“Bethel,” she answers. “The White Mountains.”
“You don’t think we belong here?”
She shakes her head. “I think you belong here too much.”
In the morning, John Hardin gazed up at the wondrous penumbra of lime green on the tips of the trees: not leaves yet, but waves and waves of buds. That moment when life moves from mere mist to a tangibility that swallows the twigs. It was weeks past the equinox now, and the days were starting to feel pleasantly long. He and Clary were likely to have dinner when it was still light out, which was rather nice, they both agreed. And there had been one last, torrential sugar run the day before. A person could have stood at the top of Mooseback, the squat little mountain just east of Bethel, and seen steam from sugarhouses in all directions. Over the weekend he had taken Verbena and her girls to Claude and Lavender Millier’s sugarhouse to witness boiling firsthand. As John had expected, the Milliers’ son had driven up from Salem for the weekend. And the girls had loved it. Verbena had been positively entranced. Said it brought back memories long dormant of visiting one of her grandmother’s neighbors in the woods near the lake in Meredith.
He was just about to get into his car and drive to the office when he heard the front storm door squeak open and saw Clary walking briskly across the slate to the driveway. Like him, she usually rose and dressed early, even though she didn’t have a law practice to tend to, but they had made love this morning and she was still in her ankle-length red nightgown.
“What did I forget?” he asked her, though her hands were empty.
“Phone call,” she murmured, and he could see the worry on her face.
He nodded. The cordless phone didn’t work this far from its base. He tossed his briefcase onto the passenger seat of his car, thought of the body of the dead psychiatrist that once had lolled there in mangy old blankets, and strolled back to the house. He noticed that there was a perfect line on the grass where the rising sun had melted the frost: The grass was white where it was still masked by the shade from the house and green where the rime had turned to water.
“Who is it?” he asked.
“Anise.”
“Ah. Thank you.”
In the kitchen he reached for the phone. “Good morning,” he began, “though I have the distinct sense based on the scowl on my wife’s usually lovely face that you haven’t rung me with good news.” Clary was standing in the doorframe, her arms folded across her chest. Her lower lip was quivering with anger; she looked profoundly unhappy.
“I just saw Reseda. She came by my house this morning.”
“Wonderful! I always want my girls to be friends.” He was absolutely sincere in that he did want all of them—the women as well as the men—to get along. But there was also a layer of black humor rippling just beneath the surface of his remark. He knew that Reseda and Anise would never be close, at least not in the way that most of the women were. Reseda was always going to be something of an outsider.
“It wasn’t wonderful at all.”
“No?”
“No, John. It wasn’t. She believes we killed both Hewitt and the psychiatrist. She said the death of the doctor—”
“Not dead, my dear. Only missing.”
“Presumed dead. It’s been a while.”
“And he has, more or less, fallen off the radar. There was nothing on the news last night—again—and nothing in the paper this morning. He had no wife, no children. A deceptively easy man to forget. That sounded rather harsh—certainly harsher than I meant. I’m sorry.”
He heard her sigh on the phone. “Reseda might not let him be forgotten.”
Once more it crossed his mind that in their enthusiasm they had all moved too quickly. The idea had been gnawing at him. The reality was that half the town already thought everyone in their small group was a little nuts. And while he viewed most of what they did as, well, rather a freedom of religion issue—a First Amendment issue—homicide represented an arguably unnecessary part of their practice. It was one thing to risk sacrificing one of the girls. But homicide? Now that was nasty.
“Well, I’m glad she went to you and not me,” he said finally, knowing—as they all did—that Reseda seemed incapable of reading Anise’s mind.
“She will come to you. Reassure me: There is no evidence?”
He chuckled. “Oh my, Anise, there is almost always evidence if you look in the right place. I’m quite sure if the State Police ever checked my car, they would find traces of the psychiatrist. A tiny hair. A piece of skin the vacuum missed. But they would need reasonable cause to search the car. And I tend to doubt any judge would approve a warrant because Reseda pulled a memory from me and went to the police.”
“She wants this over with now.”
“I do, too.”
“I meant something different.”
“I know what you meant. Reseda wants us to leave the twins alone and move on. Accept the inevitability that a person ages and dies. Well, that’s easy for her to say, given that she is still on the smooth side of forty. I’m on the deeply wrinkled side of … never mind. So are Clary and the Messners and the Jacksons. And you are precariously close to that Rubicon.”
“I think we should do it tonight.”
“Interesting. I was just thinking how we may have been moving too quickly. And now you want us to move faster still.”
“Tonight. Before Reseda can intervene.”
He stood a little straighter. He felt himself growing frustrated and shook his head. He had always tried to view Reseda like a daughter. Lately he had even begun to hope that someday she and Verbena—who still, much to his disappointment, insisted on being called Emily—would both be like daughters to him. And if Verbena was like a daughter, then her twins were like granddaughters. And why would he want to hurt one of his granddaughters? He wouldn’t! Really, what kind of man did Reseda think he had become? No, in theory nothing bad was going to happen to either of Verbena’s girls. Nothing at all. There was a risk. Sawyer Dunmore was proof that there was a risk. But look how the tincture had worked! There was every reason to suppose it would work again. It demanded a lot of blood, no question about it, especially given the number of adults who would be present this time and how much of the tincture would be necessary. But both girls were young and strong. And they fit the recipe perfectly: They were twins, they were preadolescent, their blood had been leavened by trauma.
“Intervene,” he murmured, repeating the word. “That would suggest that Reseda shouldn’t be present. That she really is no longer a part of our little group.”
“I don’t think she is.”
The answer made him wistful; he couldn’t imagine proceeding without her—though clearly they would.
“So, should we?” Anise went on. “I really do want us to try tonight.”
“Yes,” he said finally. “Make the arrangements.”
“But I also don’t want Verbena to wind up like her”—and here the old lawyer heard Anise pausing as she chose her word carefully—“predecessor in that house. I don’t want her to wind up like Tansy.”
“Heavens, none of us do! But maybe that won’t happen to Verbena.”
“I hope not. I rather like her.”
“I do, too. And she’s a very good lawyer. Good, solid work ethic.”
“But if she does lose one of her children …”
“It will be a shattering blow. Absolutely staggering.”
“Do you think she’ll leave us?”
“She might. But now we know more how to handle such an … an eventuality. And I suspect that she’ll need us more than ever if something should happen to one of the twins. She really hasn’t any family.”
“She still has the captain. At the moment, he is neither dead nor committed.”
“No. But I think you’re correct: We do it tonight and we do it without Reseda. I don’t think we have a choice, as much as I wish the captain were out of the picture. Tell me, have you decided which girl?”
“Absolutely. We
should use—”
“No, don’t tell me! Surprise me!” he said, an almost childlike giddiness in his voice. “It will be more interesting that way. It will be more interesting for all of us.” He looked at his watch and realized he would be late for a real estate closing if he didn’t leave soon. “Anise, I need to skedaddle. And I meant what I said: Don’t fret. We’ll iron out the details this afternoon, but go ahead and start preparing for the ceremony tonight.” Then he placed the phone back in the cradle, kissed Clary on the cheek, and strolled out to the car. He noticed the line of frost on the grass had moved a few inches while he was inside and smiled up at the spring sun. He really wondered how anyone couldn’t be happy just to be alive.
Chapter Eighteen
Emily thought Jocelyn Francoeur was more polite than she needed to be—and, perhaps, more polite than she had to be, given the circumstances. Although the idea initially had made Jocelyn uncomfortable, in the end she hadn’t prohibited Emily from bringing her girls over to the Francoeurs’ modest ranch that afternoon after school with the small birthday present they had picked out for Molly. The last time Emily had seen Jocelyn, Chip’s arms and shirt were awash in blood and Molly was sobbing. This was not precisely the way any mother wanted a playdate to end.
Still, it was almost as if the woman’s original rage toward the Lintons had been replaced by wariness and unease. Jocelyn seemed more frightened than angered by the idea that the Lintons were in her home; it seemed to Emily that the woman had only agreed to see them because she thought not seeing them would be worse.
Yet the purpose of the visit, in Emily’s mind, was simply to apologize once again as a family and to bring by the birthday present. She presumed that Molly was having a party on Saturday and her children weren’t invited, which was fine, but she still wanted to do all that she could to make sure the twins were invited to any party Molly had next year.
Now the five of them—two mothers and three daughters—were sitting awkwardly but politely in the living room. Emily sensed that Jocelyn was eyeing the twins and her a little guardedly and hadn’t said very much. Really, no one had said much but Emily, as she struggled to find things to talk about (which shouldn’t have been hard with three girls roughly the same age) and topics they might discuss. “Well, this is the main reason we came,” Emily said brightly, after she had run out of things to say. She smiled as broadly as she could and watched as Hallie handed Molly a small box wrapped in silver paper. “It’s a birthday present from all of us.”
The girl looked at her mother, and Jocelyn seemed to be thinking about whether she wanted her daughter to have it. Again, there was that ripple of anxiety on the woman’s broad face. Then, much to Emily’s embarrassment for her own children—Hallie, especially, who had offered the present—Jocelyn took the box from Molly and held it for a moment. She seemed to be weighing it, trying to decide what might be inside. The box was not quite the length of a pack of playing cards and half an inch deeper. She didn’t actually sniff it, but Emily could tell that she was inhaling the air around it to see if whatever was inside had an aroma.
“Not a plant,” she said to Jocelyn, hoping to reassure her. “Nothing herbal. I promise.”
Emily saw a small swell of dread pass over the woman’s face, but Emily had only meant to be glib—not terrifying. Quickly she added, “They’re earrings. That’s all.” She turned to Molly and her girls and added, “Sorry. I guess I just ruined the surprise.”
Jocelyn handed her daughter the box, and Molly opened it with unusual delicacy for a child: She slowly untied the ribbon and peeled back the tape on the wrapping paper. Then she opened the lid and held up one of the silver earrings for her mother to see. “It’s pretty,” she said. “What does it mean?”
Emily knew the interlocking circle of vines was a Celtic symbol of friendship: Reseda had told her. It was why she and her girls had picked out this particular pair of earrings for Molly when the three of them and Reseda visited the jewelry store. She was just about to explain this to the girl when Jocelyn took the earring from her daughter and placed it back inside the box. Then she stood, and Emily was struck by just how tall this woman was; there was a reason that Molly was such a big girl. Jocelyn towered over her, and Emily wanted to rise up off the couch, but she was afraid that she would appear defensive or confrontational if she did. And so she remained seated as her hostess handed her the earrings and said firmly, “No. We will not have these in this house. We will not have your … your beliefs … in this house. Go. Go now.”
“They’re just earrings,” Emily said. “They’re Celtic earrings. That’s all.” She looked at her girls, but clearly they understood. Already they were standing up and slinking toward the front door like chastised puppies. And so Emily stood, too.
“I want no part of your group or their symbolism, and I want my daughter to have no part of it, either,” the woman insisted.
“My group? Really, what group am I a part of? I know you don’t mean my law practice,” Emily argued, though she understood precisely what Molly’s mother was driving at. “I’m serious, Jocelyn, tell me: What group?”
The woman put her hands on her hips and was visibly shaking. Then she took her daughter by the hand and pulled her beside her. “You know better than me. You live in the house where one of them lived. You work for John Hardin.”
“I know next to nothing about Tansy Dunmore. And most of what I know about John Hardin begins and ends with his legal expertise.”
“There are two kinds of people in Bethel. And someday your kind will go too far. Frankly, I think you already have.”
“My kind? Jocelyn, look, I am—”
“Fine,” the woman said, interrupting her. “I believe you. There’s no group. None. There’s no witchcraft and there’s no weird religion. Now, Molly and I have some things to do to get ready for … Well, we just have some things to do,” she said, and Emily understood that Jocelyn was not going to discuss this any further. Clearly the woman was afraid that she had said too much. And so Emily took the girls, who looked no less sheepish as they stood by the front door pulling on their boots, and left the Francoeur house with the little box of earrings in her hand.
Reseda stared up at the looming Victorian from the seat of her car, watching the afternoon sun on the western windows. She couldn’t decide whether the dead would have grown so invasive had the captain remained in West Chester. Probably they would have, but he had been more isolated here—more separated from friends and neighbors and a support group of other pilots—and that seclusion, more than this house, was what may have given the spirits such access. Such command. There was also the possibility that whatever Anise was feeding Chip was exacerbating their control and making their presence more disturbing. But Reseda would never know for sure. Finally she heard another vehicle rumbling up the driveway. She looked into the rearview mirror and saw Emily’s station wagon approaching. A moment later, Emily coasted past, waving, and came to a stop before one of the carriage barn’s two bays. She had the twins with her.
“Coming or going?” Emily asked, as Reseda climbed from her own car.
“Coming,” she answered.
“Does Chip know you’re here?”
“I don’t think so. I just arrived.”
“Well, let’s go inside,” Emily said, and together they started up the front walkway.
“You’re not returning from something pleasant like a dance class or a music lesson, are you?” Reseda asked the twins.
Garnet shook her head no and Hallie sniffed derisively.
“We just tried to make peace with Jocelyn Francoeur,” Emily explained. “Remember the earrings you helped us pick out? Giving them to Molly didn’t go well.”
“I’m sorry.”
“She doesn’t approve of you herbalists.”
“She really doesn’t know us well enough to approve or disapprove. I told you that.”
“She would disagree,” Emily said. “She has mighty strong feelings. And …” She stopped
midsentence and said to her girls, “Run ahead and tell your father we’re home and Reseda is here. I’ll be right behind you.”
“Are you going to tell Reseda what happened? What Molly’s mom said?” asked Garnet.
“I may, yes. But please don’t you tell Daddy—or at least wait for me. I’ll be right in,” Emily said, and the girls ran into the house. Then she pulled the box of earrings from her shoulder bag and shook it at Reseda, unable to mask the disgust on her face. She recounted for her how Jocelyn had refused to allow her daughter to accept the gift that they had chosen together and how she had all but called the herbalists witches. Finally Emily put her hands on her hips, and her gaze grew earnest. “Tell me,” she demanded of Reseda, “are you a witch?”
“No.”
“Then what are you?”
“A real estate agent.”
“Don’t be coy. I want to know what’s going on here in Bethel and I want to know right now. I want to know why your little group wants to change our names and what you want from me and my girls.”
“It’s why I’ve come here.”
“Okay then, tell me. Now.”
“First we need to begin with your husband.”
“With Chip? He has his share of problems, but—”
Reseda cut Emily off, pressing one finger gently but firmly against her lips, silencing her. Then she took her hand and started leading Emily away from the house, walking her in the clean spring air into the meadow, where the grass was, suddenly, almost knee-high. There she told Emily of the dead who were with her husband and the dangers they posed for her daughters, and how she wanted to bring her husband to her own greenhouse that night to perform a depossession—and how she already had broached this idea with Chip and he had agreed. She told Emily that there was a second volume of recipes in their group’s canon, and it included a particular tincture that the herbalists wanted to make that also represented a danger to her children.
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