Cara avoided her sister’s moody gray eyes. “I had things to do.”
“You and Vernell are up to something. What is it?” Phoebe slid the soy sauce across the table before Cara could ask for it.
Cara chewed slowly on a piece of broccoli and considered several ways she could respond. Opting for the direct approach, she said, “He wants you to work more proactively.”
“What does that mean?”
“For a start, he’s wondering if there’s some way you could invite the process intentionally. You know, instead of waiting for the dreams to come along.”
Phoebe looked alarmed. “How would I do that? I can’t control what happens when I’m asleep.”
Carefully, Cara said, “Vernell thinks it might be a good idea for you to spend some time at Quantico in Virginia.” She steeled herself for the inevitable. Her sister wasn’t going to like this idea one little bit.
“The place where Jodie Foster trained in Silence of the Lambs?” Phoebe’s low, soft voice sounded strained.
“Yes, training is part of what they do there.” Cara tried to sound reassuring as well as enthusiastic. “They also have a big forensic science research unit and you’d be working with profilers and people like that.”
“They’re going to think I’m a nut.”
“No, they’re not. Vernell says everyone is hanging out to meet you.” Hearing a small, horrified gasp, she added hastily, “Everyone who knows, that is—just a handful of people, really. They even have a code name for you.”
Phoebe calmed down a little, releasing her chopsticks from a death grip. “Like a spy name?” She seemed slightly tickled. “What is it?”
“Golden.”
Phoebe gave this some thought. “Is that a joke name?”
“No. Nothing like that,” Cara hastily assured. Phoebe was hypersensitive about what she termed her membership in Crazies Unlimited. “Vernell says it’s because you’re what they always dreamed of. Back in the 1980s the CIA tried to create people like you to spy on the Russians. They had a secret training program called Star Gate.”
“Did it work?”
“I don’t know.” Cara dripped extra soy sauce over her meal. “But some of the people they trained are still around. Every now and then the FBI hires one for a case. They’re called remote viewers.”
Phoebe chewed reflectively. “Remote viewers. Yes…it is kind of like that.”
Sensing she had secured her twin’s interest, Cara said, “I think you should do it. You have a gift, and you can help people. It can’t hurt to see if there are other ways you could make it work.”
The FBI was also offering an astonishing amount of money, but Cara didn’t want to discuss that. It would only cause performance anxiety. Phoebe already worried that she was letting everyone down if she didn’t dream often enough.
“How long will I have to stay there?” Phoebe asked.
“Maybe a week or so.”
“And you’ll be there, too?”
Cara had known this was coming. “Of course.” Hopefully, within a couple of days Phoebe would feel comfortable and she could escape and deal with the backlog of work that had piled up over the past several weeks.
Phoebe twiddled with her chopsticks. “I don’t want to feel like a circus freak.”
“You know I would never let that happen.”
“It wasn’t all that long ago they’d have burned me for being a witch, and now I’m hired by the government and I have a spy name. Funny, isn’t it?”
“Hilarious,” Cara said without smiling. “I’ll phone Vernell. We can leave as soon as I get back from L.A.”
CHAPTER TWO
Rowe buttoned her peacoat and braced herself for the rush of cold air as she hauled open her huge oak front door and unlocked the security screen. Her Labradors, Jessie and Zoe, stepped out into the morning with the disbelief of dogs who had never seen an expanse of lawn unpopulated by people, other canines, and hot-dog carts.
“Come on!” Rowe called and took a couple of tennis balls from her pockets. She hurled these across the dew-drenched meadow.
It took less than ten seconds for her pals to get the picture. They lost their minds then, running and barking like a pair of inmates fresh out of the insane asylum. Rowe strode briskly toward the birches that divided her property from that of the reclusive sisters. She had considered calling on her new neighbors to introduce herself, but decided to leave that for a day when she was looking presentable and did not have two unruly dogs in tow.
Jessie, the alpha female, briefly returned to Rowe’s side to check in before bounding deep into the woods, her golden coat bright against the gloom. Zoe, seven years old, black, and built like a brick house, could never keep pace with her taller, sleeker sister. All the same, she gave chase, her stumpy legs propelling her at double time. Rowe trailed after them, thankful her property had some kind of fencing, at least according to the realtor. The last thing she needed was her cloddish dogs drooling all over the old ladies next door by way of announcing the new neighbor’s arrival.
There was no sign of the panting pair by the time she reached the birch stand, so she whistled a few times, expecting yellow and black shapes to hurtle from the trees. Instead she heard a shrill bark, and a split second later an odd whimpering noise filtered through the woods.
“Jessie?” Rowe broke into a jog. “Zoe!”
Through the branches she could make out a sprawling Shingle Style house. Calling again, she headed toward it. There was a fence, just as the realtor had claimed, but it was no longer standing. On the other side of the decaying wooden remnants lay her neighbors’ backyard, a carefully tended garden that would be superb in the summer. Dotted around the perimeter were mysterious shapes swathed in bright blue plastic tarpaulins. Rowe took these for a sign of impending winter in Maine. The Midcoast was littered with them.
Hunkered down in the middle of a square of lawn, Jessie and Zoe were frozen on their haunches, intently watching a woman who stood on the back steps. Rowe found herself rooted to the spot as well, transfixed by a pale face clouded with jet black hair that fell in narrow waves almost to its owner’s waist. Large, luminescent eyes dominated features that belonged to another time. Angled slightly toward the prone dogs, the woman’s head seemed almost too heavy for a neck unusually long and slender. She looked up, and a mouth Rossetti might have painted inched into a remote smile.
“Hello,” she said. Her eyes were on Rowe.
At the sound of her voice, both Labradors whimpered and rolled onto their backs. Rowe could relate. Urging herself into motion, she followed a cobblestone path through what appeared to be an herb garden.
As she neared the beautiful stranger, she said, “Good morning. I’m Rowe Devlin. I was planning on a more civilized introduction, but—”
“Your dogs had other ideas?” Eyes the bruised purple-gray of storm clouds drew hers. “I’m Phoebe Temple. I live here with my sister.”
Phoebe, Rowe thought. The name suited her. So much for the two old ladies. This woman was probably in her late twenties, although her slight build made her seem younger. She wore a somewhat old-fashioned dress in a dusty rose color. Below the collar, a large baroque pearl rested on her chest suspended from a black ribbon. Its color was breathtaking, platinum with a hint of lavender.
Rowe knew a good deal about pearls, having purchased some fine examples for her mother, who loved them. This huge pear-shaped gem was natural, not cultured. It was the kind you were more likely to find in a museum than around the neck of a woman living on an isle in New England.
Phoebe bent and extended a narrow hand, patting Jessie and Zoe in turn. “Your dogs are beautiful.”
Instead of leaping to lick her face, the dogs remained on their haunches as if they were obedience trained. Unable to account for this personality transplant, Rowe said, “You seem to have a way with them.”
“I’m lucky.” Phoebe straightened. “Animals are always civilized around me. Even wildlife.”
“Wi
ldlife?” Rowe tried to imagine what species there could be. Islesboro was not exactly Madagascar.
Phoebe pointed to a long, narrow barn east of the house. “We have deer. They’ve been in these woods for a hundred years. In winter, they come in to shelter and feed.”
“That’s great.” Rowe could picture a fawn feeding from this woman’s hand. She moved onto the lawn and optimistically slapped a hand against her thigh to signal Jessie and Zoe to heel. To her complete shock, they obeyed as if this were second nature.
“Of course, your dogs are very well trained,” Phoebe observed. “I wish I had one of my own, but my sister and I are away too much. It wouldn’t be fair.”
“You travel for your jobs?”
“Yes. Cara makes music videos, the kind of thing you see on MTV. She left this morning for L.A.”
“Are you in the music business as well?”
“No.” A pause. “I’m with the FBI. I’m a forensic botanist.” Phoebe sounded embarrassed, even slightly ashamed.
Rowe thought it must be quite interesting examining seeds and pods connected with a murder. But some people probably found her occupation distasteful. She hastened to take a positive line. “That must be fascinating.”
“Enormously.” Phoebe did not expand. No doubt she thought Rowe was just being polite.
“I’d love to talk more about it sometime,” Rowe said, determined to emphasize her complete comfort with the topic.
Despite these efforts, Phoebe wrapped her slender arms around her body and changed the subject. “Forgive me for keeping you talking out here in the cold. Would you like to come in for some coffee? I’m about to light the fires.”
Rowe glanced uncertainly at the dogs.
“They’re invited, too.”
“Coffee sounds great. Thank you.”
As she followed Phoebe indoors, Rowe knew she was being reckless, maybe even insane. She had made a rule for herself when she left Manhattan: If she’s a babe, run.
*
“You’re an author, aren’t you?” Phoebe asked a short time later as they sat before a log fire in a shabby-chic parlor with an incredible ocean view. “My sister told me. Horror novels, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
Rowe glimpsed a trace of dazed incomprehension before Phoebe lowered her eyes. It was not her genre, that much was obvious. “I’m sure you know Stephen King lives not far from here, in Bangor.”
“I’m not in his league,” Rowe said. That was the truth. Even more so after her last dismal effort.
Phoebe seemed to be vacillating over a question. In a rush, she asked, “Do you believe in the supernatural?”
Rowe laughed, pleased to have the opportunity to let her captivating neighbor know that she wasn’t crazy. “God, no! It’s my market niche. That’s all.”
“Oh, I see.” The light faded from Phoebe’s remarkable eyes and she prodded the fire.
Wondering which way to jump, Rowe covered her bases. “Of course, I believe there are mysteries none of us can explain. Things beyond our present understanding. But my books are your basic schlock. Crap, really.”
Phoebe turned toward her once more. In a sweetly reproachful tone, she said, “I’m sure they’re no such thing,” then asked Rowe if she wanted more coffee.
Without waiting for a reply, she picked up their mugs and gracefully left the room. Rowe forced herself not to stare after her, instead pondering her question about the supernatural. Perhaps, given her gruesome occupation, Phoebe needed to believe in comforting fantasies like ghosts and the hereafter. If so, she was living in the right neck of the woods. From all accounts, Maine was the paranormal portal for half the country.
When Phoebe returned, she carried a tray of muffins as well as the coffee refills. Apparently she wanted Rowe to stay a little longer. The dogs seemed fine with that. Both were stretched out on their sides, sound asleep on a well-worn Persian rug behind Rowe’s chair.
Rowe finished a muffin in short order. It was light and buttery, crammed with huge blueberries. She could have eaten five, but held back. Lately she’d been comforting herself with food, and it was showing in the beginnings of a spare tire. She’d also noticed more gray in her ash blond hair. Another legacy of Manhattan—aging before her time. She was only thirty-five. Surely it was way too soon for her to be seeing silver at her temples and frown lines between her eyes.
Surreptitiously, she checked herself out in a large wood-framed mirror on the nearest wall. Not bad. But it had been a mistake to allow her usual short haircut to grow out over the last few weeks. If it got any longer, people would think she wanted that Ellen Degeneres style. Depressed at how she had let herself go lately, she succumbed to another muffin, thinking, Too bad. Who cares?
“Did you make these?” she asked. “They’re delicious.”
Phoebe smiled shyly. It was as if a child peeped out from behind the mask of an adult. “Thank you, yes. I like to bake.” She indicated a paper bag sitting next to a huge vase of flowers on the walnut sideboard nearby. “I packed some for you to take home. Since you won’t be cooking much over there.”
Rowe was a little taken aback by this observation. “That’s really thoughtful of you. But actually, I’m pretty reasonable in the kitchen.”
Phoebe’s expression was cryptic. “Jasper—the man who owned your place before—he always came here to make his meals.”
And who could blame him? Was there a middle-aged male living alone who wouldn’t cut off both hands for the chance to play happy families with this neighbor? Rowe wondered if Phoebe had a boyfriend. There was an untouched quality about her that suggested not, but that was probably wishful thinking. Unless the entire male population of Maine was gay or blind, Phoebe Temple had to be clubbing them off.
The upscale floral arrangement on the sideboard drew her attention once more. Stargazer lilies, creamy roses, and pale pink dianthus—fragrant and romantic. A florist’s card was propped against the vase. Someone called “Vernell” conveyed his warmest regards.
Rowe’s heart sank by degrees. Phoebe was straight. Any woman who had ever made her look twice was straight. We all have our afflictions. Hers was lusting after the unattainable. Already she knew how her relationship with the neighbors would pan out: the hermitlike writer lurks in the woods hoping for a glimpse of the siren next door. The sister—Rowe pictured an older, hard-faced version of Phoebe with a sensible haircut and a cynical edge—eventually shows up at Dark Harbor Cottage to let Rowe know she’s making a nuisance of herself. Yet again, she gets writer’s block and can’t meet a deadline.
It was like some kind of cosmic joke. She had abandoned Manhattan to escape her futile passion for the wife of an author buddy. Now here was another Pasternak situation in the making. The signs were horribly familiar.
Rowe drained her coffee and got to her feet before Phoebe noticed her staring like the village idiot. “I must get going,” she said. “Thanks for asking me in. It was very nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.” Phoebe walked her to the back door, the dogs at their heels. “If you need anything, please ask. Let me give you our number.”
She took a card from an art deco hall table and handed it to Rowe. Her fingertips barely brushed Rowe’s hand but set off a flurry of sensory alerts. Rowe drew a sharp breath and her nostrils were flooded with Phoebe’s scent, a delicious Oriental blend of sandalwood and vanilla. Hints of juicy peach. Edible. Incredibly sexy. Run, don’t walk, she advised herself, and thanked her alluring neighbor once again for the coffee.
Pocketing the card, she crossed the immaculate backyard and resolved to see as little of Phoebe Temple as possible. The last thing she needed was another distraction. She had sent two books in well past deadline over the past eighteen months. They were both real dogs.
There was one novel left to write on her current contract, and it had to be a hit, otherwise she would not be getting the new seven-figure deal her agent dreamed of. So far, she had no bright ideas, and she was counting on the chan
ge of scenery to get her creative juices flowing. If nothing else, moving here meant she would never need to see Marion Cargill again.
Marion. An oily nausea invaded her gut. Marion, who tossed smiles like crusts to beggars, aware she had the power to crush, starve, or tempt. Marion, who pretended not to notice she was coveted. Sexy, heartless Marion, who spoke wistfully of love between women, as if it were a fascinating foreign land, the one stamp missing from her passport. She had teased, and Rowe had foolishly conjured a future for them. For a time, she had truly believed they would share this magical tomorrow. But here she was. Alone in Maine. A place Marion scorned.
She paused and stared back at her neighbor’s house. There was a movement at the window. Phoebe Temple was watching her.
*
The doorbell sounded like it came from a distant planet. Grumbling, Rowe stopped writing mid-sentence and dragged herself down three flights of stairs. She reached the front door just as the bell shrilled again.
“Give me a minute,” she yelled, wrestling the dogs into the parlor. Promising treats later, she shut them in, then answered the door.
Two young men stood on the opposite side of the ornate wrought-iron security screen Rowe had installed before she moved in. They looked like escapees from a quantum mechanics symposium, both blinking rapidly behind unfashionable eyewear. They cut their own hair, she decided, and were wearing clothes their mothers gave them for Christmas five years ago. Perhaps they had received their first male cologne that same year and reserved it for special occasions such as this. Rowe tried not to inhale too deeply. They had obviously doused themselves before leaving their car.
The taller of the pair complemented his sallow complexion and carrot-red hair with an orange plaid hat tied like a bonnet beneath his chin. “Excuse me,” he said with a marked stammer. “Are you Rowe Devlin, the author?”
The autograph hunters had tracked her down already. In a tone of brisk unwelcome, Rowe confirmed, “I am.”
“We’re really sorry to disturb you,” the shorter man babbled. “We know you must be busy writing.”
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