St. Charles at Dusk: The House of Crimson and Clover Series Prequel

by Sarah M. Cradit

  “Heathens,” he said casually, as if that explained it.

  “There are plenty of powerful heathens in this family,” she laughed. “But I suppose you do set that bar rather high.”

  After dinner, she wandered out to her front porch, which faced Casco Bay, an inlet of the Atlantic Ocean. She shielded her eyes from the vibrant orange hues of the setting sun, and looked out across the sparkling water. From where her house sat, on the eastern shore, she could not see the mainland, but she could make out the traces of some of the smaller, barren islands to the East. Alex told her in the winter the view would disappear completely, and the island would be shrouded in blinding fog. She wondered again if she had done the right thing in coming there.

  What was my father thinking when he bought this place? It had been a gift to her mother Catherine, who died giving birth to Ana. Yet another failure. A healer who killed her own mother.

  Ana caught the view of a fishing trawler in her peripheral, off to the west. Her gaze shifted from the sunset to the man captaining the vessel. He had come back to shore every day at the same time, all week. Alex told her some of the fishermen told time by the sun. She wondered if Finnegan St. Andrews was one of them.

  As Finn dropped anchor, a small boy hopped off and started tethering the boat to a series of poles. Moments later, Finn joined him, and helped finish securing the boat. Together they carried the traps from the boat to the boathouse at the upper end of the dock.

  After placing several of the live lobster into an ice chest for the child, Finn watched him scamper up the beach, toward a path leading to the main road.

  Finn stretched his strong shoulders as if shrugging off a tremendous burden. As his arms came down, he put his hand over his eyes to shield them from the sun. He caught sight of Ana on her porch, and waved. She waved back.

  This was a daily tradition during the seven days she had been on the island. Finn was the closest thing she had to a friend, next to Alex, but they had never actually met. She knew it would be simple enough to introduce herself. She might not even have to say much, since everyone in town already seemed to know everything about her.

  She knew she wouldn’t, though. Waving was safer.

  Ana set a bowl of milk on the porch next to an old comforter. Cocoa would not be back until later in the evening, most likely. Ana wondered if the cat had been someone’s pet once, for she immediately warmed up to Ana.

  Ana never had any pets of her own back home. Growing up, her stepmother, Barbara, had been allergic to almost everything, and then when Ana left home, her focus on education left little room for anything else. She spent four years in undergraduate studies, and then another four for her double masters. She would have continued as a student forever, if her favorite professor hadn’t offered her a job teaching English at Tulane. It was an unlikely career choice for an introvert, but it made her happy to feel useful.

  Then she left. Left the job, her family, her hometown, Nicolas; all of it.

  She hadn’t known anything about Summer Island, Maine before her arrival a week earlier. She knew about the old home she inherited from her mother, had never been there, or even seen a picture of it. All she knew–and all that mattered–was it was far from New Orleans, both in distance and similarity.

  The recorded population of Summer Island was 250, but Alex told her it was actually 204 if you subtracted the families who only had weekend or summer homes. Although it was only 2.2 square miles in size, the town was relatively self-sufficient, having most of the basics. The only thing they seemed to be missing was a medical facility but, surprisingly, there was a veterinary clinic. The vet was one of her neighbors, the lobster fisherman’s brother, in fact, but his standoffish behavior made Ana think twice about striking up a conversation. Meeting new people was hard enough already.

  Geographically, Summer Island was the furthest east from the mainland of the islands that had residents; a sixty-minute ride on the Casco Bay Ferry Lines to Portland. Alex said there were a handful of folks who commuted daily into Portland, but the restaurants, bars, post office, grocery store, and other businesses were all run by islanders.

  “It makes it easier in the winter,” he told her. “That way people don’t miss work when it snows.”

  “People actually miss work when it snows?”

  “Aye. The ferries close down for a spell each winter, sometimes more’n once.”

  “So how do you get off the island if there are emergencies?”

  He shrugged. “Ya don’t.”

  Alex didn’t seem the least bit concerned about that, but the thought unsettled her. Ana took living in a big city for granted, being near everything she could ever need. There wasn’t even a medical clinic on the island! Every bit of information he eagerly shared left her with a dozen more questions, but she left them unasked. She disliked feeling silly, or like an outsider, and her lack of knowledge made her feel like both.

  As caretaker, Alex Whitman knew the house better than anyone. The conditions of his charge had brought him out once a week for the past twenty years, and he had done his job unfailingly. By the time Ana arrived, he had already winterized the house, and he was excited to show her how he had covered the exterior faucets, turned off some of the valves, and other stuff Ana had never worried about in New Orleans. His eyes widened and his hands took to the air animatedly as he proudly described the amount of care and caution he put into his job. He was thorough and passionate, and it was clear the old four-bedroom Victorian had been in good hands all these years, despite having no permanent mistress.

  His enthusiasm was catching, if not a little strange. He was so excited about his job Ana wondered what he actually did for fun. She smiled and made a mental note to tell her father that their money had not gone to waste with Alex.

  Alex was middle-aged; in his forties or fifties, Ana guessed. There was nothing remarkable about him, from his growing baldness to his nondescript nose, mouth, and chin. She would not have been able to pull him out of a crowd if they were back in New Orleans. The only thing that stood out to Ana were his eyes: they were a radiant blue with a flashing intensity in them when he talked, as if he channeled every drop of his emotion through them. They took on a special excitement when he talked about his job.

  “I have overseer duties for yer father’s house and about ten o’er homes on the island. Summer folk. Ya know, they say coastal Maine is the new Cape Cod,” he told her, beaming. There was no end to the things he had to say about the island and the homes he looked after, but about his personal life he would only say that he lived alone.

  “Actually it’s my house,” she corrected him. Of course they thought it was her father’s. His office paid the bills, and it wasn’t as if Ana had bothered to visit.

  “Well, I reckon I stand corrected,” Alex said with a blush.

  Though he was peculiar, Ana appreciated him, and she didn’t realize just how much until after she had been on the island for a week. She ventured into town daily, exploring before heading home with groceries. She noticed everyone took the time to wave at each other, or flash a welcoming smile to their fellow islanders. Many stopped to chitchat, and share stories about their children, or the weather; with dark clouds looming on the horizon, everyone’s thoughts turned to the timing of the first big storm. Ana felt as if she were watching one large, ongoing family reunion. Her heart ached for New Orleans, and her own people.

  She tried to embrace her new home with enthusiasm, waving at the same people she saw waving at others. But they did not wave back, and most of them dropped their eyes, pretending not to see. No matter where she went–the grocery store, the library, restaurants–the reception was the same. The lack of returned smiles, and the downturned eyes, left a sinking feeling in her stomach. She was unwelcome here.

  When she told Alex about her experiences, a blush rose in his cheeks. “Miss Deschanel-”

  “Alex, you can call me Ana.” With a laugh, she added, “you might be my only friend here.”

  “O
’right, Ana then. Forgive me for just coming out and sayin’ it, but everyone knows who ya are.”

  “What does that mean?” Her eyes narrowed. It was not possible anyone here knew anything about the reason she had left New Orleans. She had told no one.

  “Your father, Miss,” Alex said with a guilty look. “It’s just, being locals and all and not having the money that yer family has…it sometimes rubs people the wrong way when people see their town as a vacation home. It isn’t to say...I mean...that, you know, yer family has done nothing wrong, exactly...oh geez, listen to me....”

  He kept rambling and stumbling over his own words to correct himself, but Ana got the general idea. Ana’s father was Augustus Deschanel, of the Deschanel Media Group, and there were very few people who didn’t know that name. He was a local legend in New Orleans for having started his media business on money he earned from a summer job, which was a remarkable accomplishment since he came from a family of millionaires who could have funded it without a second thought. Augustus wanted to do it alone, though, and the business turned into an international empire within ten years. I wanted to prove that the talent brings the money, and not the other way around, he was famous for saying. While the people of New Orleans were proud of Augustus for his humble start and work ethic, the rest of the world saw him as another money-hungry businessman. It never occurred to her to consider the islanders might have an opinion of the distant family who owned the stately house on the bend of Heron Hollow Road.

  As Alex showed her how to use the generator–trust me, you’ll use it, he had said–he assured her he would talk to people and that things would get better. “They’re good folk,” he kept saying. “Truly they mean no harm.”

  Ana thought then of Nicolas. Her father. Her students at Tulane. Of late nights in the Quarter, the singing of cicadas, and sunrise on the Mississippi River. The homesickness flooded her and a sinking flutter rose to her chest as she realized all she had left behind.

  How long am I going to do this? When will things be fixed? How will I even know? And how long will it take?

  “As long as it takes,” she whispered, and waved at Alex as he drove away.

  The Storm and the Darkness is available at all major online retailers

  Novels by Sarah M. Cradit

  The House of Crimson and Clover Series

  St. Charles at Dusk- Series Prequel

  Beyond Dusk: Anne- Book 0.5

  The Storm and the Darkness- Book 1

  Beyond Darkness: Shattered- Book 1.5

  The Illusions of Eventide- Book 2

  Beyond Eventide: Bound- Book 2.5

  And more on the horizon...

  Acknowledgements

  Original Publication:

  There is a saying about the journey being more rewarding than the destination, and this book was nothing short of a journey. Although the actual writing took little over a year, I began writing this ten years prior to its publication. This was a journey that consisted of rewrites, self-doubt, and long periods of downtime. Through the support of others, I finally took the last painful step and published this. Although there were many people along the way who supported me, motivated me, and encouraged me, and I appreciate all of them, there are a few I want to give special thanks to: My dearest friend in the world, Laura Hatcher, for reading, critiquing, and being my biggest fan and cheerleader. My “Detroit Divas,”–Holly, Brynn, Laurel, and Carl–with whom I may not be as close as I used to, but I still love dearly. And to James, who never saw this as frivolous or silly, and was always behind me, always pushing me to publish and keep writing, no matter what else was going on.

  Revised Publication:

  If the original publication was a journey, the revised even more so. As the series grew, the need to adjustments became more apparent, and I could not have done this without the help of others.

  Tara Shaner, I simply lack the vocabulary to adequately thank you for all you do for me. As my editor, friend, and mentor, you guide me to my potential, every single time we work together. Frankly, I would not want to go forth without you.

  My betas, who kindly took their time to read through this (and in some cases, reread), and act as my compass. Shawn Verdin, Brandy L Rivers, Shelby Mead, Michele Breaux-Rowley, and Christie Racine. Each of you offer me something uniquely different, and equally valuable.

  My Fleur Delites of the Secret Society of the Crimson & Clover Fleur de Lis (yes, that’s a mouthful!). My biggest cheerleaders, and my dearest friends. Here’s a marshmallow, or fifty.

  Thank you, sincerely, to everyone who encouraged me through this project and through my writing career. You each leave an imprint on me.

  About The Author

  Sarah is the author of the Paranormal Southern Fiction series, The House of Crimson & Clover. She is always working on the next book in the mysterious world of the Sullivans and Deschanels.

  Sarah lives in the Pacific Northwest, but has traveled the world from Asia to Europe to Africa. When she isn't working (either at her day career, or hard at work at writing), she is reading and discovering new authors. The great loves of her life (in order) are: her husband James, writing, and traveling the world.

  Feel free to contact Sarah. She absolutely loves connecting with her fans:

  Website:

  www.sarahmcradit.com

  Facebook:

  facebook.com/houseofcrimsonandclover

  Twitter:

  @thewritersarah