As she slipped her water bottle back into her bag, Bus Purse came into view, right on schedule.
Amanda frowned and straightened up, trying to get a better view of the steps. “You can see down to the high street. That’s how you knew she was coming.”
“You’re closer than I am. Can you see down there?”
The frown deepened. “Well, you must be using a mirror or something. It’s not as if you’re capable of magic.”
“Wanna bet?” Cath answered, warming to the challenge.
Magic had never been her specialty, but she wanted that straitjacket. It had been featured in a widely covered protest demonstration Amanda and her buddies had staged outside the prime minister’s residence a few years ago, and it would look fabulous on display, the perfect visual complement to the story the museum’s exhibit would tell.
Unfortunately, Amanda had a stranglehold on the thing, and Cath had known her long enough to understand she got a kick out of stringing people along.
On the other hand, she was also competitive and narcissistic, which made her the sort of woman who rarely turned down a bet.
“How about this?” Cath asked. “If I correctly predict the next two people up those steps, you give me the jacket.” It was possible. Just. Greenwich was way out in Zone Four on the London transport map, far enough from the city center to avoid being a true commuter suburb. The station platform never got too crowded, even during rush hour. Most of the regulars for this particular train had already arrived. The question was, Who was missing?
Amanda’s eyes narrowed. “What do I get if you’re wrong?”
“I’ll stop bugging you about the straitjacket.”
This was a lie, but no lapsed Catholic from Chicago’s South Side was above lying for a good cause, and Cath considered her career a good cause.
Amanda leaned forward, all excitement now, and said, “Make it three and you’re on.”
The first one was easy. Cath heard the musical clang of the ticket machine dispensing change down at street level and knew it had to be the dog guy from the park, because he always took the 7:09 from Greenwich to Bank on Fridays, and he bought his single ticket from the vending machine with cash.
“Old guy in a fedora,” she said.
He came up the steps and made his way to the empty bench next to them.
Amanda inclined her head, acknowledging one down.
Next up was tricky. Normally, it would be the girl with the two-tone hair, but it was late summer, and people took vacations. The girl had been missing all week. Cath imagined her on a beach in Spain, soaking up the sun in a red bikini. What if she was back, though?
The booming laugh of Bill at the ticket window carried up the stairs. The Merry Widow, then. Bill was a friendly guy, but he pulled out all the stops for the Widow.
“Redhead with three inches of cleavage,” Cath said.
The Merry Widow rose into view, proud bosom bobbing.
Amanda gave a low whistle of appreciation.
Cath glanced at the station’s clock and repressed a smile. She only needed one more to complete the hat trick, and you could set your watch by the next guy.
“Tall blond man in an expensive suit, Financial Times under his arm,” she said, then added, “Possibly a cyborg.”
Thirty seconds ticked by, and City rose into view, punctual as ever and way too good looking to be human.
Cath had a soft spot for City. From the moment she’d spotted him waiting for the train to Bank last winter, he’d intrigued her. She’d given him the nickname as a nod to his profession, because everything about him announced he worked in the City of London, the square-mile financial district at the center of the metropolis: the dignified wool overcoat and scarf he’d worn all winter, the shined shoes, the ever-present newspaper. Aristocratically remote, he was Prince Charming in a suit.
Amanda applauded, whether for her or for City, Cath couldn’t tell. She suppressed a triumphant grin and allowed herself a moment to watch him pass. He gave her his usual stiff nod, the greeting they’d long since settled on for their semi-regular encounters.
She’d never heard City talk or seen him crack a smile. He didn’t even fidget, just stood stoically in place until the train pulled up, then stared straight ahead once seated in the car. Cool as a cucumber and veddy, veddy English. At least, that’s how she imagined him when she wrote about him in her journal. She’d bet her next paltry paycheck he had a posh accent, an expensive education, and a boring job moving piles of money around. He was her polar opposite.
Still, she always kept an eye out for him. She saw City two or three mornings a week, either here or at Greenwich Park, where both of them liked to run. In motion, he was a beautiful thing, a Scandinavian god with flushed cheeks. She loved that flash of pink on his face—such an endearing crack in his cool perfection. It made her want to muss his hair and tie his shoelaces together when he wasn’t looking, just to see what would happen.
And now he’d helped her win access to the piece she so badly wanted for the exhibit. You really had to love him.
“When can I pick that jacket up?” she asked Amanda, turning back to face her.
“Hmm?” Amanda was still staring at City. “Oh, right.” Her mouth tightened, her eyes growing cagey. “That was a good trick. How long have you been practicing?”
“First time,” she answered honestly. Far from impressive, her ability to predict who’d arrive next on the train platform was evidence of how sad her life had become. She was a people-watcher by nature, and now that she’d cleaned up her act, she had nothing better to do than make up stories about the strangers who shared her morning commute.
The saddest part was, she didn’t always take this train. If she’d run into Amanda while waiting for the 6:43 or the 7:43 instead of the 7:09, Cath still would have stood a good chance of pulling off the trick, predicting the arrival of an entirely different set of familiar strangers.
She didn’t have to tell Amanda that, though.
“You really want that jacket,” Amanda said. “It’s important to you.”
Cath stared at City’s broad shoulders beneath his suit coat and shrugged, feigning a nonchalance she didn’t feel.
Should’ve known it wouldn’t be that easy. Nothing ever is.
“We’re friends, right?” Amanda asked, throwing an arm across the back of the bench.
They weren’t friends. They’d had a handful of mutual acquaintances a few years ago. These days, Cath pantomimed familiarity when they ran into each other around Greenwich so that she could legitimately harass Amanda for the straitjacket.
Cath didn’t have any friends. She had a roommate who didn’t like her, a socially awkward boss who did, and an empty life that revolved around her job.
“Sure,” she said, because it was what she was supposed to say.
“And you need a favor.”
Just smile and nod, Talarico.
She tamped down her temper, refrained from pointing out that she’d just won her favor fair and square, and did as her good sense instructed.
“We’ll do a trade.” Amanda grinned, a smile that announced, This is the best idea anyone’s ever had. “Eric and I are going to a concert tonight at a club with his cousin. He’s in town from Newcastle for the weekend. We could really use a fourth.”
A garbled announcement of the train’s approach came over the loudspeaker, and Cath kept her expression neutral as she stood and shouldered her bag.
Christ on a crutch. She’d walked into a blind date.
For any normal woman, this wouldn’t be a problem. No one wanted to be set up with some random warm body from Newcastle, of course, but spending an evening being hit on, ignored, or bored out of her skull ought to have been a fair exchange for getting her way.
For Cath, though, Amanda’s proposal was worse than a problem. It was a disaster waiting to happen.
She hadn’t been on a date in two years. No concerts, no bars, no men. These were the rules that set New Cath apart fro
m her irresponsible predecessor—the restrictions that kept her from making the kind of mistakes that had necessitated the creation of New Cath in the first place.
Cath didn’t want to break the rules. She needed the rules.
But she needed that straitjacket more. It would be a coup for the exhibit, which meant it would win Judith’s gratitude, and Judith’s gratitude was Cath’s ticket into a permanent curatorial position.
She had to do it.
“Sounds like fun,” she said, her cheerful tone the first of many frauds the evening would no doubt entail.
Surely she could spend one night with a guy in a club without doing anything she’d regret.
Read on for an excerpt from Elisabeth Barrett’s
Blaze of Winter
CHAPTER 1
Of all the possible pranks a person could pull in the Star Harbor Library, putting a dead fish in the heating vent ranked high on the list of ones to try. And Theodore Grayson would know. He’d played that very trick twenty years ago, with his brothers Cole and Seb as his partners-in-crime. Still, the risk—considerable, given that every wall vent in the main room was visible from the circulation desk—had been worth the payout. His large frame tucked into a carrel at the very scene of his youthful misconduct, Theo smiled at the memory.
They had done the deed in the middle of one of Star Harbor’s coldest winters, and with the heat on full blast, it had taken precisely thirty-seven hours for the smell to become overpowering. Even better, he and his brothers had all been present to witness the prank’s outcome—the unholy stench, a furious search for the source, and finally, a full evacuation of the library. And as any good trickster—Theo himself included—would acknowledge, a key component of every good prank was the payout.
The payout. The completion. The end. If only he could achieve the same with this damned book he should be writing. His smile faded fast.
“What the hell am I doing back in Star Harbor?” he groaned, shoving his chair back from the desk and abruptly standing up. An octogenarian seated on a nearby love seat flipped down Wednesday’s edition of the Boston Globe and gave him a disapproving look from beneath her tightly curled blue-tinted locks. In return, he gave her a dirty grin, and she let out a small gasp as her head disappeared in a rustle behind the Arts section.
Glancing around the library, he noted that nothing much had changed in twenty years. Same taupe walls, same signs over the reference desk, same green-shaded banker’s lamps on each long table. Only the posters displaying the covers of the latest bestselling books were different. Wryly, he noted that his own book wasn’t represented. Theodore Grayson, better known as T. R. Grayson—Star Harbor’s native son, bad boy made good.
But perhaps not good enough to warrant a place on the hallowed walls of the library.
No one met his eyes as he glanced around, so he sighed and slouched back down into his seat, pulling it forward until his fingers were once again aligned with the keyboard of his laptop. Then he took off his glasses—the stylish frames had been a gift from his publicist—and rubbed his eyes, willing the thoughts, phrases, and sentences to come.
They didn’t.
What the hell was wrong with him? In a few short months he’d gone from literary darling to feeling like a hack. He was in a funk, unable to make the stubborn words emerge from wherever they were hiding in his brain. A change of scenery—more accurately, a change of coast—hadn’t made a whit of difference. Trying to plot and write his latest book was just as slow-going here as it had been in San Francisco.
Worse yet, it wasn’t just the writing. He couldn’t quite put his finger on the problem, but it was obvious he was in some sort of a slump.
Over Labor Day weekend, Cole had mentioned that he might be able to find renewed inspiration in Star Harbor. At the time, he’d thought his brother’s idea was brilliant. Ditch his bohemian, intellectual lifestyle in San Francisco and reconnect with his roots by spending the fall in Star Harbor. It was the most beautiful time of year in his hometown, and he’d been certain it would give him the fuel he needed to write his book. Plenty of stimulation, ideas, and solitude.
But he hadn’t made it to town until just before Thanksgiving. Now it was December, Star Harbor was freezing, he hadn’t written a word, and the quiet was beginning to weigh on him like a millstone around his neck. Plus, he was bunking down with his brothers Val and Cole on Val’s small houseboat, which didn’t help matters at all. He’d known it would be a far cry from his spacious artist’s loft in San Francisco’s Mission district, but he hadn’t realized quite how bad it would be. How was he supposed to think, let alone write, when he couldn’t get a decent night’s sleep in that tiny berth? The two months he’d planned to stay in town suddenly seemed like a life sentence.
“Crap,” he said a bit too loudly.
He glanced up, expecting the old lady to cluck at him again. Instead, he found himself face-to-face with Emma Bishop, Star Harbor’s librarian and his friend Jimmy’s new wife. She and Jimmy had gotten married a couple of months before, but Theo had missed the wedding due to a book tour commitment. Emma looked good—shiny russet hair, sparkling blue eyes, and wire-rimmed glasses perched on a pert nose. Dressed in a tweed skirt and silk blouse, her small figure reminded him of an elegant little bird.
Before she could say anything, he raised his hand in apology. “Let me guess,” he said. “I’ve been reported.”
“You could say that,” she confirmed, shooting a quick glance at the love seat. The old lady had her face buried in the paper. Though Emma looked apologetic, there was a little twinkle in her eye. “Could you please keep it down? I’d hate to—”
“Kick me out?” Theo laughed. It wouldn’t be the first time. Except now he was thirty-two, not twelve.
“I don’t think it’ll come to that,” she said. “You’ll behave.” This was said with the hint of a smile. She knew how to handle him, all right. No surprise, given that her husband had been almost as much of a troublemaker as the Grayson boys back in the day.
Theo sighed and rose, stretching his arms up over his head. He knew his size was intimidating, but to her credit, Emma didn’t even blink. Being married to Jimmy, whose nickname was—appropriately—“the Bear,” must have inured her to intimidation by large men. He jerked his head in the direction of the lady. “You can tell my good friend over there that I’m leaving for the day.”
“I think I’ll leave well enough alone,” Emma said without rancor as she tilted her head at him. “But I hope you don’t mind my saying that you look tired, Theo.”
He began to pack up his laptop. “Let’s just say I haven’t gotten a full night’s sleep in over a week.”
“Out on Val’s boat? I’d imagine not. Are you sharing a cabin with Cole?”
Theo nodded. “Yep. As if the tiny berth wasn’t uncomfortable enough, I have my big brother in there to keep me company.”
Emma touched her forefinger to her chin and looked thoughtful. “There are some nice places in town where you could stay. Why don’t you look into it?”
Pulling on his thick, lined pea coat, he nodded. “Best advice I’ve gotten in a long time.”
“Try the Inn. And Theo, perhaps you’d like to do a reading for us? I’m sure folks would love to hear T. R. Grayson read from his critically acclaimed bestseller, The Pirate’s Sextant. It’s not every day we have a famous author in our midst.”
“Sure,” Theo said, happy that Emma thought highly enough of him to ask. “Just let me know when.”
“The next spot we have available for our Evenings with an Author series is a week from today. I hope that’s not too soon, because we’ll have to get a poster of your book before you come in.”
Way to stroke his ego. “Call my agent. He’ll overnight one. I’ll even autograph it for you.”
“Thank you, Theo. That would be lovely.” She gave him a sweet smile.
Theo flipped the collar of his coat up. “Tell Jimmy I’ll catch him later this week at the Rusty Nail. ’Bye, Emm
a.” He stepped around her to leave, but as he walked to the front door, he couldn’t resist giving the old lady on the couch one parting shot. “See you tonight, baby,” he growled, raising one eyebrow.
Rewarded by her shocked gasp, he grinned. Yeah, he still had it. Too bad he’d never use it on anyone who counted.
#
“I shouldn’t be here.”
Avery Newbridge finally spoke the words that had been running through her head for weeks, her voice echoing off the wood-paneled walls in the foyer of the Star Harbor Inn. Ostensibly, she was in Star Harbor, Massachusetts, to mind the Inn while Aunt Kate underwent treatment for breast cancer. But Avery knew what she was really doing.
Hiding.
She couldn’t even pretend anymore. At first, it had been nice to think that she was helping out family, but Kate had finished recovering from her last round of chemo two weeks ago and had resumed most of the duties of managing the Inn. While Kate sometimes suffered from bouts of weakness, she was doing all right. Still, Avery stayed in this tight-knit little town where everyone seemed to know everyone else’s name—and their business.
Sighing loudly, Avie leaned back in her little chair behind the large, walnut-wood reception desk, trying to release some tension. It didn’t make her feel better. At this point, she didn’t know what would. Not after what she’d been through in Boston and all the weird stuff that had been happening at the Inn lately.
At least what had happened at the Back Bay Recovery Center made sense. Losing a client would be enough to make anyone feel emotional, but she worked with the most serious substance abuse cases, not all of whom had it in them to stay sober. What didn’t make sense were the odd sounds she and Kate had been hearing at night in the Inn. Sure, it was an old building—one of Star Harbor’s registered historical sites, something of which Kate was proud—but in its three hundred years of existence, no one had ever said that the Star Harbor Inn was haunted. There was simply no explanation for the strange, ice-cold drafts and the creepy thumping sounds at night. Avery herself had heard them a few times since she’d been in town, but Kate told her she’d been hearing them for months before that. And over the last week, there’d been some even stranger stuff. A few times the furniture had been shifted into slightly different locations—even though no one admitted to moving it—and some supplies had gone missing. She and Kate had taken to saying “boo” at each other whenever the Inn creaked or the wind moaned.
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