by Tracy Donley
“Wonderful idea,” said Sam. “Glad to be part of it.”
“I think it’s especially great that you’re going to represent your own family. Can you tell me a bit about the Wright family plot?”
“That’s what I’m here for,” Sam said with a smile.
So, this was her research-date-appointment? Jack was trying to set her up with the mayor! Admittedly, he was handsome and charming.
“Right this way, my lady,” Sam said, leading Rosemary to the furthest corner of the graveyard, which was tucked away toward the tree line, near the entrance to the meadow. “Meet the Wrights.” He swept an arm out over the corner and made a little bow. “And here lies old Elias, born in 1705, whose name I actually bear as my middle name. Elias was the first son born here in Paperwick.”
“Have you done a lot of research into your family tree, then?” asked Rosemary.
“Would you still respect me if I told you no?” Sam answered with a boyish grin. “Around here, it’s practically blasphemy—not knowing your whole history—so please don’t tell on me. My secretary is always after me to sign up for one of those ancestry things. She’s into the whole genealogy bit. I’ve just never gotten around to really digging deep. Too busy in the land of the living, I guess. I do know we Wrights showed up here in the early 1700s and have been here ever since.”
“Then your family missed the whole witch drama?” asked Rosemary, raising an eyebrow.
Sam laughed heartily. “Has the president of the Paperwick Historical Society been bringing you up to speed on that story?”
Rosemary smiled. “He knows I’m as big a nerd as he is when it comes to history.”
“Yes, sadly, my family missed out on that drama,” Sam said. “But better late than never.”
He stepped a little closer and locked eyes with Rosemary, and she felt a wave of heat coming to her cheeks.
“I, um, like your shirt,” Rosemary said, gesturing to the bright orange, gold, and green plaid, then inwardly chiding herself for not being able to think of a more clever thing to say.
Sam glanced down at his shirt and then smiled at her. “It’s nice, huh? I’m trying to match the trees.”
“Very appropriate for the mayor of Paperwick,” Rosemary said with a smile.
“And you look very nice today, too,” said Sam, taking in Rosemary’s casual jeans and cardigan. “Your hair is even a nice fall color.”
Rosemary put a hand to her hair, which she’d twisted into a loose bun using the tiny mirror in Holly Golightly on the way into town.
“Thank you. This place is a real treasure,” she said, looking across the whole scene, taking in the church and the maze of headstones—and hoping the mayor wouldn’t notice her turning as red as one of Mrs. Potter’s apples.
“It is indeed,” he agreed. “Believe it or not, that’s why I’m here. I have a meeting in a few minutes to address protecting this treasure.”
“Oh? Then you’re not—I mean, a meeting here in the churchyard?”
Maybe Samuel Wright wasn’t Rosemary’s research date after all. She must’ve misunderstood him. And if she was honest, she felt relieved that Jack didn’t have Sam in mind for her. She couldn’t deny he was attractive . . . But something about him made her uncomfortable. Maybe he was too confident. Too smooth.
“Yep—well, just over there in the meadow,” Sam answered, motioning toward a path that ran through the band of trees and into the adjoining meadow. “I want to make some important changes around here—necessary changes, as we attract greater numbers of tourists and put Paperwick on the map. We’re in the process of installing monitors, both here in the graveyard and in the meadow. See, I want to be able to welcome people who visit Paperwick to come and see the history here, but I also want to keep it safe.”
“I’m glad to hear you’re protecting your history,” said Rosemary, even though the thought of “putting Paperwick on the map” didn’t sit well with her. She hated the idea of this peaceful village swarming with tourists. “So where are the monitors? Are we on camera right now?” Rosemary looked around and saw no sign of any modern contraption.
“Oh, they’re all around. In the trees, mainly. They’re installed, I should say. But the kinks haven’t been worked out yet. That’s what the meeting is about. My city manager is in charge of the project. He and I are going to walk the whole place, so he can bring me up to speed and we can figure out what’s going wrong.”
Rosemary nodded.
Sam smiled and looked at Rosemary’s notebook. “So how does it all work, anyway? How did you and Jack decide who to…” He waved a hand across the graveyard. “Who to re-animate, as it were?”
“Well, we’ve both been doing preliminary research on the village—and especially on the founders and earliest inhabitants. Guests will enter by way of the church, over there. And the first spirit they’ll come across is Josias King, right over here.” Rosemary pointed to an old crumbly marker, half covered in moss. “He was pastor for forty-seven years at the First Church. A very interesting man.”
“To say the least,” said Sam, nodding. “In fact, if you ever want some juicy reading, you’ve got to check out Old Josias’s church logs. The original books are in a museum in Washington, D.C., but around eight years back, after my first successful election, the Historical Society did a reproduction and gave it to me as a gift. Josias kept records of the usual stuff—births, deaths, members of the parish. But—get this—he also recorded the confessions he heard and kept track of the advice he gave. He used this record to create extensive prayer lists, reminding himself how to pray for his parishioners. Fascinating stuff!”
“Wow! I bet no one would’ve told him anything if they’d known he was recording their confessions for posterity.”
“No kidding. He kept the books hidden away and locked up tight, because of course, he was thinking that would protect them from prying eyes, and in his time, it did. And he tried to protect them even after his death by requesting that they be burned. He’d asked his wife to do the deed, but when it came down to it, she just couldn’t bring herself to destroy all that was left of the love of her life. So, she kept them under lock and key, probably always thinking that one day she’d work up the gumption to toss her husband’s writings into the fire. But she never did.”
“Amazing. And you have a copy?”
“Yep. The only copy, actually—I mean, aside from the real thing. The Society had them typeset and bound into one thick volume, just for me. They jokingly titled it Paperwick: The Original Sins, A Cautionary Tale. I’ll lend it to you if you’d like.”
“I’d love to read it. Absolutely.”
“Great. Keep this on the down-low, but I haven’t really even read it yet myself, aside from flipping through it a couple times.”
“I’ll be glad to give you a full report once I’ve read it,” said Rosemary.
“I was thinking maybe we could read it together. I’ve got it at my house—well, in my backyard, technically. I have a cozy little woodshed that I converted into a home office. I’d love to show it to you. Stop by anytime,” said Sam, and something in the tenor of his voice made Rosemary hope he wasn’t flirting with her. This defied the usual logic, since Sam seemed like a great guy—the kind of guy whose attention most women would enjoy. But then why did Rosemary have the feeling that she might be only one of many women whom Sam had invited to his “home office” for one reason or another? She would go there and borrow the book, all right. But not without Jack in tow.
“So, who else, other than the esteemed Reverend Josias King is on your list of ghosts?” he asked.
“Well, aside from him and your own excellent Elias Wright, we’ve got Joseph Filbert, Phillipa Anderson, and Silas Martin. And of course, then folks will move out to the meadow and meet Hortence Gallow.”
“The witch herself,” said Sam. “The grand finale. Perfect. I bet that’ll get Ingrid all riled up.”
“Ingrid?”
“Ingrid Clark. Great-great-however-ma
ny-greats granddaughter of Hortence.”
“Ah, so her name is Ingrid. I haven’t met her yet, but I’m looking forward to that.”
“Are you?”
“Shouldn’t I be?”
A slight shadow passed over Sam’s face, but then was gone.
“You’re an interesting woman, Rosemary.”
Sam walked closer, until he was close enough to smell. And he smelled good, Rosemary noticed. He met her eyes, and for a moment, she said nothing, as she was unable to think about anything other than how blue his were. But then he looked away, a small grin on his face.
“What does this mean?” he asked, going back over to Felicity’s marker, squatting down, and running his hand over the winged skull decoration at the top. “I’ve always wondered.”
“Oh,” Rosemary knelt down next to him. “That’s the winged death’s head. First, you have to remember that the Puritans didn’t like anything resembling the Catholicism they’d left behind in England. So, no crosses or icons would do for their grave markers. Here, the skull represents death; the wings, resurrection. By the end of the 18th century, this kind of design had all but disappeared.”
Rosemary fingered the feathers of the stone wings. “This is really fine workmanship,” she said.
“Indeed, it is,” he said quietly. But his eyes moved from the stone to Rosemary.
Sam reached up and touched her hand, then looked at her with genuine admiration. “Thank you for coming and doing this for the Historical Society. For the town. There’s so much history here. It’s high time we celebrate all that this place is.”
Then he stood and reached out a hand to help Rosemary do the same.
“So, you’ve lived here all your life?” Rosemary asked, dusting off her pants.
“Oh yes,” Sam answered. “Except for a few years away at college, and then grad school. I’m a homebody. Wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”
“It’s good to feel that about a place,” said Rosemary.
He turned to look at her again, a question in his eyes. But before another word was said, Seth walked up.
“Boo!” he said with a smile. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”
“Not at all,” said Rosemary. “I was just telling the mayor here about these headstones.”
“Ah, the winged death’s head,” said Seth with a knowing nod.
“Hello, Dr. McGuire,” said Sam, reaching out to shake hands.
“Please. Call me Seth.”
The two men stayed locked in their handshake a beat too long, Rosemary thought—and it wasn’t the same kind of long handshake she’d had with Seth the day before.
“And what brings you to the cemetery on this fine day?” asked Sam.
“I have an appointment with Ms. Grey here,” answered Seth, nodding at Rosemary.
Now it all made sense. It was definitely more plausible that Jack was trying to set Rosemary up with Seth, rather than the mayor. Rosemary smiled, looking back and forth from one man to the other, thinking about how she was going to exact revenge on Jack for putting her in this awkward situation.
“And you, Mayor Wright?” asked Seth.
“I’m here for a meeting over in the meadow, believe it or not.” Sam glanced at his watch. “In fact, I’ve got some preparations to make beforehand, so I’d better be going.”
“Ah, yes—I believe you’re considering making it into a park,” said Seth.
“A gorgeous park,” said Sam, eyeing Rosemary. “Rosemary, it’s been a pleasure. Again, thanks for doing this.”
“Glad to,” said Rosemary.
With that, Sam followed the little path that led past his own forefathers and mothers, through the trees, and into the meadow.
8
“Are you warm enough?” asked Seth, noticing Rosemary give off a little shiver.
“What? Oh—yes. I just felt a chill for some reason.”
“You know what they say that means, don’t you?”
“No. What do they say that means?” Rosemary couldn’t help but warm to this man, with his rumpled sweater, slightly messy hair, and lopsided grin. He was the polar opposite of the charming Sam Wright.
“It means a ghost has just passed through you,” said Seth. “And we are, after all, in a graveyard. So, the odds are pretty good.”
“I just hope it was one of the nice ones,” said Rosemary.
“Oh, I’m sure it was. Most of these folks here are pretty friendly. Except that guy over there, maybe.”
Rosemary looked where Seth was pointing and walked there to get a closer look.
“Jonathan Gallow,” she read the name. “Died August 1668. Wow. Hortence’s husband.”
“The very one,” said Seth. “A drunk and probably an abusive husband, based on what I can gather from medical records.”
“Mercy’s records?” asked Rosemary. “So, Mercy even wrote down treatment of her own sister’s ailments?”
“Oh, Mercy wrote everything down. She kept impeccable records. That’s how we know about the baby.”
“Hortence’s baby? Lilly?”
“Yep. Glad to hear Jack’s brought you up to speed. The story—the history of this place is fascinating. It’s one of the reasons I worry about what our esteemed mayor is up to, with his meeting in the meadow,” said Seth, looking toward the path that led off through the trees.
“He’s turning it into a park?” Rosemary asked. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“He’s turning the town into a tourist destination,” said Seth, frowning. “The park is going to have a statue of a what is supposed to be Hortence. He’s calling it a tribute. But the preliminary designs have her dressed to look like a witch—which of course, she wasn’t.”
“What? You mean, like a pointy hat and all?”
“Not that bad. But yes, she does have a broom in one hand and there’s a cat at her feet.”
Rosemary grimaced. “She was a midwife. A healer.”
Seth nodded in agreement. “And he wants to rename some of the streets to capitalize on the history. Worst of all, he’s got the town council to agree to offering incentives for developers who want to come and bring in hotels and restaurants and things like that.”
“How awful. But the town seems to love him. They keep reelecting him, don’t they?”
“He wasn’t like this during his earlier terms. He’s been a good leader. This business with the development has come up fairly recently. I don’t know if someone got to him, maybe made him an offer he couldn’t refuse . . . Or maybe his political aspirations have changed. He hasn’t put any of these ideas to the voters as of yet, and he’s charmed the council into doing whatever he says. I mean, he argues that he’s protecting the town, that he wants to share the town with the rest of the world. It all sounds good, the way he spins it. But underneath.” Seth shook his head. “I hate to say it, but I sort of wish someone would step up and run against him.”
“Charlie says he’s a shoe-in. Incumbents are always hard to beat,” said Rosemary.
“And he’s a hometown boy. The old-timers here have watched him grow up—known his family for generations. They trust him to do what’s best for the town, and so far, he’s done that. I think the only reason I can see any problems with this new agenda is because I’ve only lived here for a year, so I’m still a bit of an outsider.”
“Me too,” said Rosemary. “I mean, I know nothing about what’s going on in Paperwick—heck, I was barely able to find the place. But even after one day here . . . Well, there’s something unspoiled about this place. I wouldn’t want anything to change that.”
“Me, neither.” Seth glanced at her, started to walk on, but then stopped and smiled down at her for a moment.
He didn’t say anything and neither did Rosemary. She found herself smiling up at him—not because it was one of those moments when a person is supposed to smile. And not just because he was looking at her that way.
She was smiling because she was happy.
The day was glorious, the
leaves were brilliant in shades of autumn and there was a nip in the air. She felt like she was among friends instead of strangers for the first time in a while, and she was surrounded by history. She had a moment, a split second of clarity, that here she was, in an old graveyard on a beautiful day with an interesting man and all that lay ahead that day was time with Jack and Charlie, and learning about the legend of Hortence Gallow, and planning for the festival. And Rosemary had two entire weeks of this ahead of her. She felt like her heart was getting lighter and lighter by the minute.
“So . . . are you ready to hear about the curse?” asked Seth.
“Oh, definitely,” said Rosemary.
“Then let’s walk this way.”
Seth led Rosemary into the tree-shaded path that connected the little churchyard to the Witch’s Meadow.
9
The meadow was beautiful. It was a huge clearing framed by trees and sprinkled with fallen leaves and a few late-blooming wildflowers. There was also a scattering of trees growing inside the meadow itself—the most prominent one a gigantic old maple tree, ablaze in its red foliage, that stood right in the center. It was so brightly festooned that Rosemary would’ve sworn light was coming out of it, beckoning passersby to stop and wonder at its beauty.
“Is that the tree?” asked Rosemary, almost in a whisper, as they stepped into the meadow.
“Where Hortence is buried? Yep,” said Seth. “Come on. I’ll show you.”
Together they approached the tree. How many hundreds of years had it stood here? It was probably just a baby back in Hortence’s time. If only trees could speak, it could identify her killer and finally set the story straight.
Rosemary took a step forward but then stopped in her tracks. There, standing serenely in the shade of the great tree, was a cat. It was a very small cat, nonchalantly licking its paw and then running the paw behind its ear. When a twig cracked under Rosemary’s boot, the cat froze and leveled bright green eyes at her.
“Good gosh,” whispered Rosemary, suddenly covered in goosebumps. “Go away! Shoo!”