Prologue
"I could just kill him."
Monica Mayes pressed the gas pedal of her little BMW to
the floor and zoomed around a pokey Dodge Caravan, cutting
it a bit too close as she pulled back into her lane. The
driver of the Caravan braked, and the van swerved, but
Monica didn't notice.
"How could he do this to me?" she asked herself, pulling
out the cigarette lighter. With a trembling hand she held
it to the end of a Virginia Slim and took a long, slow
draw. No longer used to the smoke, she hadn't had a
cigarette in years, she coughed.
"He's not worth it," she decided, tossing the cigarette
out the window. She was damned if she was going to
sacrifice her health for him. He'd gotten enough from her
already. Thirty-two years of marriage, three grown
children.
Tears welled in her eyes. She couldn't believe how much it
hurt, actual physical pain. Her chest ached with every
breath; she could hardly swallow. He'd never laid a finger
on her, but she felt bruised and beaten anyway.
She hadn't seen that final blow coming. If she had she
might have taken care to avoid it. But she'd never
suspected a thing.
She'd left the house at a quarter to one for her weekly
shift at the Hospital Auxiliary thrift shop. Realizing
she'd forgotten a couple of Roland's old suits that she'd
planned to donate, she returned home. She'd hurried
upstairs, thrown open the bedroom door, and was halfway
across the room before she even saw them.
Roland and Krissy, her aerobics instructor. Her aerobics
instructor, for God's sake! And in her own bed--their
marriage bed.
"How could he do that?" she asked herself. He was such a
bastard. Why hadn't she realized it sooner? She'd just
gotten used to it. She gave and he took. That's the way it
was. Her job was to please him. She cooked for him. She
cleaned for him. She washed and ironed for him. She
entertained for him, and decorated the house for him. She
dressed for him, and dieted, and even took aerobics for
him.
She'd been a fool. She'd thought their marriage was as
important to him as it was to her. Him. The doctor. The
head honcho. The chief of staff.
Angry now, she impatiently brushed the tears from her
cheeks. She'd show him, she decided. She'd hit him where
it hurt. He wasn't going to get off scot free. He'd have
to pay. She began making a mental list as she flew along
the turnpike, empty on this weekday night now that the
tourist season was over.
First of all, she wanted the house in Tinker's Cove, and
all the furniture. She'd need her car, of course, and
money. A nice little nest egg, plus a big fat alimony
check every month. It was her due. She'd earned it. She
wasn't going to settle for less.
Was that her exit already? Braking hard she careened off
the highway, almost losing control of the car on the tight
curve of the exit ramp. Shaken, she pulled to a stop at
the intersection and paused, taking a few deep breaths.
Then she proceeded, carefully turning onto Route One and
was soon driving down Main Street, surprised to find it
empty. Of course, she reminded herself. Until now, she had
only been here in the summer, when the town was full of
tourists and summer residents. Now it was fall. Dark came
much earlier, and the only signs of life were the lighted
windows of the houses.
She stopped at the blinker and turned left, then left
again onto Hopkins Homestead Road. The road was named for
her house. Hopkins Homestead, the oldest house in Tinkers
Cove.
She took one last turn onto the familiar dirt driveway and
parked the car neatly in the vine covered carport behind
the woodshed.
Her key turned easily in the lock and the heavy pine door
swung open. She eagerly inhaled the spicy, old wood smell
of the house.
Ignoring her reflection in the spotted glass of the hall
mirror she stepped into the tiny parlor and switched on a
lamp.
It was just as she remembered. Bare, wide plank floors, a
camelback sofa, a scarred old sea chest serving as a
coffee table. There were no curtains on the windows;
Monica loved the way the garden became an Impressionist
landscape when viewed through the wavy old glass. Anyone
passing the house could have looked in and seen her, but
no one did.
She went into the next room, the dining room. A collection
of Currier and Ives lithographs hung on the wall, and a
pine drop leaf table stood in the center of the room,
surrounded by six yellow painted chairs. The chairs were
the first purchase she'd made for the old house,
hesitantly raising her hand at a country auction. "Sold,"
announced the auctioneer, bringing down his gavel The
bidding was over almost before it had begun. Soon she'd
become a regular, rescuing fine antiques from the greedy
dealers who stripped off the original finishes and slapped
on high prices, taking advantage of ignorant buyers.
Passing through the kitchen, she stepped up into the
borning room. Here, close to the warm kitchen hearth, was
where the first inhabitants of the house had given birth,
nursed the sick, and died. This was where she had put her
most prized possession, the curly maple sleigh bed.
Monica pulled back the blue and white hand-woven coverlet
and found crisp, white sheets. So, she had left the bed
made after all. She paid a quick visit to the bathroom,
grateful she'd decided to put off closing the house and
draining the pipes. Why had she done that? Had she known
on some subconscious level that she would need the house?
Shivering, she checked the thermostat and raised it to
sixty-eight.
Then she pulled off her shoes, slipped off her slacks, and
climbed into the bed, pulling the covers around her
shoulders. Involuntarily, she let out a long, shuddering
sigh.
She was so tired. Here was where she would rest, lick her
wounds, and gather her strength. The house was old; it had
endured centuries of nor'east storms, winter blizzards,
summer heat waves, and decades of neglect. She had
restored it and brought it back to life. Now, it was the
old homestead's turn to shelter and protect her. She felt
safe here. She reached up and turned off the light. She
slept.
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