s and was one of Mama’s best friends, going way back before Olive was born.

  “I don’t know, Ollie, and honestly, even if she did, what good does it do?”

  “ ’Cause maybe he’s the guy she ran off with? And maybe if we know more about him, we can figure out where they might have gone?”

  “Oh, honey,” Riley said as she gave Olive The Look. The pitying poor little girl look Olive knew so well. Olive clenched her jaw. She didn’t want anyone’s pity, especially her aunt Riley’s. She didn’t want to be that girl.

  “Here’s the thing, honey,” Riley continued. “If your mama wanted us to find her, she would get in touch.”

  “But if we—”

  “I know it hurts, believe me. But we’ve got to be patient. She’ll come back when she’s ready, Ollie.” She raised her eyes, looked up behind Olive, and smiled.

  “Hi, there. You must be Riley,” said Helen.

  Helen joined Olive at her side.

  “Aunt Riley, this is Helen. Our new neighbor I’ve been telling you about,” Olive said, forcing a smile even though she felt broken and frustrated by the conversation they’d been having. How could Riley think it wouldn’t do any good to follow clues, to try to figure out where Mama had gone? “She’ll come back when she’s ready” wasn’t good enough for Olive, and she couldn’t believe that it seemed to be good enough for Riley.

  “Ah, yes, you live out by Breckenridge Bog!”

  “That’s me—the one living on the cursed land stirring up ghosts!” Helen said with a chuckle.

  “Wonderful to meet you,” Riley said enthusiastically, holding out a hand for Helen to shake.

  “Wait!” Olive said to Helen. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing,” Helen said. “Sorry. Just some silly stuff I heard in town.”

  “So you’ve heard it? What they’ve been saying? How you brought Hattie back?”

  Helen looked at her, narrowed her eyes. “I’ve heard a bit. And it sounds like you have, too. Why didn’t you say anything?”

  Olive shrugged. “It’s just dumb stuff people are saying. ’Cause you live out by the bog, I guess,” Olive said. “And then there’s all the witch books you checked out of the library.”

  Helen shook her head in disbelief. “You’re kidding, right? People know what library books I checked out?”

  Olive nodded. “Brendan at Ferguson’s, he’s even going around telling people that he thinks you might be a witch yourself.”

  Riley laughed. “In a little town like Hartsboro, you have to be careful what you check out of the library. Check out one book on the occult and you’re in league with the devil himself.”

  “Don’t librarians take an oath or something?” Helen said. “Isn’t there a code of honor?”

  “Not in Hartsboro, apparently,” Riley said.

  “It’s more than the library books, though,” Olive went on. “They’re saying you, like, woke Hattie up or something. Made bad things start happening.”

  “What?” Helen asked. “What bad things? Like the bus accident?”

  Olive nodded.

  “Let me guess, me and Hattie caused the lightning and fires, too?”

  “Maybe.” Olive shrugged. “That’s what some people are saying anyway.”

  Riley smiled. “Probably even the traffic light going out again and again,” she said. “It’s usually just Hattie who gets blamed for anything bad that happens in Hartsboro, but now all the old gossips are over the moon because they have someone new, an actual flesh-and-blood person to blame.”

  Helen stood stunned, shaking her head.

  “I wouldn’t worry too much about it,” Riley said. “It’ll burn itself out. Some teenage girl will get pregnant or a guy will leave his wife for another guy and the whole town will have something else to chatter about.”

  “Yeah,” Olive agreed. “Take it from me, the best thing to do is ignore it.”

  “Damn. I thought maybe I should start dressing in black and drawing mystical signs on the sidewalks,” Helen said, and they all laughed.

  “I hear in addition to being the new town witch,” Riley said with a mischievous wink, “you’re building an amazing house out there.”

  “It’s really cool,” Olive said. “They’re doing all the work themselves!”

  “Impressive,” Riley said.

  “Or crazy,” Helen added. “Idiotic maybe, even?”

  They all laughed.

  “Olive’s been a huge help,” Helen said.

  “She’s a good worker, that’s for sure,” Riley said. “She’s learned a lot from working with her dad on their house. Have you met my brother, Dustin, yet?”

  Helen shook her head. “Not yet.”

  “I’ve been talking to dad about having Helen and Nate over sometime for a cookout. You’ll have to come, too, Aunt Riley!”

  It was something they used to do all the time back when Mama was around—have cookouts and invite a bunch of people. Everyone would bring something—extra beer, potato salad, watermelon—and Daddy would shoot off fireworks in the backyard once it got good and dark.

  “Absolutely, Ollie,” Riley said. “Name the date and I’ll be there.” She turned to Helen. “So, what brought you in? Are you looking for anything in particular for the house?”

  “Yeah, actually, I am. I want that soapstone sink you’ve got over there.”

  “It’s a beauty. Let’s go mark it as sold and I’ll get a couple of the guys to load it for you.”

  “Also, I’m looking for a beam to use as a header. Something old, hand-hewn. Maybe four by four or four by six?”

  “We’ll take a look at what we’ve got,” Riley said, leading them back across the vast warehouse of a store.

  “Olive tells me you’re kind of a local history expert,” Helen said.

  Riley shrugged. “I wouldn’t say an expert. Not by any stretch. But it’s definitely a passion of mine.”

  “I told Helen you could let her in to the historical society so she could do some research,” Olive explained.

  “I’d love to check it out,” Helen said. “In fact, I got the number of a woman named Mary Ann, hoping to get in and take a look around, and I left her a message, but she never called me back.”

  “Yeah, she and her husband are in North Carolina—their daughter and her family live there. She’s about to have another grandchild and Mary Ann and her husband are down there waiting for labor to kick in. But I’m afraid the historical society is temporarily closed anyway. A wa
ter pipe burst and there was some damage. They have to redo the floor. A lot of stuff got frantically packed into plastic boxes and totes. It’s kind of a mess. But I can let you know as soon as we get the all clear to open up again.”

  “That would be great!” Helen said. “I hope nothing was damaged.”

  “No,” Riley said. “Everything was up out of the way, thankfully. It was just the floor. The carpeting has to be torn out and replaced, and there’s some question about the subfloor.”

  They got to the sinks, and Riley pulled a tag from her pocket, wrote sold in big letters, and attached it to the sink. Olive’s eyes just about popped out when she saw the price: it was $799. It was a large, deep double sink made from smooth cut slabs of slate-gray stone.

  “The sink’s from right here in town. And my guess is that the stone itself was quarried right here in Vermont.”

  “Really?” Helen said, looking even more excited.

  “The sink came from an old farmhouse out on County Road. A couple bought it last year and are doing all kinds of upgrades, making it more modern.”

  Helen shook her head. “I can’t believe anyone would give up a sink like this.”

  “I know, right? They probably put some new, shiny stainless steel sink in to match their appliances,” Riley said. “Now let’s go find you the perfect beam.”

  Riley led them over to the other side of the store, where the large beams were piled and stacked on racks. They all had white tags and were written on with yellow chalk.

  “This place is so amazing,” Helen said. “And I can’t thank you enough for offering to open up the historical society for me.” She started looking at the tags on the beams.

  “It’s no problem. Is there anything in particular you’re hoping to find?”

  “Anything about our land, really. But mostly, what I’m hoping to find is anything about Hattie Breckenridge.”

  “I don’t think there’s all that much, sadly. There are a couple of pictures. There might be an old land deed with her name on it. There could be more I haven’t seen yet—we can look together.”