“And you say I am a romantic,” Amy said as she put the book away. “Anyway, Zoë, what you said can’t be true. Lord Hawthorne died young. And he had no wife or children. The title died with him and his nephew got the estates and squandered them on cards in just two years. There’s nothing left of the family today.”
“Did you read the whole book?” Faith asked.
“Every word of it,” Amy said. “I curled up on a window seat with the sun streaming in and read the whole book.” She gave them a look that dared them to tell her it had been raining all day.
“What’s more,” Amy said, “this was in the book.” She produced the business card with a flourish.
Faith took it first, read it, then handed it to Zoë.
“Cute,” Zoë said as she handed it back to Amy. “I don’t know about you guys, but I think we should leave now before it starts to rain again. There’s a grocery about a block away and we can—”
“That’s it?” Amy said. “Neither of you are going to comment on this card?”
Faith looked to Zoë for help. “Look,” Zoë said, her voice full of patience, “I know Jeanne told us to look for business cards, but I don’t think she meant she wanted us to see something about a psychic. Jeanne is a woman who studies.”
“She’s a scientist, actually,” Faith said in the same extra patient voice.
“That’s ridiculous!” Amy said. “Nobody’s a scientist when it comes to the human mind.”
“Okay, so I agree with you about that,” Zoë said. “You know what I think she wanted us to look for in business cards?”
“What?” Amy asked.
“A Realtor.”
“Why a Realtor?” Faith asked.
“I thought about it yesterday and it makes sense. Faith, you and I have no homes. I’m sure it says in some psychology textbook that patients must have homes. So Jeanne conned you and me into coming to this cute little town, told us to look at business cards, knowing that Realtors have their cards everywhere, and voilà! the spirit hits us and we buy a house here. Or two houses, that is. I don’t think we should live together, do you?”
Amy was so flabbergasted by this that she could say nothing.
Faith blinked a few times before she replied. “If I were going to buy a house, it would be in Florida or southern California, not in Maine. It’s beautiful here, but their winters are not for me.” She leaned toward Zoë. “What I want to know is how you know that I don’t own a house.”
“You told us,” Zoë said, the lie slipping quickly and easily off her tongue.
“I think we should go,” Amy said. She wasn’t going to let them see her disappointment at their reactions to the card. Let them think that the therapist meant for them to buy a house here, but Amy thought otherwise. Between her dream and the bookstore and the book, she was beginning to think that this trip was part of her destiny.
When she glanced up, the other two were looking at her. “What?”
“You just said the word ‘destiny’ and we wondered why.”
“Oh, nothing. It’s just something I’ve thought about. Nothing important.”
“I’d like to hear it,” Faith said, then glared at Zoë to keep her from making a sarcastic remark.
“Yeah, me, too,” Zoë said, but there was a tone of facetiousness in her voice.
“It’s nothing,” Amy said. “It’s just that years ago I read something that stuck in my mind. Everyone has heard about predestination, that before we’re born our lives are planned out for us.”
“And whoever believes that please raise their hand,” Zoë said.
Faith gave her another glare and Zoë closed her mouth.
“Anyway,” Amy said, “I thought about it because when I was very young I knew that Stephen was my destiny. I don’t know how to explain it, but I knew that my destiny on earth was to marry him and have three children, two boys and a girl. When I miscarried the girl I was upset, true, but it was deeper than that. I was afraid that I had somehow accidently changed my destiny.”
“If it’s predestined before you’re born, how can it change?” Zoë asked.
“That’s what I always thought, that it couldn’t change, and I guess it wouldn’t if you were the only person on earth. Well, actually, that would change your destiny for sure, but, anyway, I read an article in some magazine that said that people and events can change your destiny. Like you, Zoë, that car accident could have changed your destiny.”
“How do you know the accident wasn’t in my destiny?”
“I don’t, but since you’re so angry about it, maybe your destiny was to do something else, but the accident sent you in another direction.”
Zoë didn’t say anything, just looked at Amy.
“And me,” Faith said. “Maybe my destiny was to marry Tyler.”
It took all Amy could do not to look at Zoë. If they looked at each other, it would give too much away.
“Murder must change a person’s destiny,” Zoë said.
“Murder?” Faith asked. “What brought that up?”
“Here!” Amy said quickly. “In this book. Lord Hawthorne was killed in his sleep. Someone plunged a knife in his heart.”
“What a waste,” Zoë said. “Are you two finished? I think we should leave.” She looked at Amy. “Unless you have another fascinating word to whisper.”
“No, destiny is my word for the day. I’m ready if you are.” She picked up her handbag and her book, then reached for the business card on the table, but Faith held on to it.
“Interesting come-on this woman has,” she said. “To rewrite one’s past.”
“And if you could, what would you do?” Zoë asked, standing and looking down at Faith.
“Probably nothing,” she said as she stood up. “I think my destiny was decided for me by Tyler Parks. I think that if he’d climbed in my window a second time I would have run off with him.” She shrugged. “But he didn’t. He ran off, true, but it was probably with a blonde.”
When Faith looked at the other two, they weren’t smiling. “It was just a joke. Don’t you two have a sense of humor?”
“Sure,” Amy said. “Wait until tomorrow when I tell you about the dream I’m going to have tonight.”
Amy and Zoë left the shop in front of Faith. “You have to tell her,” Amy said under her breath. “She needs to know.”
“Why? So she can go back in time and change her destiny?”
“You can laugh at me all you want, but I think she needs to know.”
“Who needs to know what?” Faith asked, coming up behind them.
“What she’s going to put in the salad she’s going to make tonight,” Amy said quickly.
“Yes, of course,” Faith said, but they could tell she knew they’d been talking about her. “I’ll help you choose,” she said, then walked ahead of them.
Amy glared at Zoë. Tell her! she mouthed. Tell her.
Ten
Again, Amy was dreaming.
The man was getting on a horse. It was pouring down rain, she was standing in a mud puddle, and looking up at him. To her left was the tavern.
“Someone is going to kill you,” she said as she tried to keep the water out of her eyes while she looked up at him.
The man smiled down at her, rain dripping off his hat. “I thank you for the warning,” he said, amused. “It is most kind of you.”
“No!” Amy said, moving closer to him. “You have to listen to me. Someone is going to kill you in your bed. They’re going to put a knife through your heart while you sleep.”
The man frowned at that. “I do not like soothsayers,” he said. “They go against God. Beware who you tell your evil predictions to or someone may remove your head.” He reined his horse away, obviously wanting to get away from her.
“Is she botherin’ you, my lord,” said a man from behind Amy. He was short and fat and wore a leather apron. Before the man on the horse could answer, the fat man gave Amy a backhand slap that sent her sprawling in the mud. ?
??Get back to work,” he shouted at her.
The older man looked up at Lord Hawthorne, blinking against the rain. “She be me own daughter but she’s a worthless lot. I’ll see that she don’t bother you no more, sir.”
Lord Hawthorne reached into his pocket, pulled out a coin, and tossed it to the man, who caught it easily. “Don’t beat her. If I return here and see bruises on her I’ll hold you responsible.”
Smiling, the man winked at Lord Hawthorne. “Oh, aye, me lord, I’ll be careful that the marks don’t show.”
Lord Hawthorne looked at Amy standing behind her father. Her nose was swollen from the blows of her sister and now there was a bruise growing on her jaw from where her father had just hit her. “How much for her?”
The man licked his lips. “For the night?”
“Nay, to take her with me.”
“Two guineas,” the man quickly said.
Lord Hawthorne reached into his pocket, found the coins, and tossed them to the man. He looked at Amy. “Climb into the cart if you want to go. I will not wait for you to gather your flea-ridden goods.”
Amy didn’t lose a second before she jumped onto a two-wheeled cart. It was packed so full of trunks and cases that she could hardly find standing room, but that didn’t bother her. She just wanted to get away from the place where people were free to hit her. She managed to squeeze herself in between two trunks and sat down on a third one. The rain was coming down hard in her eyes, but she could still see that the man who was supposed to be her father didn’t so much as look after her long enough to wave goodbye. She looked up at Lord Hawthorne as the man leading the old cart horse began to move, but he didn’t look at her. She was wet and her face hurt, but once she’d made herself a cavelike space between and under the trunks, she realized how tired she was. The sound of the rain and the moving of the cart soon lulled her to sleep.
The next morning, Amy took her time getting dressed and she did what she could to cover the new bruise on her jaw. It hurt to open her mouth and she was sure her eye was going to turn black.
“What truck hit you?” Zoë asked when she saw Amy.
Faith stared for a moment, then pulled out a chair for her. “You don’t look good.”
“Thanks,” Amy said. “My mirror didn’t have enough bad to say about me, so you two told me more.” She sneezed.
“Are you catching a cold?” Faith asked.
“No,” Zoë said, looking up from her sketch pad, “she’s had another dream.”
“Have you?”
“’Fraid so,” Amy said, and sneezed again.
Faith handed her a glass of orange juice. “You want to tell us about it?”
In between sneezes and gulps of juice, Amy told them about the second dream. “When I woke up from it, it was the middle of the night, my nightgown was soaking wet, my hair sopping, and my jaw hurt like heck.”
“From where dear ol’ dad smacked you,” Zoë said in wonder.
“I was either in the eighteenth century or I was sleepwalking and jumped in the shower with my clothes on,” Amy said. “Take your pick.”
“Shower,” Faith said.
“I like the man on a horse. Please tell me it was a black horse,” Zoë said.
“Like midnight,” Amy answered.
“Were you reading that book again last night?” Faith asked. “Before you went to sleep?”
“Yes,” Amy said, blowing her nose. “But I nearly always read before I go to sleep and not once have I dreamed about the characters in a book.”
“Maybe you should go to Madame Zora and get your future told,” Zoë said, her tone teasing.
“It was Zoya, not Zora.”
“Whatever,” Zoë said. She turned her sketchbook around so Amy could see what she’d drawn. She’d made a full-length portrait of the Dark Stephen, as Amy thought of him.
Taking the pad, Amy looked at the drawing. There was the man wearing his black clothes, complete with long cape and silver sword. His hair was long and hung about his eyes—eyes that were intense but kind at the same time.
“He is perfect,” she whispered. She was looking at the drawing so she didn’t see the way Faith and Zoë glanced at each other, as though they were concerned about her but didn’t want to say so. “It’s hard to believe you drew him so well just from my description.”
“How could I not?” Zoë asked. “You described him in such detail I could see every inch of him. Maybe if I slept in your bed I’d have a dream about him. I could stand that.”
“She had a little help from this,” Faith said, handing Amy a copy of The Scarlet Letter. In the back was a photo of a portrait of Nathaniel Hawthorne, a truly beautiful man.
“It does look like him,” Amy said. “But there’s something different about the eyes of my man.”
“Your man?” Zoë said, raising her eyebrows.
“I’m beginning to think he’s part of me,” Amy said softly as she reluctantly handed the drawing back to Zoë.
Faith put a bowl and a spoon in front of Amy and she poured herself some cereal.
“Do you think that if I called Jeanne she’d know anything about this?”
“No!” Faith and Zoë said loudly in unison.
Faith recovered first. “I’m sure Jeanne would love to hear about a woman who has dreams so real that if it rains in the dream she wakes up wet, but…” She looked at Zoë for help.
“You’d end up spending the next several years of your life going to therapy and talking about what you could just as well tell your friends.”
Amy thought about her friends at home. Without exception, they were like her. It was true that some of them had been through divorces and they’d had their share of grief, but all in all, not much supernatural had ever happened to them. Most of them said they didn’t believe in ghosts. If Amy told them of her very realistic dreams, she doubted that they’d ever speak to her again.
“Do you know why your therapist sent us here?” Amy asked.
“She wouldn’t tell me a word,” Zoë said. “She just said I was to consider it a vacation and that if I did it, she’d give me a good report to the court.”
“Isn’t that blackmail?” Amy asked.
“As black as it gets,” Zoë said, “but she knows I’ll do most anything to quit having to check in to my parole officer, so to speak.”
“I don’t understand why a court ordered you to seek therapy if you didn’t want it,” Amy said. “Losing your memory isn’t a criminal offense.”
“Actually, I wondered about that too,” Faith said, and both women looked at Zoë.
When about three minutes went by and it didn’t seem that the two women were going to relent in their staring, Zoë sighed. “Okay, so maybe there was more to it than just losing my memory. Let’s just say that I was a bit angry that the people I’d known all my life weren’t speaking to me.”
“So?” Faith asked.
“So nothing,” Zoë said as she picked up her pad and started to leave the room.
She got halfway out before Amy spoke. “Next time I have a dream I’m going to tell Faith but not you.”
Zoë glared at Amy and was about to say something, but she closed her mouth. “Okay,” Zoë said at last, “I told you that the last thing I remembered was the high school prom?”
“Yes,” Faith said.
“When I woke up it was, well…A bit disconcerting to be told that not one person had come to see me in the hospital. Not my sister, not any of my cousins, not all the girls I’d giggled with in high school. Nobody.”
“White-hot rage?” Amy said.
“That describes it. At first I tried not to care, but as I healed, I began to get angry. In fact, I think rage may have been the fuel behind my rehabilitation.”
“So what did you do to get the attention of the court?” Faith asked.
“I…Well, I sort of, well…” Zoë put on a look of defiance that dared them to judge her. “I had the car I crashed in hauled to the center of town and I set it on fire
.”
At first Faith and Amy just blinked at her, then Amy started to laugh. A second later, Faith joined her, and after that, Zoë began to laugh. They were falling over one another. Faith made hand motions of the car, then yelled, “Kaboom!”
“Was it a big fire?” Amy asked, still laughing and holding her face to keep it from hurting.
“Huge. Enormous. I dumped four gallons of gasoline on the thing and it went up in a great blast. I think the tank was still full.”
Faith was holding her stomach laughing. “Did they come out to see it?”
“Everyone did,” Zoë said, laughing. “The whole town. Bells went off, people screamed, and everyone was flapping their arms.”
“Anything else burn?” Amy asked, pausing for a moment.
“Just grass. I put the wreck smack in the center of the town square. There weren’t even any trees nearby. I wanted a clear spot where everyone would see it.”
“I can visualize the whole thing,” Faith said, grinning.
“Where were you?” Amy asked.
“I was standing as close as I could get without getting burned,” Zoë said. “Like this.” She stood with her legs apart and her arms crossed over her chest. Her face had an expression of defiance that dared anyone to mess with her.
“I would have stayed away from you,” Amy said. “What about you, Faith?”
“Wouldn’t have got within a hundred feet. But did they? Surely, someone must have approached you.”
“No one,” Zoë said with pride. “Well, not until the police showed up and they, well, sort of touched me.”
“Handcuffs?” Amy asked. “Read you your rights?”
“Yup,” Zoë said. “But it was worth it. I saw my sister in the crowd, and when she saw me, she ran away as fast as she could. She couldn’t face me.”
“Or her guilt,” Amy said.
Zoë stopped smiling and sat down. “You know, when I saw her run, that’s just what I thought, that she looked guilty. If the car hadn’t exploded right then and the fire department hadn’t pulled up with their sirens blaring, I might have run after her.”
“Interesting,” Amy said. “I wonder what she told people and what the truth was?”