Praise for The Curse of Misty Wayfair
“The Curse of Misty Wayfair is a pitch-perfect gothic that highlights the extraordinary talent of Jaime Jo Wright. I stayed up past midnight gobbling up this mesmerizing tale and was sorry to see it end. Perfect pacing and storytelling. Don’t miss this one!”
—Colleen Coble, USA Today bestselling author of The House at Saltwater Point and the ROCK HARBOR series
“Stellar writing combined with stellar storytelling are rare. Jaime Jo Wright brings both in abundance to The Curse of Misty Wayfair. The intrigue starts immediately and doesn’t let up till the final pages. By weaving the stories of two women across time, bound together in a way they can’t explain, Wright has crafted a tale that will have you saying, ‘Binge TV tonight? Nah, gotta binge that story by Jaime Jo Wright.’”
—James L. Rubart, bestselling author of The Man He Never Was
“Two tales twist together into a story that draws the reader in and won’t let go. The Curse of Misty Wayfair is deliciously thrilling, with a resolution steeped in light and hope. Jaime Jo Wright wraps her writing in a genuine love for people—in all their gifts and challenges—and for the truth that sets them free.”
—Jocelyn Green, author of Between Two Shores
“Jaime Jo Wright does it again! The Curse of Misty Wayfair is a compelling and deeply moving story of two women a century apart entangled by a town’s haunting past. You won’t be able to turn out the lights until you’ve finished the last page.”
—Kara Isaac, RITA® Award-winning author of Then There Was You
Praise for The Reckoning at Gossamer Pond
“Brilliantly atmospheric and underscored by a harrowing romance, The Reckoning at Gossamer Pond pairs danger with redemption and features not only two heroines of great agency—separated by time, though linked by grace—but one of the most compelling, unlikely, and memorable heroes I have met in an age. . . .”
—Rachel McMillan, author of Murder at the Flamingo
“Wright’s newest offering is intoxicating and wonderfully authentic . . . delightfully shadowed with mystery that will keep readers poring over the story, but what makes it memorable is the powerful light that burst through every darkened corner in this novel—hope.”
—Joanna Davidson Politano, author of Lady Jane Disappears
“The Reckoning at Gossamer Pond is true to Jaime Jo Wright’s unique style and voice. Multilayered characters who intrigue the reader and a story the threads of which are unpredictable and well woven together make this a must-read for anyone who enjoys suspense.”
—Sarah Varland, author of Mountain Refuge
Praise for The House on Foster Hill
“Jaime Jo Wright’s The House on Foster Hill blends the past and present in a gripping mystery that explores faith and the sins of ancestors. . . .”
—Foreword Reviews
“Headed by two strong female protagonists, Wright’s debut is a lushly detailed time-slip novel that transitions seamlessly between past and present, leading to the revelation of some surprising family secrets that someone would kill to protect. Readers who enjoy Colleen Coble and Dani Pettrey will be intrigued by this suspenseful mystery.”
—Library Journal
“Jaime Jo Wright is an amazing storyteller who had me on the edge of my seat, turning pages and reading as fast as I could to get to the end of the book! The House on Foster Hill is a masterfully told story with layers and layers of mystery and intrigue, with a little romance thrown in for good measure. . . .”
—Tracie Peterson, author of the GOLDEN GATE SECRETS series
© 2019 by Jaime Sundsmo
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2019
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4934-1728-5
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Jennifer Parker
Cover photography by Joan Kocak / Trevillion Images
Author is represented by Books & Such Literary Agency.
To my littles, CoCo and Peter Pan . . .
May you find your identity not in your past, your present, or your future.
May you find your purpose not in yourself, your family, or those who surround you.
May you know you were designed by a Creator, with great attention to detail.
May you know Him, and by doing so, know yourself.
But here let me say one thing: From the moment I entered the insane ward on the Island, I made no attempt to keep up the assumed role of insanity. I talked and acted just as I do in ordinary life. Yet strange to say, the more sanely I talked and acted the crazier I was thought to be. . . .
Nellie Bly, Ten Days in a Mad-House
CONTENTS
Cover
Endorsements
Half Title Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraph
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
Author's Note
Questions for Discussion
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Ads
Back Cover
Chapter 1
Thea Reed
PLEASANT VALLEY
NORTHWOODS OF WISCONSIN, 1908
Melancholy was a condition of the spirit and the soul, but also of the mind. Still, she’d never seen melancholy claim a life and be the cause of a body laid to rest in permanent sleep. At peace? One hoped. Prayed, if they were of that bent. Regardless, as she positioned herself beside the corpse, boxlike camera clutched to her chest, Thea Reed found melancholy fascinating. For its persistent grip and the power it held even unto death. That it could claim a life was a horrifying mystery.
Memento mori was becoming less prominent in the photographer’s world, but the tradition still gripped those of sentimental pandering. Rose Coyle was one of those. A photograph to hold tight to as she posed beside her deceased sister, frozen in time as if they both still lived. Though tears welled in Rose’s eyes, her shoulders remained stalwart.
Thea tucked away the e
ver-present nudge of guilt. The idea she benefited monetarily from others’ grief. It was a morbid career she’d fallen into as a girl. A traveling photographer and his wife needed a helper, the orphanage mistress had told Thea. A decade later, she was now the photographer while her benefactors were dead. But what choice did she have? Only a leftover letter with miniscule clues gave Thea any hint of her past. While the enticements of who Thea Reed might really be had brought her here, to this town, Thea knew dreams of a future were something women with roots and ancestry concocted. Orphans played the hand they were dealt, even if that hand was ghastly at its best.
Thea cast Rose a glance from the corner of her eye as she carefully collected her photographic equipment. Rose was not far in age from Thea, perhaps only a few years older. Well, if one surmised merely by the porcelain complexion, the unlined corners of the brilliant blue eyes, and the crow black hair that swooped into a lustrous silken crown on Rose’s head. Thea shifted her gaze toward the other model, giving Rose her distance and allowing her the privacy to dab her eyes with a handkerchief bordered by purple tatting.
Thea flipped open the lid of the velvet-lined case that housed her camera. She paused before lowering her precious camera into its box. The deceased woman—Mary Coyle—was nowhere near as striking as her older sister. Mary was simple by comparison, and even in death, one could see that in life she’d been pasty next to Rose. Ash blond hair, dull due to the lack of life. Her lips a muted pink, her nose dotted with freckles that now had no hope of ever disappearing. Her body lay limp, propped into an upright position by the aid of Thea’s metal hanger that cuffed to the corpse’s arms and neck and helped her to stand like a mannequin one might see in Miss Flannahan’s Boutique four towns over.
A sniffle jerked Thea’s attention back to the living and squelched the thoughts that made her mind spin like five children’s metal tops whirling across a wooden floor.
“I’m so sorry.” Rose blinked quickly, yet the moisture on her lashes only made her blue eyes larger and more iridescent. Thea engaged in a twinge of inadequacy herself, but then she ignored it like the little devil it was. Her brown eyes and honey brown hair might be uninspiring next to Rose, but she had life, whereas—Thea finally rested her camera in the box—whereas Rose had grief.
“There’s nothing to apologize for.” Thea had no struggle infusing empathy into her voice. The entire afternoon had been dreadful for Rose Coyle.
“But the photograph . . .” Rose’s voice dwindled in a muted whimper.
Thea buckled the camera case. “The photograph will be fine, I promise.”
She hoped. Rose had been so fidgety that keeping her expression stoic for the time it took for the lens to expose to light and capture the image made it almost definite the photograph would turn out blurry. But, compared to a corpse, any live human being would seem fidgety.
Thea swallowed her observation. She was used to the morbid, the dead, but then the strange questions would come during heightened times of distress and mostly when she was disturbed. When ghosts lingered in the air, their skeletal-like fingers stroking the back of Thea’s neck. A taunt, mingling with a subtle dare to find them. Catch them. If only Thea could. Ghosts were never captured, or they would be entrapped in tombs with their bodies. No, their spirits roamed free, Thea had been taught. Some good, some desperate, and some—the worst sort—wicked and evil.
“Tea?”
“Pardon?” Thea’s head snapped up from her frozen state over her camera case. But her eyes didn’t meet with Rose’s. Instead, her gaze settled again on Mary Coyle, knowing she would need to detach her from the frame.
“I wondered if you would stay for tea?” Rose had summoned strength from deep within herself, it appeared. Tears had dissipated, though every ounce of composure could not hide the shadows that lingered under her eyes.
Thea nodded before she could consider, sympathy gaining the better hand over sound judgment.
“Yes. Please.” She bit her tongue. No. Thank you. Never mingle with a customer. It had been her benefactor, Mr. Mendelsohn’s instruction, and his wife’s sternly supported conviction. Thea usually heeded it.
Rose had already exited the parlor with a murmur. It was too late and too rude to decline now. Thea should have finished here, laid the burdensome body back on its temporary cot before the undertaker came to prepare Mary Coyle for her final rest and position her in a coffin. But now, tea it would be, Thea supposed, which only meant squelching the curiosity of Mary, her life, and subsequently her death, would be more difficult.
It took time, but eventually Thea had freed Mary from the trap of the photographic frame that held her prisoner. Laid and covered, Thea stepped back.
“I’m sorry life was such despair,” Thea whispered.
Mary did not answer.
Drawing in a deep breath and then expelling it slowly between her lips, Thea gathered her equipment. She moved to the parlor door, but that niggling sense—that feeling—gave her pause. She looked over her shoulder. Mary hadn’t moved. Of course she hadn’t. Nor had she spoken.
But oddly the black crepe shroud that covered a photograph of Mary when she was very much alive had slipped down the piano, onto its bench, and gathered in a filmy pile on the floor. Thea stared at the photograph. Not one sibling but two flanked Mary Coyle. All three of them smiling. All three children in adolescence.
Thea nodded. She understood now.
Mary had been happy once.
Before death had come to play.
Rose was kind—and chatty. Likely to avoid the suffocating weight of grief. Thea tried to be vague in her answers.
Yes, she was new to town. Yes, traveling photographers sometimes knocked on doors to inquire if a service was needed. No, she wasn’t here to visit any family. No, she’d never been this far north in Wisconsin before.
Thea cringed inwardly. It wasn’t particularly true. She may have been. As a youngster, before memories became firm images in a person’s mind. Just vague shadows. It was why she’d come north, wasn’t it? To clear the fog away from those blurred recollections?
Of course, she’d not tell Rose that. Thea preferred anonymity. For no other reason than that she was used to it, it was comfortable, and if asked to define who she was, she really had nothing substantial to offer.
Thea dabbed the cloth napkin against her lips. Rose met her curious gaze over the rim of her teacup. Sadness still lingered there, but Rose’s dark brow winged upward in question. Inviting and warm.
Thea accepted the unspoken invite. It was time to divert Rose’s polite curiosity with some of her own.
“I couldn’t help but wonder, I noticed you had a brother.” She didn’t reference the photograph she had re-shrouded before leaving the parlor.
Rose lowered her teacup. “We still have a brother.”
We. Poor Rose. Like Mary were still alive. There was no past tense.
“Simeon.” The name caressed from Rose’s lips gently, with a deep fondness that Thea couldn’t relate to.
Rose smiled one of those bittersweet smiles as she ran her fingertip around the edge of her teacup. “Simeon is my younger brother, between Mary and I. He is . . . special.”
Her interest more than piqued; Thea was also equally as anticipatory of escaping the gloomy atmosphere and driving away on her horse-led box wagon. She shifted on the hard wooden chair. The lace tablecloth caught under her leg and drew taut, making the china rattle. Thea made it her excuse for escape.
“Thank you so much for the tea.” Thea summoned every manner Mrs. Mendelsohn had taught her in their short years together.
Rose drew a breath, shuddering only a tad. “And the photograph?”
Oh yes. Business. Thea gave Rose an approximate date. She would need to find a satisfactory place to develop the plates. Her wagon was equipped, but barely. Finding an established portrait studio she could partner with was a better option. She wasn’t certain if that was normal, but it had been Mr. Mendelsohn’s way of doing business, and Thea was
well versed in it.
Rose led Thea to the front door, the wool carpet runner beneath her feet silencing the footsteps that would have otherwise echoed on the scuffed walnut floors. Always observant, Thea noted the wallpaper was more faded by the entryway than in the hall, which made sense considering the windows that flanked the front door. Sunlight was sure to drain color from the paper roses. Thea drew her attention back to her client. Life had drained color from Rose Coyle. Only the sapphire of her eyes and the coal black of her hair and lashes saved her from being ghostly.
“My brother will give you your partial payment.” Rose hesitated, and her voice dropped into a wispy tone. “He’s good with numbers.”
“And I shall find him where?” Thea ventured.
Rose’s fingers flew to her neckline, fidgeting with the lace at her throat. The only bit of adornment on her otherwise black silk mourning dress. She seemed taken aback by the question.
“Your brother—Simeon?” Thea pressed.
“Yes.” Rose gave her head a little shake, but her eyes grew dull and vacant. She dropped her hand from her throat. “Simeon will be in his workshop.”
An uneasy sensation coursed through Thea. Not unlike the one in the parlor. As if they were being watched—as if Mary watched them. A common superstition but one Thea found immensely hard to shake.
She nodded, grappling for the doorknob. She wished to leave now. She had no more courage left to cast a final glance into the parlor, where Mary Coyle lay, and no bravery to investigate Rose’s sorrowing face again.
Thea’s fingers brushed Rose’s as they’d already turned the knob and opened the door. She snatched her hand away and edged past Rose, catching a whiff of perfume. Thea turned to bid Rose farewell, but Rose was already closing the front door, her face slowly disappearing as the crack between the door and frame shut.
Tiny bumps raised on Thea’s arms. She observed her horse and wagon. She could just leave. Avoid the special Simeon Coyle—whatever that inferred—and be rid of this creepy house and its inhabitants. There had been a tiny glimpse of fear in Rose’s eyes just as the door closed. Fear of her brother perhaps? Or something greater and more threatening than the melancholy that had wasted away Mary Coyle?
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