“Everybody ready for a trip downtown?” I asked, stretching and yawning. “After we eat breakfast, I mean.”
“What’s for breakfast?” asked Claudia.
“Watson said he’d make waffles with fruit toppings, and Mom promised to make her special wake-up punch,” I said. “It has orange juice and lemonade and all kinds of good stuff mixed together.”
“Sounds great,” said Mary Anne, rolling over and sitting up. She threw off her blankets. “I’m ready.”
“Wait up,” said Stacey. “I just want to throw on some real clothes.”
“But we’re all wearing pajamas,” I said. “You don’t have to get dressed yet.”
“I don’t want to take a chance that Sam will see me in these silly things,” Stacey said, pulling at her polka-dotted pajamas.
“I guess you decided to forgive him for that anchovy trick,” I said, and Stacey blushed.
By the time we had eaten breakfast (Sam didn’t show his face at the table — Mom said he’d already left to play basketball with some friends) and gotten dressed, it was almost eleven. Watson had said he would give us a ride downtown whenever we were ready to go. Just before we left, though, I realized that we should call the store first to make sure it was open.
“What’s the name of that place, anyway?” I asked Mary Anne. I was flipping through the Yellow Pages.
“Sew Fine,” said Mary Anne. “S-E-W, that is. It’s near the pet shop.”
“Here it is,” I said. I grabbed the phone and dialed the number.
“Hello?” A woman answered the phone.
I wondered if it was Dorothy Sawyer. I pictured her holding the phone, looking the way she looked in the big painting in her old room in the house on Sawyer Road.
“Hello?” the woman asked again.
“Oh, uh,” I said, “hi. I mean, hello. I mean, I was just calling to see if you’re open, but I guess you must be since you picked up the phone, so that’s all, I guess, since you do seem to be open.” Oh, my lord, how embarrassing. Whoever was on the other end must have thought she was getting a crank call.
The woman laughed. “You’re right,” she said. “We certainly are open, and we will be until five. Do you need directions?” She sounded nice.
“No, no, that’s okay,” I said. “Thanks!” I hung up, rolling my eyes. How could I be such a dweeb? I just hoped that by the time we reached the store, the woman would have forgotten all about that phone call. And if she hadn’t, I hoped at least that she wouldn’t recognize my voice.
We piled into the van. Watson had just started it up when Karen came running out. “Wait for me!” she said. “If you’re going to that store, I want to come, too!” She held up the little picture. “I want to find out if that lady really is Dorothy.”
“Sure, Karen,” I said, feeling bad about not inviting her in the first place. Watson drove downtown and let us off in front of a small store with fabric in the window and a pretty wooden sign with painted letters. “Sew Fine,” I read. “It looks like a nice store.”
“Oh, it is,” said Mary Anne. “They have great stuff here, and they’re really friendly and helpful.”
“Well?” said Claudia. “What are we waiting for?” She pushed open the door, and we all followed her inside. There was a tinkling of bells as the door closed behind us.
A pleasant-looking elderly woman came out from behind the counter. “Hi there,” she said. “Can I help you?” She smiled at us, but she looked a little bewildered at the sight of seven teenagers and one little girl all crowding into that shop at once. Then she spotted Mary Anne. “Why, hello!” she said. “Back for another needlepoint pattern?”
“Uh, no,” said Mary Anne. “Actually —”
“We’re just here to look,” I said, cutting her off. I wasn’t quite ready to reveal our reason for coming.
“Oh, you must be the young lady who called earlier,” said the woman, turning to smile at me. “I recognize your voice.”
I could have died.
She gave me an understanding look. “I hate it when I get flustered on the phone,” she said. “Don’t you?”
I nodded gratefully. And I decided that, whoever this woman was, she was awfully nice.
“Well, browse as much as you like,” she said. “Just let me know if I can help you.” She walked back behind the counter and picked up a needlepoint canvas that she was working on.
I walked over to a wall where a million different colors of yarn were displayed on open shelves. Everyone else followed me and clustered around as Karen held out the picture again.
“Do you think it’s her?” whispered Jessi. We looked at the picture, then at the woman.
“Definitely,” answered Mary Anne, under her breath.
“It sure looks like her,” I agreed in a low voice. “So what do we do now?”
“You go ask her, Kristy,” whispered Stacey.
“Me?” I squeaked.
“Good idea,” whispered Claud. “You were the one who was in the house, after all.”
“Well, okay,” I said. I sneaked another peek at the woman, who seemed to be totally involved in her needlepoint. Karen handed me the picture, and I drew in a big, deep breath. Then I made myself walk over to the counter. The others followed. The woman looked up at me with a questioning smile. I took another breath. “Um,” I said, “the real reason we came here today was to ask you something.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“I don’t know how to put this, so I’ll just say it right out. Are you Dorothy Sawyer?”
The woman looked shocked. She didn’t speak for a second.
I showed her the picture. “My little sister,” I said, pointing at Karen, “found this last weekend. We were out driving and we got stuck between two washed-out bridges, on Sawyer Road. So a man named Will Blackburn let us stay at the big mansion there.” I went on and on, telling her our story. She listened without saying a word, although I thought I saw her eyes widen when I mentioned Will’s name.
Finally, I finished. She was silent for awhile, and then she started to talk. “You know,” she said, “I did love Will, very much.”
I gasped. And I heard my friends gasp, too. “So you are — ?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said, nodding. “I’m Dorothy Sawyer. At least, I was. And, as I said, I did love Will Blackburn. But that night, that stormy, stormy night, when I was swept downstream by the raging creek —” (We were all leaning forward, to catch every word.) “— I realized something. As I was climbing up the muddy bank where I had finally found something to hold onto, I realized that for the first time in my life I was free. Free! I was on my own. I didn’t have to answer to any man: not Father, not Will. For, as much as Will loved me, I knew he would have given me the same sort of life that Father had: a life that was overprotected and stifling.” Dorothy paused and looked very serious for a moment. “And so I never returned,” she went on. “I know it was wrong to let them think I was dead, but it was the only way I could see for me to take control of my life. And take control I did. I made up a new identity for myself. I traveled all over the world. I had a wonderful time. And then, finally, I settled in this little town, near the village of my childhood. Since I’ve always loved needlework and sewing, I opened this store ten years ago, and I’ve been here ever since.”
I was speechless, and so were my friends. I think we must have stood there staring at her for about five minutes. “Wow,” I said finally. “That is an awesome story.”
“It’s not one I’ve had the chance to tell too often,” she said, smiling.
“But what about Will?” asked Karen all of a sudden. I turned to her, and saw that she looked very sad. “I think he misses you a lot.”
Dorothy nodded. “I miss him sometimes, too,” she said. “As I said, I’ve had a good life. But it’s been a lonely one, at times.”
“Why don’t you go see him?” I said, without thinking. “I know he would be happy to know that you’re alive. Couldn’t you visit him just once?
”
Dorothy looked taken aback for a moment. But then she laughed. “Do you know, I think I’ll do just that!” she said. “It’ll give old Will a turn, but you’re right. Now that I know where he is, I think it would be grand to see him.”
When my friends and I left the shop that day, we were smiling. Everything had worked out just fine. The Krashers had been marooned, but now we were back. Will Blackburn and Dorothy Sawyer would soon have a happy reunion. And the mystery of the haunted mansion was finally over.
“But I still can’t help wondering,” said Dawn, as we walked down the street, “about whether there might be a ghost in that mansion. I mean, what about the things people have seen?”
“Dawn!” I said, “You’re really something. You never give up on a ghost story, do you?”
She shook her head happily. “Nope! They’re just too much fun.”
And in a way, I knew what she meant. I thought of that big old creepy mansion I’d spent the night in, and for a moment I almost wished it had been a haunted house. But then I realized that the real tale of the Sawyer mansion was better than any ghost story could ever be.
The author gratefully acknowledges
Ellen Miles
for her help in
preparing this manuscript.
About the Author
ANN MATTHEWS MARTIN was born on August 12, 1955. She grew up in Princeton, New Jersey, with her parents and her younger sister, Jane.
There are currently over 176 million copies of The Baby-sitters Club in print. (If you stacked all of these books up, the pile would be 21,245 miles high.)In addition to The Baby-sitters Club, Ann is the author of two other series, Main Street and Family Tree. Her novels include Belle Teal, A Corner of the Universe (a Newbery Honor book), Here Today, A Dog’s Life, On Christmas Eve, Everything for a Dog, Ten Rules for Living with My Sister, and Ten Good and Bad Things About My Life (So Far). She is also the coauthor, with Laura Godwin, of the Doll People series.
Ann lives in upstate New York with her dog and her cats.
Copyright © 1993 by Ann M. Martin.
All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Inc. SCHOLASTIC, THE BABY-SITTERS CLUB, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
First edition, June 1993
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
e-ISBN 978-0-545-76893-1
Ann M. Martin, Kristy and the Haunted Mansion
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