Maple & Moonlight (Maplewood #2)

Chapter 1

Celine

I’d come to Vermont for peace. A fresh start.

Not to burn down our new house on day one.

But my kids and I, we had a knack for creating catastrophe.

I’d survived the drive, the move, and my children’s meltdowns, but standing alone on that porch was what finally made my knees shake and my throat tighten with a sensation dangerously close to relief.

With a heavy dose of exhaustion thrown in. By the time I waved off Chloe and Gus, I was running on fumes and borrowed hope.

While I was relieved to be moved in and thankful we’d driven up a day early to get things unpacked, I was anything but settled. I felt untethered. Hovering somewhere between escape and imprisonment. Between departure and arrival. Between the safety and peace I craved and the life I’d left behind.

I stood on the porch and waved as they drove away, smiling even as my heart sank into my stomach. As the sound of Gus’s tires on gravel faded, the late August haze settled around me. Vermont. It was warm and green, and the world here felt softer, like it hadn’t yet learned how to hurt me.

It was beautiful. Fewer pine trees than I was used to, but I’d adjust. I could adjust to anything.

I’d learned that lesson the hard way. The air smelled like wildflowers and river water.

It was far preferable to the scent of fear and antiseptic and musty courtrooms I’d become far too familiar with lately.

In the front yard, relishing the peacefulness of the moment, I took what felt like my first deep breath in years.

This was the right choice.

I’d been repeating it to myself like a mantra all day.

We’re safe now.

Maine didn’t feel safe anymore.

My former home. Where I’d spent my entire life.

Every street corner held shadows of him. Every grocery aisle a familiar face. Even staying Downeast, far away from all of it, gave me no relief.

Turns out trauma can even ruin geography.

Chloe had offered us her giant lakefront house in Lovewell, but it was too close to where it all happened.

We’d never move forward if we were constantly faced with pitying looks and the ghost of my kids’ father lurking around every corner.

Not to mention my ex-in-laws, who had vowed to make my life miserable while their son was too busy in prison to do the job properly.

We’d gone south, to Portland, last year. I’d gotten Julian a spot in a therapeutic kindergarten program at a specialty autism school.

It had been wonderful. And expensive.

But he’d thrived.

And he still was. The decision to leave was painful, but I needed a job and a fresh start.

And given that he required far fewer supports than when he was younger, I was feeling good about a mainstream school.

When we’d visited at the beginning of the summer, the kids had loved the area, especially the big park and coffee shop downtown.

We’d ordered a dozen flavors of donuts and sampled them “for science” before taking selfies at the covered bridge.

Maplewood was familiar, yet different. Small town New England, but with a quirky charm that I thought only existed in cheesy Netflix rom-coms.

The people here were friendly. Maybe even a little too friendly.

Lots of hellos and several gifts of zucchini and maple syrup.

I’d received welcome texts from the other teachers at my new school along with a surprising number of offers to help us move and get settled.

It felt unnervingly like walking into a warm hug I wasn’t sure I deserved.

I turned and surveyed the house. It was as advertised—quiet, rural, and secluded.

Though it was nicer than I had anticipated.

Far nicer than what we were used to. And the rent was laughably cheap.

Callie, the school principal, surely had something to do with that part.

When I’d told her I wasn’t sure it was logical to uproot the kids and that I couldn’t afford a big enough home for the four of us on my own, she’d laughed me off, insisting that she had the perfect place.

And somehow, she was right. It was magically available at the right time and the rent was within my budget.

I was still wary. I’d grown up in a small, tight-knit New England town in Maine.

In Heartsborough, we were suspicious of outsiders; we weren’t securing them prime real estate.

Maplewood, on the other hand, went far above and beyond to welcome new arrivals.

This home was a gift from the universe. I’d rent from Satan himself if it meant access to a kitchen like this one and the fancy Wolf stove.

The poor landlord. Josh, I think? With his quiet voice, surly attitude, and giant shoulders, had probably rented to us under duress.

From the interactions I’d had with townsfolk so far, they were all adamant that this was where I should live.

So the idea that he really wasn’t keen on having tenants made me feel bad.

But not bad enough to find another rental.

Hell no, this place was gorgeous. And it had a tub.

A freestanding, claw-foot tub in the primary suite. A tub like that wasn’t a luxury; it was salvation. The farmer who owned this place might be grumpy, but his taste was impeccable.

I hadn’t seen a woman around so far, but he must have a wife.

Only someone familiar with the intricacies of motherhood and the stress that comes along with it—and probably some experience with witchcraft—would think to put a tub under a picture window, then hang a chandelier above it.

A smart woman. One with kids, who understood the need for a really kick-ass tub.

Or maybe broody, broad-shouldered Josh was secretly a romantic interior design savant trapped in the body of a bearded mountain man. Hard to tell.

Our first meeting had not gone as I’d planned, and it hadn’t gone exceptionally well either.

But I pivoted quickly. I’d gotten used to that.

Julian had a tendency to upend even my best-laid plans.

Our first interaction had been chaotic and somewhat mortifying.

Especially since I hadn’t been wearing a shirt.

If first impressions mattered, then introducing myself while in a sports bra and Crocs said unstable, sweaty mother of three who was flirting with a nervous breakdown.

The interaction played over and over in my mind. One of the great gifts my anxiety had bestowed upon me was the ability to remember every detail of an embarrassing incident in a photographic way. So the replays were in HD with vivid detail.

Josh.

He was big. A little gruff.

Looked like he’d been carved out of the rock that made up the mountains of Vermont.

When I’d first caught sight of him, all my internal alarms had gone off.

But right away, he’d been respectful and kind to Julian. Gentle, even. It was a surprise, coming from a man who looked like he could bench press a tractor. And from the limited interaction we’d had so far, he seemed like he kept to himself, which was ideal in this scenario.

With any luck, he’d cash my checks and leave us alone. I certainly had no intention of spending more time with him than necessary.

Quiet landlord, quiet new life. That was the dream. But could that dream survive the chaos of my kids? That was yet to be determined.

Our arrival had been predictably intense. The kids had spilled out of the minivan like marbles and scattered. Ellie had complained about anything and everything while Maggie searched the property for horses and Julian vacillated between clinging to me and wandering off.

We were sweaty and cranky, but we’d gotten the moving pod—which had beat us here, miraculously—emptied and the furniture staged.

Most of the unloading had been done by Gus, who’d proven himself to be my favorite brother-in-law.

Never mind that he was my only brother-in-law.

He’d quietly carried boxes and assembled furniture while Chloe barked instructions.

He’d put the girls’ bunk beds together in record time and even had time to play a round of Uno with Julian before he left.

I owed them so much. My sister, who for far too many years had felt like a stranger, had shown up when I needed her and saved me. She’d been there on the worst day of my life and she hadn’t stopped aggressively loving me and my kids since. I’d never felt so grateful, yet I’d never felt so alone.

My nervous system was still out of whack, making it difficult to wrap my mind around the events of the last few months.

In quick succession, I’d finalized the protective order and the divorce decree and signed the rental agreement.

During that time, I had one fresh start that turned out to be not so fresh.

From there, I’d headed to Vermont. It was the farthest I’d ever been from him.

It was safe. But the fear still hovered, like a shadow.

Yet beneath that fear, something else flickered. Possibility. Hope. That I could have a life that was my own, that didn’t revolve around danger. A life where my kids could be curious and hopeful, and we could all just breathe.

Shaking off my ruminations, I kicked a large piece of gravel and steeled myself for the days ahead. I’d made it. I was fortunate, and my life would only get better from here. But part of me still wondered if I deserved good things.

Unsurprisingly, my kids had made themselves at home. Julian was already building a Lego masterpiece on the floor while Maggie buzzed around the kitchen, her blonde curls bouncing.

“Can we hive sleep tonight?” she asked.

With affection and a little defeat rolling through me, I nodded.

Someday I would sleep blissfully alone. Someday.

Donny had locked the door to keep the kids out of our room. And at the time, I hadn’t argued.

But after all that had happened, we’d needed closeness. Comfort.

So Julian started sleeping with me.

And then, on occasion, Maggie and Ellie would join.

We’d nicknamed ourselves “the hive” because Julian had been super fixated on bees at the time.

He’d read all the books about honeybees at the library and had begun teaching us about the incredible creatures.

He’d declared me the queen and explained that in winter, a hive clusters around the queen, snuggling to keep her warm.

So on those nights when life got scary, they’d pile into my bed, and I’d read to them from the Shel Silverstein book my mom had given me as a kid.

“I’m hungry,” Julian complained.

“I’ve got dino nuggets, microwave popcorn, and apples,” I declared, thankful I’d popped into a small market on the way.

Ellie scoffed while Maggie declared “a feast!”

The kitchen was far from unpacked, but I’d work on it once the kids went to bed. Chloe and Gus had already helped with the big stuff, and for the most part, we traveled light these days.

That started when we packed up our family home almost three years ago. All the furniture went to storage, and I’d never been tempted to go through any of it. The last thing I wanted was to relive the memories made in that home.

But it wasn’t necessary anyway. We had everything we needed.

And we’d moved so much in the past few years that we’d become pros.

Chloe had insisted on the storage pod and having furniture delivered. And, of course, she conveniently forgot to send me the bill so I could pay her back.

It shouldn’t have surprised me. Our dynamic had always been like this.

She was an oldest daughter. And now that I had Ellie, I’d accepted that an oldest daughter is gonna oldest daughter.

“I think I like the farm,” Maggie said. “There are some animals here.” She pushed her glasses up her nose. “But I didn’t see any horses.”

Maggie was a horse girl. A budding horse girl, that is. Since she’d never actually ridden one.

She’d started showing interest not long after I left Donny. But horses freaked me out. And horseback riding was very expensive. I was a single mom of three and a teacher. My extracurricular dollars only stretched so far.

When I’d told the kids that we were renting a small house on a maple farm, Maggie had lit up with excitement, hoping and praying there would be horses.

“We can look around tomorrow,” I suggested. “But it might not be that kind of farm.”

Her smile wavered, the light in her eyes dimming.

“If there aren’t any horses, I’m sure there are other cool things here,” I told her.

“Like tractors,” Julian added without looking away from the structure he was building. It was pink, not his usual choice, but he was quiet and happy.

Sighing, I turned to the oven. How the hell did it work? It was beautiful, but it looked like it had never been used before. I’d give it twenty-four hours before it was covered in fingerprints.

Once I’d figured it out, I went in search of a cookie sheet so I could bake the damn nuggets, rifling through the kitchen boxes before remembering that I’d seen baking stuff upstairs when I was changing.

“I’ll be right back.” I jogged up the narrow staircase, searching my mind for where I’d seen the box, wondering whether I really had or if the image in my head was just a figment of my crushing exhaustion.

Room by room I searched, and with every minute, I was more certain that I’d imagined it. But when I opened the box of winter gear and found the baking pans packed along with snow pants, hats, and gloves, I cried out. “Aha.” Excellent.

Smiling, I headed for the hallway. At the doorway, a strange smell wafted over me, and before I could consider what it might be, a loud alarm blared.

The smoke detector above my head was flashing and screaming, yet there was no fire or smoke near me. This place must have had some kind of high-tech system where everything was wired together.

Shit. Heart lurching, I dropped the pans and ran downstairs.

It was a smoke alarm, not an air-raid signal, but my nervous system didn’t know the difference. A switch in my brain flipped, and frazzled mom faded away. By the time I hit the bottom of the stairs, my body had prepared for mortal peril.

The sensation was a familiar one, filled with fear and paranoia and hypervigilance.

It wasn’t him. It couldn’t be.

But as I ran for my children, I expected the worst.