Chapter 1
“Are you sure this is right?”
My ears reverberated from the thunderous humming of the airboat as I stepped onto the brown planked walkway and tried to ignore the murky green water below the gaps. On my head, my big floppy hat—one that I had worn to countless poolside soirees and garden parties—was now a drooping, shapeless mass. I brushed down my white jumpsuit and cursed my lack of forethought in choosing my attire for the day. A relaxing boat ride I was expecting. A choppy airboat ride? Not so much.
“Yes, ma’am.” The boat operator grinned broadly. “Darkly Island.”
My fashionably messy bun, which had taken my stylist two hours to create, was undone in less than twenty minutes; it now stuck out all over my head as if a family of swamp rats had moved in and redecorated. I tried to tuck some of the stray chestnut brown hairs back into place, gave up, and plopped my ruined hat back on my head, protecting my pale skin from the blistering sun. The earthy smell of wood rot and wet grass hit my nose, along with an undercurrent of something sweet and delicate, perhaps honeysuckle, or frangipani. A thicket of bald cypress trees ran along the shoreline surrounded by tall swaying cattails. Beyond the dock, a few low-growing palms swayed next to a gravel path.
As I looked around my new home—contemplating returning to the boat and hightailing it back to New York—the boatman set my designer trunk and matching vanity case on the dock. With a flourish, he tipped his hat and hopped back onto the boat, sliding deftly behind the air shield. The engine cut on with a roar, and I threw a hand on top of my hat, waving hysterically with the other.
“Wait! Aren’t you going to help me with all these bags?”
The man waved back, gave one last toothy grin, and spun the boat around, heading back the way we came.
I stomped one high-heeled boot in frustration. Without the rush of air from the boat ride, the Louisiana heat smothered me in its heavy cloak. Within minutes, my whole body felt hot and sticky, and I wondered how I would ever get used to living in this devilish heat.
With a sigh, I heaved my tote onto my shoulder, swatted at a dragonfly trying to hitch a ride, and grabbed both pieces of luggage. Never one to overdramatize things—and I mean that quite sarcastically—I stomped my foot one last time for good measure and was repaid with a booming crack as my heel crashed through the rickety dock. I toppled sideways, over adjusted, and then fell forward, butt up in the air. I clutched my precious bags beneath me, not daring to move an inch. My ruined hat slid from my head and lodged itself in the cattails lining the shore.
I shook my head. “Oh, for Pete’s sake!”
“Need some help, chere?” A smooth Southern voice called to me from the shore.
Leaning against the willow tree was a tan, blond man in khaki pants and a short-sleeved silk shirt. He appeared to be in his thirties, like me, and held himself with a laid-back assurance I desperately craved at that moment.
I might never get accustomed to this blazing heat, but I could definitely get accustomed to Louisiana gentlemen, especially if they call me chere and happen to be as movie-star attractive as this man.
“Yes, please. If you would.”
“You must forgive Char,” he said as he ambled over to inspect my intertwined luggage and legs. “To his detriment, being in that wretched boat every day has left him almost completely deaf.”
He pulled his hands from his pockets and bent over until he was at my eye level. “You’re going to need to let go of these bags if you want me to deposit them safely on terra firma.”
Once I had relinquished my hold, he easily untangled my luggage. Without launching either of us into the marsh, I might add. He then picked up both the trunk and the case, deftly skirted the gaps in the dock, and deposited the bags next to the gravel path.
He sauntered back to the dock and crouched down, examining my foot dangling above the muck. “Looks like you’ve got it stuck tight.”
I nodded my head. “It won’t budge.” I pulled and shook my foot, but no matter what I did, my ankle remained lodged in the planking.
“Sorry to tell you, darling, but that boot’s gonna have to go,” he said with a commiserative shake of his head.
“Can’t you just—I don’t know—cut a hole in the dock?” I cried, panic rising in my voice.
His smile was back. “I could. But do you really want to wait here in that position—as adorable as it is—while I try to find someone with the tools to cut out a piece of this dock? And who knows if they’ll even be able to do it without cutting off a chunk of your foot?”
“Oh fine,” I said. “Do what you have to do.”
Levering the heel of my boot up against the dock to hold it in place, I tugged and wiggled my foot as I grasped the man’s arm. After a few minutes of twisting and pulling on my foot, it finally popped out, as my sweaty hands slipped off the man’s arm and I tumbled backward into the green waters below.
My butt hit the water first, and I splashed and sputtered as I tried to find my footing on the slimy mud bottom. The soft, warm water swirled around my legs as I finally stood and squelched my way to the shoreline. To his benefit, the man neither laughed, nor ran away. He simply extended a hand to me through the cattails and pulled me to dry land.
“Sorry about that, dear,” he said in his soft, Southern twang.
I waved a hand and a dripping cluster of duckweed flew off and slapped me on the forehead. “Not your fault. You have just witnessed the past three months of my life condensed into a brief thirty-second vignette.”
“C’mon, let’s get you to town,” he said, chuckling. “By the way, I’m Chase Abernathy-Wyatt. My husband Lorenzo de Zavala and I own the Spells & Gels Salon right up the road.”
I looked down at the wet, brown mess that had once been my trendy jumpsuit and sighed dismally. Was the universe trying to tell me something?
“Are you staying at the Green Gator Tavern or White Hart Inn?”
“Neither.” I hobbled down the walkway, tiptoeing as best I could in one stiletto boot and one bare foot. “I own a house here in Darkly.”
Insecurity getting the best of me, I stared down at the gravel path. I was uncomfortable with being willed a house from someone I didn’t remember ever meeting.
He stopped and raised an eyebrow. “Well, bless my stars! Are you Windsor Ebonwood?”
“I am,” I said, extending my hand. “But most people call me
Win.”
Chase shook my hand heartily.
“Minta’s granddaughter! It’s wonderful to meet you, Win.” His voice dropped its jocular tone. “I’m terribly sorry about
Minta, dear. She was a hoot, and we all miss her.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I remained silent, continuing to hobble and drip by his side.
“Do you have a ride to Fernwood? It’s not far, but with all this luggage and only one boot, it might take you awhile,” Chase said.
“Fernwood?”
“Fernwood’s the name of your new home, hun.”
“Oh. Right. Yes, my grandmother’s attorney will pick me up. Mr. Hathaway, I believe.”
At the end of the gravel path, a paved road passed over a stone bridge, where it changed into cobbles, then curved through a row of two- and three-story brick buildings, with iron scroll balcony railings and overflowing flower boxes.
I gasped. This was not at all what I expected.
Chase smiled proudly. “Yep. Our little town does have quite a bit of charm.”
Just then, a white Jeep passed us, swung around, and screeched to a stop.
“Hi, Chase.” A brown-skinned woman with a platinum blond pixie-cut waved.
“Hey, Tzazi.”
The woman turned to me. “Are you Windsor Ebonwood?” “Win,” I said.
The woman hopped out of the vehicle and strode to where we stood. As she drew closer, tattoos of black and red roses twirling up and down her arms caught my attention. Huge diamond studs decorated her ears, and I envied the light cotton dress and sandals she wore. I looked down at myself again—yep, I still looked like a mess—and cringed. At least the heat was now bearable.
“I’m Tzazi. Tzazi Strangeland, an attorney at Hathaway & Strangeland. Mr. Hathaway is tied up with a client, so he sent me in his stead.” She shook my hand, giving me an up and down look. “Whatever happened to you?”
Chase snorted, picking up my bags and placing them in the back of the Jeep.
I ignored him.
“My heel crashed through the dock, and I fell into the swamp,” I said.
“Char really needs to fix those docks. C’mon. I’ve got a blanket in the Jeep.” Tzazi turned to Chase. “Will I see you at the Gator tonight?”
“With bells on,” he replied. “See you around, Win.”
Chase waved, slid on his sunglasses, and strolled up the lane toward an old man selling poppets from a metal pushcart.
Tzazi removed a midnight blue quilt from the back of the Jeep and wrapped it around me. I climbed in, carefully placing my foot on the floorboard. The skin burned where it had scraped against the wood, and it felt good to take the pressure off my raw ankle.
Tzazi frowned as she turned onto the lane and pointed at my foot. “Do you need to see a doctor for that? And what happened to your other boot?”
“It’s only a scrape.” I frowned. “And the boot’s found its final resting place at the bottom of the swamp.”
Tzazi laughed. “That swamp has taken in more designer duds than a harpy on a bender.”
“Huh?” I had never heard that one before.
“Nothing,” she said, waving a hand. “Would you like a quick tour of Darkly, so you can get your bearings and see a little of our town? Only take a minute.”
I nodded my acceptance and off we went.
As she drove, Tzazi pointed out various shops and buildings on the main thoroughfare, Front Street—such as the butcher, the grocery store, and her law office—along with a few notable residents, like the mayor, whose bushy red hair I wouldn’t easily forget, and Mr. Sugarloaf, the owner of the sweet shop. At odds with its name, I found Darkly to be a lively town with window boxes full of showy ferns and bougainvillea. The sidewalks, shaded by the balconies above, bustled with townspeople, who smiled and waved as we drove by.
“What kind of law do you specialize in?” I asked as we turned next to the tavern called the Green Gator, and the road ascended a small hill. A Tudor-style mansion with an expansive, green lawn appeared outside my window, and I craned my neck to take it all in.
“Well, in a small town, we do a bit of everything,” she said. “Contracts. Divorces. But my favorite? Criminal Defense. Dewey —Mr. Hathaway—says I’m like a shark smelling blood in the water. That might not be the nicest thing to say about an attorney” —she shrugged—“but it did get me into the Top Forty Under Forty list this year. I don’t enjoy seeing good people being pushed around.”
“Is there a lot of crime around here?” I asked. We drove past several small homes, long and thin, painted vividly in greens, yellows, purples, and reds. Shuttered windows stretched from floors to ceilings.
“Not really. I usually end up going out to Strawbridge or Wychwood. Those towns are a little larger. Here, the worst we get is too much drinking on Solstice. I’m guessing you do something in books?”
I laughed. “Good guess! I’m a book conservator. Taught at a university until, well, things fell apart recently.”
“That sounds like an excellent story to be told, and listened to, with a glass of wine. I’ve got a few of those stories myself.”
After we turned around on the outskirts of town (She was right; it did only take a minute!) and drove back down the hill into Darkly, Tzazi stopped before one of the taller three-story buildings in the center of town. While this building shared the distinct brick walls and cast-iron decorative railings of the others, no bright awnings, nor overflowing window boxes, graced its front. Instead, stained-glass windows rose from sidewalk to roof, split by an arched wooden entryway. The building was flanked by Dianthe’s Oopsie Daisies and a shop with the odd name of Besoms & Britches.
“This is your bookshop,” Tzazi said with a flourish. “Mr. Hathaway has the keys. He’ll be in touch with you in the next few days. He wants to give them to you himself.”
“My bookshop.” An overwhelming urge to reach out for the structure overcame me, and I placed my palms longingly on the car window.
The building appeared regal, almost cathedral-like, and I felt a strange bond the moment I saw it. The stained-glass pieces in the windows portrayed various life scenes—like a shepherdess and her herd, birds in flight, and a spectacular castle with spires and flags. There were hundreds of them, each one depicting a completely different scene.
I startled, Tzazi’s voice drawing me out of my reverie.
“Maman’s coffee shop.” She pointed at the corner building only a few doors down from the bookshop, one with an outdoor seating area and a colorful sign written in fancy script: The Magic Cup.
“She also serves the best tea and scones in town,” Tzazi said.
Putting the Jeep in gear, Tzazi did a U-turn and parked in front of an imposing metal entryway. An intricate wrought-iron fence, embellished with winged demons and openmouthed gargoyles, ran alongside the property. Beyond the entrance, a path threaded through lush green foliage and twined around oak and magnolia trees. In the distance, a stone bell tower stood tall in its center like Tolkien’s Treebeard.
“This is Darkly Cemetery,” she said softly. “When you’re ready to visit Minta and your mom.”
I pushed back the sudden onset of sadness and found that I could only nod.
Tzazi watched me for a few moments.
“You ready to see Fernwood?” she asked.
Despite the emotions threatening to overpower me, the thought of seeing my family home raised my spirits.
I smiled and gave Tzazi a thumbs up, not trusting myself to speak.
As we left town, the cobblestone street soon gave way to a dark asphalt road, which we drove on for only a few minutes. Turning right next to a Herculean oak, one that looked to be over five hundred years of age, we passed through a gateway with a simple metal sign: “Fernwood.” The Jeep rolled onto a curved driveway laced with terracotta pavers.
I gasped as the home came into view.
Tzazi reached over and patted my arm reassuringly. “Welcome to Fernwood.”
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