Ecanus Publishing

Ramsgate

Kent

United Kingdom

Published by Ecanus Publishing 2013

Joy Ross Davis asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of the work.

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, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

ISBN 978-0-9574126-9-9

This book is dedicated to R.J. Cavender, B.D.

And to Mother.

You were right all along.

His countenance was like lightning, and his raiment white as snow.

Matthew 28:3

CHAPTER 1

Sylvie Wolcott sliced the last of her winter apples, gathered the peels, and dropped them into a pot of boiling water sweetened with a bit of clear corn syrup. In a smaller pan, she poured a cup of Aberlour scotch, taking a little nip first to test its taste. A second sip confirmed her choice.

"Delightful," she said.

Into the pan with the scotch went a stick of softened butter. From a tin on the shelf by the window, she withdrew a pinch of golden powder.

"Ah, my special ingredient," she said and sprinkled it over the simmering mixture.

She leaned forward and inhaled the delicious aroma.

"Perfect," she said. "Double crust apple butterscotch pie."

She squeezed her hands together and smiled. "Oh, I believe my readers will adore it."

Sylvie walked to the pantry to get the brown sugar and opened the big double doors. From one of the two head-high built in shelving units, she spied the sugar and lifted it off the shelf. When the subtle scent of flowers wafted into the pantry, she hesitated. Jasmine?

Sylvie shrugged then closed the doors.

Something on the floor by the kitchen entrance caught her attention: her suitcase, her favorite Louis Vuitton. The bulges in the sides told her it was fully packed.

"What on earth is that doing down here?"

Atop the suitcase was a cream colored envelope with the word "Sylvie" written in script.

Sylvie picked up the envelope and took out a sheet of paper.

"Sylvie," it read, "you must go to Nealey. She needs you. Go quickly."

"My sweet Nealey," Sylvie said. "What could be wrong?"

Sylvie turned the paper over but found nothing on the back. She glanced around the room for any sign of who could have left both her suitcase and the message.

The aroma of the cooking apples brought her to the stove again.

"Oh, dear, I hope they're not overcooked," she said as she turned off the burners.

Once again, she read the message.

"Go to Nealey. Go quickly."

A rap at the kitchen door startled her.

"Miss Sylvie," her driver said, "the car is parked out front. Whenever you're ready, we'll leave."

For a moment, Sylvie simply stared at him.

"But how did you know I needed to leave? Who told you to bring the car around?"

He hesitated for a few seconds.

"Well, you did, Miss Sylvie, about an hour ago. You said we needed to go immediately to Kentucky to see Miss Nealey."

"No, I didn't tell you that. I'm certain I didn't."

"But you phoned me," he said, then pointed to the envelope. "There's another one of those on the back seat of the car, Miss Sylvie."

Sylvie wrung her hands.

"I've been in the kitchen since dawn working on this new recipe. Don't you think I would remember if I'd phoned you? Oh, dear. Something is not right."

The driver lowered his head.

"It sounded like you, Miss Sylvie."

Sylvie took off her apron and laid it across the chair.

"Mercy," she said. "I wish I knew what was happening. If there's the slightest chance that my Nealey is in harm's way I must go to her. So, I will simply trust this message. It certainly isn't the first time the unexplained has happened at this inn, and I'm quite sure it won't be the last."

"I'll take your bag," the driver said.

"Thank you," Sylvie said and fished in her purse for her cell phone. She dialed Nealey's number but got no answer.

"What is going on here?" she mumbled to herself. "What could be wrong with my precious niece?"

She dialed another number.

When her friend answered, Sylvie said, "Can you come right away? I have guests, but I need to leave. Something's happened to Nealey, or at least, I think it has. I'll explain later."

She tried Nealey's number again with no success.

"Nealey, darling, what is wrong?"

"We need to leave, Miss Sylvie," the driver said.

"Yes," she said and brushed a stray strand of hair from her forehead. "Yes, I suppose we do."

On her way out, she glanced up the stairs.

"They must still be sleeping, thank goodness," Sylvie mumbled.

She climbed into the car and picked up the second envelope.

"Sylvie, dear, there has been a terrible tragedy—a heinous act—a shooting by the man named Brian."

"Brian?" Sylvie said. "Nealey's ex-brother-in-law? Oh, she has always been terrified of him!"

She read on.

"Brian has shot and killed Nealey's husband, Hank, and their two children, Nicholas and Lauren. He killed her sister, Naomi, as well, and then shot himself. Nealey was present at the shooting in Naomi's house. She is wounded, but she is alive."

Sylvie gasped. Her heart raced.

"Oh, no, no," she said. "Not my Nealey's family."

Sylvie covered her face with her hands and sobbed, then straightened herself and finished reading the message.

"Nealey will need you now more than ever, dear Sylvie. She will need your strength and your guidance. Do all that you can for her."

The letter was signed with only one word: Worthy.

CHAPTER 2

The Playhouse Inn stood serenely atop the cliff-lined canyons of the Cumberland Plateau in a tiny town called Highland, Tennessee. The back balconies of the inn overlooked one of numerous deep canyon gorges whose icy waters tumbled over ancient stones and teemed with rare species of wildlife. Native hardwood trees, centuries old, arched across the river-carved valley in a dense canopy. Roaring waterfalls sprung from the sides of the cliffs and cascaded into rushing waters of the Highland Rim river.

"Careful, Nealey, don't get too close to the edge," Aunt Sylvie called from the balcony. "I don't usually let people walk out there. One little slip is all it takes."

One little slip, Nealey thought, as she imagined herself falling headlong into the wild pink dogwoods and purple azaleas that sprouted magically from the rocks, as if they needed nothing but stone to sustain them.

She inched her right foot closer to the edge of the cliff, leaned over ever so slightly, and peered down at the water. So this is what a thousand feet high looks like.

She spread out her arms. How I wish I could fly, just fly away, up and away from this most unbearable life.

A powerful arm grabbed her from behind and moved her away from the cliff's edge.

"Excuse me, but you're a little too close to that edge for my comfort."

She stared wide-eyed at the chest of the towering man beside her.

Nealey shielded her eyes with her hand and looked up and up until she saw his face.

His blue eyes, broad shoulders - broader than any she'd ever seen and black hair resembled Hank's. He wore spotless, sharply-creased khaki pants and a clean white pullover shirt underneath a windbreaker with The Playhouse Inn monogrammed on the front pocket.

"Name's Benton Aimes. I'm the custodian here," he said, his deep baritone voice soothing in her ears.

He stepped back and stuck his hands in the pockets of his jacket. "Sorry if I overstepped my boundaries, but you scared me. Just an instinct to pull you back."

"You thought I was going to jump?" Nealey asked.

"Well, no, but I thought you might fall," he said. "Aunt Sylvie would tan my hide if something happened to you. Besides, people don't usually come out to the back like this, especially newcomers like you."

"Like me?"

She lowered her head and moved pebbles around in random patterns with her foot.

"Like you," Benton said. "Not familiar with this place. That's all," he said softly. Then he turned and walked toward the front of the inn. "I'll get your bags out of the car."

"I can get them," she said, still looking at the ground. "Don't trouble yourself."

She turned to tell him, but he had already rounded the corner to the front of the house.

The mountain air seemed unusually cold, so she wrapped her arms around herself as tightly as she could and followed after him.

Aunt Sylvie stood beside the car in her usual attire: a broad-brimmed floppy straw hat; her long dark auburn hair pulled back tight from her face and tied at the back of her neck with a dangling red ribbon. A scattering of freckles dotted the bridge of her nose on an otherwise smooth and glowing complexion. A pair of black trousers, a bright red printed tunic with bell sleeves, and black tennis shoes completed the "Aunt Sylvie" look.

"I'm off," she said, her voice like a melody. "You'll be fine won't you, darling?"

Sylvie walked toward Nealey and hugged her.

"It's only overnight. There will be people around in case you need anything."

"I've already met one of them," Nealey said. "He thought I was going to jump off the cliff, so he wrangled me back from the edge."

"Oh, my word, you have to be careful out back. It's so dangerous."

"I'll be careful, Aunt Sylvie. I'm not a stranger here you know. I practically grew up at the inn. I know this place well. But your Mr. Benton..."

"Benton?" Sylvie interrupted. She cocked her head to the side. "You've seen him today? He must have come back early. Good, where is he now?"

"Is something wrong?"

"No, of course not. Benton's a jewel, one of a kind. I thought he was on a camping trip in the mountains." She patted Nealey on the shoulders. "Now, I'll only be gone one night. And darling, remember it's been a long time since you were here last. Some things have changed."

"It looks almost the same on the outside."

Sylvie chuckled. "I'm afraid the inside has undergone numerous incarnations. I can never seem to make up my mind about decor. Always trying to figure out what looks best in which room."

Sylvie waved her hand. "Benton's here, but if there's anything you need, you have my cell phone number, right? I'm only a few hours away. After the signing, I'm meeting friends for dinner. You can call me anytime, though, for anything, and I'll come scootin' back."

"Now, Aunt Sylvie, I wouldn't have you disappoint your fans."

Sylvie smiled and kissed her. "Do me a favor?"

Nealey raised an eyebrow. "Favor?"

"Before our guests arrive, see if you can find something a little more elegant than fleece pants and a sweatshirt. But even if you don't, you're such a stunner it won't really matter. Look at that hair," she said and ran her fingers along the top of Nealey's head. "Red as ever, and those eyes, still as vivid green as they were when you were a child."

She put her arm around Nealey's shoulder. "Just look at you, honey. You're skin and bones, fragile as a porcelain doll. Oh, by the way, I put a little surprise in your room. Hope you like it."

"Mrs. Wolcott, we need to go," the driver called.

"I'm so sorry I have to leave just when you're arriving. That's timing for you, isn't it?" Sylvie plopped onto the back seat. "But I'll see you tomorrow night."

"Oh, wait! I need to get my bags." Nealey said. "Can you open the trunk again?"

The trunk popped open, but when Nealey peered inside, she saw nothing but Aunt Sylvie's overnight bag. "Where are my bags, Aunt Sylvie?"

A familiar voice said, "I took them to your room." Benton stood on the wide front steps. "Isn't that where they belong?"

Nealey knitted her eyebrows together. How did he do that so quickly?

She shrugged, folded her arms across her chest, and closed the trunk.

"How are you Aunt Sylvie?" Benton asked. "Off for another book signing?"

"I'm just fine. I thought you weren't due back for another day or two. But I'm glad you're here. You can watch over Nealey for me while I'm gone, won't you?"

"I'll do my best. Everything is taken care of." He smiled and winked at Aunt Sylvie. "Don't worry yourself."

Sylvie waved from the back seat. "I love you, Nealey. Don't forget that. Oh, and by the way, did I tell you I remodeled all five bedrooms on the second floor? You'll adore yours. It's so...so you!"

"What about the third floor?"

"Oh, it's a disaster up there ! Only a few weeks into the renovation, it's a holy mess, so don't go rummaging around or you might end up falling through the floor! "

Nealey chuckled and waved.

The wide front steps of the inn were flanked by two enormous columns. Freshly painted in a brilliant white, they almost glowed. The long porch, white trim around new windows, shining oak double doors with bright gold handles made the 1880s inn sparkle in the sunlight. Six hanging baskets filled with flaming red begonias hung at intervals along the porch.

"It's too cold for begonias," she said and started up the steps.

"Ah, but your Aunt Sylvie has a way with flowers," Benton said. "Why don't you go in and get settled? There's a nice warm fire in the living room."

"Thanks for getting my bags," she said. "I'm not a stranger to the Playhouse Inn. I know about the cliffs, and I wasn't going to jump."

Benton rubbed his hands together. 'You'd better go in before you freeze."

Nealey put her hand out to open the door.

Promise me you'll never go back there, Nealey. Promise me you'll never set foot in the Playhouse Inn again.

Her mother's voice. The last words she said before she died three years ago.

Her hands trembled. Swear to me you'll never go back there. Swear it!

Chill bumps crept along Nealey's spine.

She tightened her grip on the door handle. She pictured herself and her mother driving in the old Nova. Her sister Naomi hadn't wanted to come, so she spent the weekend with the Simpsons next door, mainly to putter in their three lush gardens and see Johnny, the Simpson's youngest. When she and her mom pulled into the driveway, Aunt Sylvie ran out and greeted them with bear hugs. They were all so happy. But after the first night there, her mother gathered her up in her arms and sped out of the driveway so fast that gravel went flying and tire marks blackened the road behind them.

Thirty years of anger, fear, and hatred turned the once-lovely woman she knew as her mother into a lonely, paranoid recluse given to crying jags, drunken stupors, and temper tantrums. Someone cold, frightened, and angry had replaced the elegant, smiling, tender woman.

"Are you all right?" Benton called.

She pushed, and the doors swung open.

"Forgive me," she said.

"Maybe," Benton called to her from the bottom of the steps.

She turned in surprise and looked at him.

"Maybe you should forgive yourself."

He saluted Nealey with his index finger. "I'll be in the guest house if you need me."

"What?" a startled Nealey asked.

He'd taken only a few steps when he said, "Tell Lulu I said hello."

Before she stepped inside, Nealey stopped. She didn't remember Aunt Sylvie mentioning anyone named Lulu.

"Who's Lulu?"

Benton was gone. All Nealey saw in the fading sunset was the silhouette of a man seated on a large rock at the top of the hill. Storm clouds rolled above him, the sound of thunder echoed throughout the plateau. When two thin bolts of lightning seemed to strike near him, she winced.

But the man didn't move. Instead, his enormous hands began to rise and fall in graceful waves, like an artist's, as he released and caught two fluorescent, spinning beams.

Nealey felt acid rise into her throat. When her knees began to tremble, she caught hold of the door to steady herself.

She remembered the haloed swirls of light, but when had she seen them? Where? Vivid images overtook her. Her life before the murders one year ago, a happy life filled with family dinners, picnics, hugs and kisses, a life filled with love.

Why would I want to survive this? Why?

Nealey slumped to the floor of the porch. My children, my sweet sister. My husband, my wonderful Hank. Gone, just like that. All of them gone.

She closed her eyes and drifted into a welcomed semiconsciousness.

CHAPTER 3

Sunlight streamed through the large picture windows on each side of the antique, four-poster bed where Nealey yawned and snuggled into luxurious silk sheets. She pulled the down comforter over her head and closed her eyes. Just a few more minutes. Then I'll get up and get Hank and the kids...

Her eyes flew open then, and she bolted upright in the bed.

Where am I?

She drew the comforter up under her neck and surveyed the surroundings. A crystal chandelier hung from the high ceiling, brocaded wallpaper covered the top portion of each wall separated from the lower portion by a chair rail painted gold. Built-in bookcases covered two walls, each one filled with books of all shapes and sizes. A light scent of jasmine wafted throughout the room.

My bedroom. I remember it now, different, more elegant, but the same.

The bed, flanked by two marble-topped nightstands, reminded her of something she might see in a magazine: four shining posters, a lovely white silk scarf draped through them; an ornate headboard crowned with delicately carved cherubs.

Nealey traced the carvings with her fingers.

How did I get here?

Two separate seating areas, one in front of each window, held overstuffed navy blue leather chairs and marble-topped side tables. To the right of the double doors stood a gilded, full-length cheval glass mirror.

Nealey dangled her legs over the side of the bed. The minute her feet hit the floor, the double doors opened by themselves.

"Who is it?" Nealey called. "Who's out there?"

No one answered.

Nealey stood up, her heart beating faster. "Who's out there?"

No answer came.

But lumbering through the door was the biggest, ugliest dog Nealey had ever seen. She gasped and sat back down on the bed.

The size of a small pony, the dog had long, thin legs, wide shoulders, and a massive head, all covered in grayish-brown wiry fur. The eyes were almost hidden by the hair growing on the face. And all around the chin, fur hung like a scraggly beard. A pink collar studded with multi-colored rhinestones hung around the neck, with a rectangular tag that read, "Lulu."

The dog sat at Nealey's feet and stared at her. Never afraid of any animal, and with a special fondness for dogs, Nealey lifted her hand and patted its head.

"So, you're Lulu," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

The dog stood up and wagged her tail, creating a substantial breeze.

"You are, without a doubt, the biggest dog I've ever seen," her mind jumping to an image of Paul Bunyan and his big ox named Blue.

"You and Benton," she said, then shook her head. "Nah," she whispered, "he's too handsome to be Paul Bunyan, and you're much too pretty to be an old ox!"

Lulu's bark, surprisingly gentle and soft, reminded Nealey of a human mother's cooing, almost as if she understood.

Nealey made the bed then stood in front of one of the huge windows.

I used to stare out these windows while Aunt Sylvie cooked. Good days.

The Great Smoky Mountain chain surrounded the grounds, yet in the distance it wasn't a mountain but something else that caught her attention. An enormous rock sat atop the lone hill that sloped toward the main guest house. When the door of the guest house opened and Benton emerged, Nealey stepped away from the window.

Benton! Of course! He must have brought me up here. Who else could have done it?

Nealey glanced around the room.

"Ah, the closet. Yes, I remember it," she whispered.

As she moved toward it, she caught her reflection in the mirror and stopped dead still.

"Girl, you look awful." She ran her hands along the dirty sleeves of her sweatshirt, then down the legs of her pants, both of them hanging loose on her small body. She pushed back her stringy hair with her hands and leaned in close to the mirror. No makeup, dark circles under her eyes, pale lips, sallow, blotchy skin.

She shook her head in disgust.

Lulu again barked that soft and feminine little bark.

"I'm a mess from head to toe."

Nealey turned the doorknob. An enormous closet abundant with hanging space, shelves, built-in cabinets, and a mirrored back wall greeted her. On one of the shelves sat her large duffle bag. On the other, her two smaller bags. Nealey exhaled.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you whoever you are for bringing my bags here."

She opened one of the small bags then stared for a moment at the other. She ran her hand across its surface.

Never again.

She turned her thoughts to the bag in front of her and carefully retrieved her treasures: five framed photos, her favorite of which was of her wedding, Hank tall and proud beside her, both of them smiling as if that cherished moment would last forever.

How could we have known? How could anyone have known?

Her eyes misted, but she took a deep breath, swallowed hard, and sent the tears away. A large chest of drawers and a vanity table graced the opposite wall, so Nealey walked across the huge room, photos in hand, to give them a perfect place to rest. The closer she got to the furniture, the stronger the scent of jasmine became.

She chose the top of the ornate mahogany chest of drawers and carefully set the photos so that she could see all of them from the bed. She and Naomi as toddlers, Aunt Sylvie and their mother behind them, all smiling; Nicholas at his second birthday party; Lauren at her first; the wedding photo, and a family portrait taken only a month before the murders.

Nealey picked up the photo with her mother and Aunt Sylvie in it.

For a moment, she looked puzzled. She'd seen the photo every day for years but it was only now that she noticed her own resemblance to Aunt Sylvie. The hair color was different, but the facial features - even the freckles -seemed almost identical. She wondered why she'd never noticed it before.

She shrugged and set the picture back in its place.

Then, something else caught her attention. She lifted her chin and sniffed. The jasmine scent was almost overpowering. On the vanity table, an overturned perfume bottle, the stopper askew, solved the mystery. Nealey picked up the glass bottle and saw the word, "Heavenly," engraved in gold across the front. She set the bottle upright and replaced the stopper.

She waved a hand across her nose.

"Phew, strong stuff."

She walked back to the small bag in the closet, dug down to the very bottom, and pulled out a shaft of blue paper folded into three sections. She opened it up, scanned it one more time, and smiled. Aunt Sylvie had sent this to her only a few days ago. It was the deed to the Playhouse Inn. Now she was co-owner, her name right there alongside Aunt Sylvie’s as one of the owners of the inn and all its furnishings, except those in Sylvie’s bedroom, the ten acres on which the inn sat, the two guesthouses....everything.

Aunt Sylvie had enclosed a note:

Darling,

I wouldn't trust just anyone with my precious inn. My book signings and tours, not to mention writing new books, take so much of my time. I simply cannot manage all of my responsibilities alone any longer. My deepest wish is that you will grow to love the Playhouse Inn, even with all its little eccentricities. I will teach you all you need to know to be the perfect innkeeper, and I shall enjoy every moment of it. It is a gift for you, my darling girl, and such a joyous blessing for me. All my love, Aunt Sylvie.

She hadn't taken a penny for it. The few thousand in profit that Nealey made from the sale of the house was still in her bank account. Now, seeing her own name on the deed gave her a sense of security, a sense of safety, and a glimmer - just a tiny glimmer - of hope that somehow her life might become bearable again.

Lulu licked her hand.

Nealey jerked it back, then let it fall again. "Sorry, girl. I'm a little bit nervous. Lick all you want. I guess I need to take a shower and shed this nasty skin."

The bathroom door, right next to the chest of drawers, had no knob, but its hinges gave it away. Nealey pushed the door open and entered a room filled with light. Large windows, a huge skylight, white marble floors, a crystal chandelier, and frameless shower doors enclosing a tiled walk-in-shower.

She scrubbed and rinsed, relaxed under the hot water. Afterward, she pulled on a pair of jeans, buttoned up the new lace-trimmed blouse that Sylvie bought her, and pony-tailed her long red hair. A touch of makeup, a white ribbon around the ponytail, clean tennis shoes, and a splash of her perfume gave her a sudden lightness of heart.

"I can do this. I can learn to run an inn and take pleasure in meeting new people."

She fairly galloped down the winding staircase that led to the first floor. She was hungry, for the first time in longer than she could remember, so she headed for the kitchen, Lulu right beside her.

They passed the library, the parlor, the living room, and the dining room, all elegant and newly-refurbished in the grand style of her bedroom.

Sylvie’s right. The inside is totally different.

Toward the back of the inn, Nealey saw double metal swinging doors with large glass panes in them.

She reached to push open the door, but Lulu sat solidly in front of her and would not let her move. Even sitting, the dog was tall enough to impede her actions. When she reached a second time for the door, Lulu nudged her away and whined.

"Lulu, move girl. I want to see how Aunt Sylvie's redone the kitchen. Besides, I'm starving."

Why am I talking to this dog as if she understands what I say?

She tried to step around Lulu, tried to get in back of her and to scoot her out of the way, but nothing budged the enormous dog.

Maybe she knows commands.

"Heel, Lulu," Nealey said and snapped her fingers.

Lulu eased her large head between the doors, turned it this way and that then gazed up at Nealey. She got up and sat at Nealey's heels.

"What were you doing, making sure the coast was clear?" The words frightened Nealey even as she said them. "Come on, let's go get something to eat."

It seemed perfectly natural to talk to the dog now. Nealey felt certain that somewhere in that doggy brain of Lulu's, the language cylinders were firing full blast.

She took the first step through the door.

Aunt Sylvie's decorating style didn't extend to the kitchen with its lime green cabinets, black and white linoleum floor, yellow wallpaper with a rooster and chicken motif, a red and chrome table with six chairs, an old refrigerator, an even older stove.

"Yuck, just as I remember it." She scrunched up her face and moved forward until she saw the new apron sink, a lovely picture window above it with interior and exterior window boxes filled with various kinds of herbs. There were new stone countertops, a second shiny stove with double oven, and even a dishwasher.

Nealey ran her hand along the smooth countertops.

"Nice."

She opened the fridge and found it fully stocked, almost overflowing with food.

"How about some bacon and eggs, Lulu?"

When she turned around, she didn't see the dog anywhere.

She shrugged and assembled her cooking arsenal.

On a shelf beside the cabinet, a myriad of books stood like ready soldiers. Nealey scanned the titles: Earth Magick for the Beginner, Magikcal Scents, Beginner's Guide to Spellcasting, and The Healing Power of Plants."

She wiped her hands on a dish towel and slipped one of the books from its place. It showed no creases or signs of wear but didn't seem to be new, just unread. On the inside was an inscription. "To our delightful Sylvie. From Noble and Worthy."

Noble and Worthy?

Nealey flipped through some of the pages but her stomach growled again, so she replaced the book. She'd ask Aunt Sylvie about it later.

"I've seen those books before," she mumbled.

A vivid scene played out in her mind, a scene from long ago.

"They're dangerous," her mother warned. "Don't you dare touch any of those books!"

The words made Nealey all the more curious.

She sneaked in while her mother and Aunt Sylvie were talking and climbed up on the counter. She reached for one of the largest books, but it was so heavy that it fell from her hands and onto the floor with a loud thud. Mother and Aunt Sylvie came running.

When her mother saw the book, her face turned brightred, but before she could begin the ranting, Aunt Sylvie picked up the book.

"For God's sake, Charlotte. It's just a book. It can't hurt the child."

Aunt Sylvie replaced it, took Nealey's hand and helped her off the counter, then issued an order to her sister.

"Charlotte, loosen up and climb down off that high horse. There's nothing there that can hurt this child. She's my niece. I'd never allow any harm to come to her. Now, let's go into the parlor and finish our tea."

"It's a good thing I'm her mother!" Charlotte snapped. "Otherwise, she'd be just like you."

Nealey shook her head and brought herself back to the present and her rumbling stomach.

The smell of frying bacon soon filled the kitchen. Nealey popped two pieces of bread into the toaster, fumbled in the drawers and found an egg whisk. She drained the bacon on a paper towel then poured in the eggs.

But instead of eggs and bacon, she smelled a light floral scent.

Nealey cocked her head, sniffed, and caught the subtle fragrance only briefly. Jasmine?

She sniffed again but smelled only bacon and eggs.

She stepped to the window above the sink and scanned the selection of potted herbs and plants. No jasmine.

I smelled it. I know I did.

She shrugged it off when her stomach growled. Salt and pepper shaker in hand, she seasoned the eggs and stirred, watching carefully so that they wouldn't burn.

"Hey, don't forget about us. We're hungry, too," the voices said.

Children's voices.

Nealey gasped and whirled around.

Two little girls sat at the table.

They smiled at Nealey and smoothed their yellow dresses.

Then, they vanished.

CHAPTER 4

Smells like something's burning," Benton said.

He stood in the doorway, a hulking silhouette awash in morning sunlight. Nealey could barely see his face, but she recognized the voice and the sheer size of the man.

He was beside her before she could blink. "Need some help?"

Nealey opened her mouth to speak, but no words came.

Benton turned off the burner, removed the pan, and scraped the blackened eggs into the trash.

Nealey watched him go the fridge and retrieve more eggs. "Why don't you have a seat and let me fix these for you. I make a mean omelet."

"N...n...no, thank you." Her voice came back, but she could hear the fear in it. "I'm not really hungry now."

Benton pulled out one of the chairs. "Sit. You look like you could use some food. Please?"

She felt Lulu's cold nose on her back nudging her forward.

"I thought you ran out on me," Nealey said to the dog. "Now, here you are. I didn't even see you come in."

"She usually sits by the door. I saw her when I came in," Benton said. "She always knows when someone's coming. Irish wolfhounds are like that."

"An Irish wolfhound, oh, no wonder she's so big," Nealey said.

"As long as she's around, you don't have to be afraid of anything."

"Afraid?" she asked, the images of the two little girls still crystal clear in her mind. Benton whisking the eggs almost drowned out her trembling voice.

He took the pan, wiped it out, then took it over to the sink. He pinched off several bits from the fresh herbs in the window boxes and sprinkled them liberally into the pan.

Nealey watched the way his big hands delicately worked with the herbs.

After he'd beaten the eggs again, he poured them into the herbs.

In only a couple of minutes, Benton set an omelet with a side of bacon on the table. "So, how does it look?''

Lulu whined.

"Don't worry. I made enough for you," Benton said and filled the dog's bowl.

She lapped it up in a few bites.

"You're not going to eat?" Benton asked.

"I just don't, I just can't," she said and moved the omelet around on her plate with her fork. "I appreciate your trouble, but..."

"Won't you at least try it?"

Nealey took one bite. The eggs were firm but not hard, just right. The omelet melted in her mouth, the taste of it unlike any she'd ever had before. Delicious.

"What did you do to these? They're wonderful."

She took another bite, and it was even better.

Benton chuckled as she finished the omelet, scraping every last bite off the plate. Nealey sighed and leaned back in the chair. "You didn't tell me what you did to make those eggs taste so good. I don't think I've ever eaten so fast in all my life."

Benton smiled. "I'm a fan of your Aunt Sylvie’s cookbooks. I got the recipe out of the first one: "The Magical Art of Breakfast."

He took her empty plate and set it in the sink. "You ever read one of her books?"

Nealey shook her head. "I'm not much of a cook. I just never got interested in..." She stopped. Cheese grits with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, their last dinner. What kind of wife and mother would fix that mess and call it dinner?

"I'm not a great cook, either," Benton said. "Most of the time it doesn't really matter about how good the eggs taste. It matters more that I made the effort. That's what counts, isn't it? That we care enough to make an effort?"

The prickly sensation in her nose warned her that she was about to cry. You are not going to cry!

Nealey stood up beside the table. "So, you're saying that the eggs tasted good just because you tried your best?"

"Lord, no!" Benton slung a dishrag over his shoulder. "They tasted good because I used Aunt Sylvie's recipe, but they tasted even better because I made them especially for you."

"Well, thank you," she said, a slight smile forming on her lips, "for going to all that trouble just for me."

Benton stood with his back to her, rinsing off the dishes. "No trouble."

Nealey saw the way the fabric of his shirt strained against his broad back and tightened against the heavy muscles of his arms. Her eyes followed the breadth of his shoulders then the middle of his back and down to his fairly narrow waist. There's probably not an ounce of fat on him.

"Did you..." she hesitated. "Was it you who carried me upstairs last night?"

Benton nodded.

Nealey brushed a stray wisp of hair off her forehead and looked down at the floor. "Thank you," she said, wanting for some reason to avoid his eyes. "I can't remember much, except saying goodbye then waking up in a strange bed."

Benton dried his hands on the towel, folded it, and draped it across the sink divider. "You needed help," he said, a huge smile on his face. "I couldn't leave you out there in the cold. Your Aunt Sylvie would've killed me!"

Nealey felt her face flush.

He has such a beautiful smile, so genuine, caring. His eyes are as blue as the sea, and look how they sparkle when he smiles.

She almost formed a smile of her own until the voice inside of her yelled, 'You two-timing cheater! Hank's only been dead a year, and here you are thinking about another man.'

The smile never formed on Nealey's lips.

The bright one on Benton's face disappeared. He went back to drying the dishes. "One of your guests is already here," he said, "on the front porch."

"What? I didn't hear the doorbell."

"No, you wouldn't. Noble's always the first to arrive. He sits on the porch and waits for his brother. Won't come in without him."

Nealey walked toward the swinging doors but stopped just before she pushed them open. "Benton?"

"Yeah?"

"Have you ever seen, I mean, did you ever see anything strange in here?"

"There's usually always something a bit strange in Sylvie's kitchen," Benton said and winked.

Nealey didn't respond. Instead, she gave him a serious look.

"This morning, I saw, no, I thought I saw two little girls, redheaded twins."

Lulu barked her soft but strong bark.

A sharp pain shot though Nealey's right eye then traveled across the top of her head. She closed her eyes and massaged her temples. No, no. Not a migraine. Not now.

Lulu licked her right hand and whined. She kept licking until Nealey felt as if the skin might come off. She pulled her hand away.

"Need an aspirin?" Benton asked.

"No, it wouldn't help. The girls were sitting right there," she said and pointed at the table. "Then all of a sudden, they just vanished."

Benton looked puzzled. "Vanished?"

"You don't believe me?"

Her head throbbed. Then, without warning, the pain subsided. Within a few seconds, it had gone. "I don't blame you," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I must sound like a lunatic. I don't know why I told you about them."

Benton stood beside her. "Nealey," he said and put his hands on her shoulders, "you're not crazy. What you saw was real enough, wasn't it?"

Nealey nodded her head.

The doorbell rang, and Nealey jumped.

"There's nothing here that will hurt you, so no worries," Benton said. "I'd better get that door. I'm sure it's the Gates brothers."

Benton looked at his watch. "As usual, they're here early, but old Noble beat his brother again. He'll be thrilled that he was the first again this year. Come on. You'll love them."

"Again this year, so they've been here before?"

"Yeah, they came last year, at about this same time, the beginning of October."

Lulu plopped down in front of Nealey and blocked the doorway. She looked up at her with her big brown eyes and whined.

"Is something wrong, girl?"

Benton clapped his hands. "It's just the Gates brothers. They mean no harm."

Lulu sat with her huge paws covering her head, whining with each breath.

Nealey bent down and stroked her head. "It's okay. I promise."

She heard her own voice saying the same thing to her children many times, even on the day they were murdered. She was always telling them that every outing would be wonderful and that they would have such a good time, they'd never want to leave. Pangs of guilt shot through her like jolts of electricity. Nealey whimpered.

Lulu was up immediately, nudging her with her head. One soft bark alerted Benton, and he kneeled down beside her.

"Nealey, you did the best you could," he said and lifted her to her feet.

"What did you say?" Nealey asked. "How did you... "

Benton shrugged and repeated, "You did your best."

"No, I let them down," Nealey said. "I lied to my babies."

Lulu put a cold nose to the inside of Nealey's elbow and purred like a cat.

Something strong surged through Nealey, and instantly, she stood straighter. The urge to cry left her. She took a deep breath, looked up at Benton, then wrapped both arms around Lulu's neck.

"Good dog," she said.

Benton pushed open the door just as two little girls' voices called, "The bad man's coming."

CHAPTER 5

Nealey was still trembling as they made their way into the entrance hall. The girls' voices rang in her ears.

The bad man's coming.

When the doorbell rang a second time, she gasped. Too afraid to move, she hoped that Benton would open the door and greet the guests.

I can't do this. What will I say to them? 'Oh, by the way, there are two ghosts in the kitchen, little girls who told me they were hungry then told me...

Nealey couldn't bear to think about it.

When the doorbell rang again, all she could do was cover her face with her hands. She wished she could transport herself back to her house, the one she and Hank had lived in since they married.

She forgot, momentarily, that she'd sold it almost a year ago, shortly after...after that day. She'd quit her job as well. Nothing mattered then except that they were gone, her whole family, even her unborn child, dead. She had no enthusiasm for living and spent weeks doing nothing but sleeping, wandering around the empty house in a fog, crying, then sleeping. She'd felt cut off from the world, as if an invisible barrier separated her from everyone and everything, a castaway, drifting alone on a sea of tears.

Aunt Sylvie had stayed that first week, but Nealey hardly noticed her. Once she left, Sylvie called daily, and to each inquiry about her mental and physical health, Nealey replied, "I'm fine."

Aunt Sylvie came back and stayed a month, and this time when she left, she said, "Nealey, darling, we have a buyer for this house. I've taken care of everything. I'll fetch you in a week, but while I'm gone you'll be looked after. No more worries, my precious child."