The distant sound of the crashing surf filtered into her head as the migraine gained strength, like a storm, like a monster from the deep. The noise inside her head began to crescendo, as if she was standing in the middle of an airport terminal in the midst of a thousand aggravated passengers. Noise, voices, words.
The headaches were getting worse.
She tried to redirect her thoughts by counting slowly as if she were meditating…one, two, three…one, two, three…but the cacophony of indecipherable voices grew louder. She tried again to redirect her mind, to imagine something calming that would help her relax. If she didn’t relax, the tension in her neck and shoulders would build, making the headache worse, which in turn created more tension, which made the headache even more nauseating. The cycle was vicious even when she tried to stave off a migraine in its earliest moments.
Abby visualized the sea, undulating soft waves, a light breeze. She imagined the sensation of floating on the surface for a moment and then letting herself sink, deeper and deeper. Sunlight filtered through the ocean like twilight; shifting patterns of sunlight moved across the water’s surface above her.
Was she in bed or was she underwater?
Suddenly, Abby couldn’t breathe. She fought through the murkiness to the surface. Gasping, she sat up. She was in bed, in her room, her hair damply plastered to her cheek. The sensation of drowning had been so real.
Something was happening to her. The headaches were getting worse and striking more often, but they weren’t nearly as disconcerting as the dreams. She’d not been sleeping well, was almost afraid to go to sleep, and had been reading till all hours of the night to stay awake, to hide from the dreams. But the headaches wouldn’t allow her to read. She had no choice but to give in to the darkness. And then inevitably night would come, and with it, the dreams and the wild things. And rooms…dim, smoky, candlelit rooms populated with shadow figures. A strong sense of foreboding washed over her.
Abby dropped back to the pillow, curled up again, clenched the second pillow to her chest, and waited for the throbbing pain to subside.
***
Evan shifted into reverse and angled the truck toward the nearest enclosure. She climbed into the bed of the truck and used a pitchfork to toss fresh hay over the fence, careful not to overextend her injured shoulder. Journey watched intently from across the pen. Evan knew she wouldn’t get anywhere near the truck. The only person she’d let get within touching distance was Abby.
Abby had an eerie way with these large, skittish animals, possibly a signal that Abby had some special gift, but not conclusive. Evan needed other signs for confirmation. Come to think of it, where was Abby?
It was unusual that she hadn’t been out to see the other horses today. She usually checked on all of the horses twice a day. Abby had only briefly been with Journey first thing that morning, but Evan hadn’t seen her since.
After Evan unloaded the rest of the hay, she decided to check at the house. She knocked at the rear entrance, near the kitchen, but no one answered.
“Hello?” She stuck her head through the door. When no one responded she stepped into the entry and waited, listening. Nothing. “Hello?” She said it louder.
“Hullo,” Cora called back. The click of heels on the stone floor signaled her approach before Cora appeared at the end of the hallway.
“Hi, Cora. I haven’t seen Abby. She’s usually down with the horses by this time.”
“She’s not at the barn?”
Evan’s pulse quickened just a little.
“No, she hasn’t been there since her morning ride.”
“Maybe she’s in the library. Shall we have a look?”
Evan looked down. Her boots were muddy.
“I should wait here.”
“Quite right.” Cora noticed her muck-covered boots too. “Let me just check then and I’ll be right back.”
Evan sat on the bench along the wall and waited. The house was quiet. The distant click of Cora’s steps was the only sound, except for the very loud ticking of a clock somewhere in the kitchen. The scent of something savory hung in the air, and it reminded Evan that she’d skipped lunch. The late morning coffee and muffin had obviously curbed her appetite.
After a few minutes, she caught a glimpse of Cora at the far end of the hallway, just before she started to climb the grand staircase to the second floor. Maybe Evan should have shucked her boots and followed Cora. What if something was wrong?
She dismissed the thought. This place was secluded and she’d seen no suspicious activity and no strange visitors.
***
Abby wasn’t sure of the time when she heard a soft knock at the door.
“Come in.” Her throat was dry so her words faltered.
“Abby, honey, are you all right?” Cora stood at the door, probably unable to see very well inside the lightless room.
“Just a headache.”
“Do you want me to bring you something?”
“Maybe some hot tea.”
“Isn’t that writer from Atlanta supposed to arrive this evening?”
Abby could tell that Cora was unsure of what to do about their impending houseguest.
“Yes, but I can’t see her tonight. Can you get her settled and then tomorrow we can ask her to leave?”
“Is it another migraine, dear?” Cora ignored the last part of Abby’s request.
“Yes.” Abby’s response was muffled by the pillow.
“I’ll bring you some hot tea and some soup.” She didn’t know Cora was so near until Cora gently stroked her forehead. “You feel hot. Let me get you a cool cloth.”
After a minute, Cora returned and laid the damp cloth on Abby’s forehead. The cool compress felt soothing.
“Thank you.”
“You just rest. I’ll take care of your guest. Don’t even give it a thought.”
Abby nodded. The light from the hallway caused her to squint as she looked up. “Thank you, Cora.”
The door clicked softly and the room returned to midnight. Knowing that she was off the hook for now, that she didn’t have to meet Foster, made some of the tension in her shoulders begin to ease. She rolled onto her side, exhaled slowly, and shifted the compress to cover the dull throb at her temple.
***
“I’m sorry I kept you waiting.”
Evan stood up as Cora approached, a look of concern on her face.
“I’m afraid Abby has one of her terrible headaches.” Cora smoothed the front of her dress with both hands. “They seem to be happening more often.”
“Headaches?”
“Yes, terrible, horrible headaches. They make her quite ill. She’ll likely not leave her room the rest of the day.”
“Okay, I’ll find Iain. He and I can see to the horses. I hope she feels well again soon.” Evan reached for the door. Abby was in the house and safe. Severe headaches could be a sign, but still not conclusive. She had to be sure, and in order to be sure, she’d have to wait.
“Did you get any lunch?”
Evan held the door open and looked back at Cora. Lunch sounded good.
“Actually, I haven’t had a chance to eat yet.”
“Take those off and come in the kitchen. I’ll make you a sandwich.” Cora pointed at Evan’s boots. “Does ham and cheese sound good? I could even grill it for a moment.” Cora was already in the kitchen.
“That would be great.” Evan worked her boots off and then tried to keep from getting muddy residue from the floor near the entry on her socks.
“Just take a seat.” Cora lit the forward gas eye of the stove and reached for a cast iron skillet. “When you see Iain, would you ask him to stop by the house before he leaves? I have something for him.”
“Sure.” Evan didn’t usually, or ever, eat in the kitchen. Partly to guard personal space but mostly because she was so inept at small talk.
Now she was thinking this had been a mistake and was anxious to escape, but the smell of the grilled sandwich rooted her to the
chair. She’d make quick work of the food and be gone. Cora served the toasted sandwich, cut from corner to corner, and then took the seat across from her.
“Please don’t feel as if you have to wait with me while I eat.” Evan didn’t really want an audience. “I’m sure you’ve got other things to do.”
“Oh, not at all. It’s nice to sit for a minute. I swear I’ve climbed those stairs a hundred times today.” Cora got up and filled the teakettle. “Come to think of it, a spot of tea would perk me up. Would you care for a cup?”
Evan shook her head. “Thanks, but I’m good with water.”
“So, how do you think the horses are coming along?” Cora sat back down while she waited for the kettle to boil.
Evan shook her head again and swallowed so that she wasn’t talking with food in her mouth. “I wouldn’t really know. I’m not that experienced with horses.”
“I see.” Cora seemed to consider this as if she weren’t sure she believed Evan. “Abby has such a way with them, don’t you think?”
Evan nodded. She took another huge bite.
“If she’d only allow herself the same comfort with people.”
“Does she keep to herself?”
“I’m afraid so.” Cora brightened for a moment. “Maybe you could coax her out for dinner or a movie sometime.”
Evan’s stomach lurched. Was Cora trying to fix them up? No, there was no way. Cora was just suggesting they should be friends.
“I’m afraid I don’t get out much at night either.” Spending more time with Abby wasn’t going to happen. She needed to shut that notion down right away.
“What is up with you young people? In my day we lived for a fun outing at the movie house.” Cora smiled as she filled her teacup.
“Just busy I guess.”
“Too busy for fun is too busy in my book.”
Evan finished the last bite and put the plate in the sink.
“Thank you for the late lunch. I really appreciate it.”
“Anytime.” Cora followed her with her eyes as she padded to the door in sock feet. “Will you not forget my message to Iain?”
“I won’t forget.” She smiled thinly.
She sank to the bench and tugged on her boots. The mud had hardened, making them stiff. She had to fight with them to get them on.
As she strode across the grounds in search of Iain, she looked up. The sky was clear and blue. A fog bank had parked itself at sea, along the horizon, but where the sunlight hit the sea it was deep blue. Evan paused to take in the view.
Abby avoided people. She filed that detail away.
Chapter Four
Gertie had failed to mention that there was an entire town named after the Spencer family. Actually, it was more like a village than an actual town. Foster slowed as she drove north along Main Street. Spencer’s Cove looked like any rural, one-drugstore kind of community. Although, Spencer’s Cove seemed to have more than its share of surfers. Vintage vans with roof rack mounted surfboards were parked along Main Street in front of Cove Coffee & Tackle. That combination made Foster smile.
There was a sign for the pier along a westward side street off Main. A couple of scruffy looking guys who could easily have just come back from a year at sea sat on a bench under the eaves of the hardware store. They made no bones about studying Foster unabashedly as she drove slowly past. This looked like the sort of place that didn’t get lots of out-of-town visitors. Spencer’s Cove didn’t strike Foster as a hot spot for tourism.
The drive up the Pacific Coast Highway had been breathtaking and remote. At times the road climbed to a dizzying height above the crashing surf. In some spots, there weren’t even guardrails. In other places, cattle crossed the two-lane road at their leisure and Foster had to wait for them. Gertie hadn’t been kidding when she said this area might as well be lost. She’d rented an economy car with hardly any horsepower. If she’d known the drive would be so spectacular she’d have upgraded to something a bit sportier, maybe even a convertible. Although, it was a bit chilly to have the top down. Her thin southern blood wasn’t properly acclimated for this sort of Pacific Northwest climate.
Foster was glad she’d stopped for gas before breaking away from the freeway for coastal Highway 1 because she hadn’t passed any service stations along the winding route north. Spencer’s Cove had been the first sign of life she’d seen in more than forty minutes. At one point she’d wondered if she was on the wrong road or had missed a turn somewhere along the way.
Spencer’s Cove consisted of one central road. Clustered along the two-lane blacktop were a tiny movie house with a vintage marquis, a drugstore, organic grocery, the coffee shop, and city hall of which half the building was the local library. The entire town was only about five blocks long with a one-story public school as the main street turned west. Past the school was a church and a very spooky looking cemetery.
She reached for her phone to see if she was getting close to her destination. The sun was sitting on the western edge of the glassy Pacific like a big orange marble. Gertie’s words about finding the Spencer place before dark echoed in her head. This looked like the sort of community where the sidewalks rolled up early so she didn’t relish having to seek someone out for directions in the dark.
The destination is on your left. Her phone spoke from where she’d tossed it on the passenger seat.
“Yeah, but where?” Foster said to no one. She leaned forward trying to look for a hidden driveway.
The destination is on your left. Arrived.
She rounded a curve, and just as she passed a rock wall, she saw the open iron gate. Foster checked the rearview mirror before throwing the car in reverse to correct her approach into the driveway. When she turned in and was on the other side of the stone wall, she got her first glimpse of the Spencer estate. This place was a house the same way Windsor Castle was a house. Yes, people probably lived in it, but this was no normal house. This place was like Downton Abbey’s American twin.
“Jesus H. Christmas Cakes.” Foster sat for a minute, letting the car idle as she took in the view of the enormous dwelling. The sprawling, multistory residence was a mixture of stone, brick, and timbers. It looked like something built in the 1800s at least.
Had Gertie mentioned this was practically a castle and she’d just missed that detail? It made sense though. Who else could afford to pay forty thousand dollars for something that might turn out to be nothing more than a glorified family holiday letter? The sort of holiday letter her cousin Janice liked to send to brag about all the trips she’d taken in the last twelve months and how her two children were brilliant and gifted and were winning awards for all kinds of activities that Foster couldn’t care less about.
Well, she couldn’t just sit in the driveway all night. The sun was setting. She’d barely parked and hadn’t even gotten out of the car when a menacing looking dual-axel Ford truck pulled up behind her in the large circular drive in front of the main entrance. The truck had wide off-road tires that had kicked mud all up both sides. A very intense woman wearing a baseball cap got out and approached just as Foster climbed out.
“Can I help you with something?” The woman seemed unfriendly.
“I’m here to see Abigail Spencer.”
“I doubt that.”
Yes, definitely unfriendly.
Foster pulled up to her full height and tried her best to look unintimidated by the slightly taller, aggressively butch ranch hand. The woman had a classic, all-American square jaw and the shoulders of a collegiate rower. She was wearing jeans, mud covered boots and a well-worn Carhartt jacket. Usually, in this sort of confrontational situation, the best defense was to turn on the Southern charm. A well-delivered Southern accent could disarm any number of tense encounters, especially with non-southerners who, upon hearing a thick Southern accent, automatically assumed two things: dumb and friendly. Foster figured it was worth a try.
“I don’t believe we’ve met.” She extended her hand. “I’m Foster Owen.”
“I’m Evan Bell, the groundskeeper.”
“Nice to meet you.” She didn’t really mean it. “Maybe I’ll just go knock and see if Ms. Spencer is in.” She tipped her head toward the door.
“I’ll walk with you.” Evan’s escort didn’t really sound optional.
“Since you work here maybe you should lead the way.” Foster wasn’t about to try to out alpha Evan at the moment. She was jetlagged and out of her element. Better to simply roll over and show her soft underbelly.
Evan pushed the enormous mahogany door open. Foster followed on Evan’s heels into an entryway with a stone tile floor. In less than thirty seconds, a rotund older woman scurried in their direction. Her heels clicked rapidly on the stone as she crossed the open room past the foyer.
“You must be Foster Owen.” The woman smiled warmly as she approached. Foster instantly felt more at ease. “I’m Cora Taylor, chief cook and bottle washer here at Spencer House.” Cora took Foster’s hand between hers and shook it. “I was beginning to worry that you’d gotten lost.”
“I probably took longer than necessary to make the drive. It was far too scenic a route to rush.”
“Indeed…indeed.” Cora finally released her hand.
To say the drive from San Francisco had been scenic was like saying Homer’s Odyssey was a poem. The Odyssey was epic, and so was the Pacific Coast Highway.
From Bodega Bay heading north, the two-lane road wove from rocky cliffs with plummeting seaside drop-offs to shadowed stands of redwoods. Microclimate shifts of fifteen degrees modulated between sun and shade. The shadowy curves were carpeted with ferns, thick at the base of the redwoods.
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