Chapter 9
Standing in front of her mirror in the upstairs bathroom after taking a shower, Charlotte made a circle in the steam in the mirror to show her face. She couldn’t wait to go to the bonfire/cowboy fondue. Why was Eric being so mysterious about what it was? And Preston and Coco wouldn’t tell her either. “You just have to wait and see,” Preston had said when she asked him.
Why was she so excited about the bonfire? Eric was definitely interested in her. But was she interested in him? Eric was so different from the men she dated. He was, as his bumper sticker read, simple. Was that a good or bad attribute?
A part of her heart still yearned for Westley. Westley was going places. He was already a junior partner in Toronto, sitting with the most elite counsel in the nation. When he’d dumped her, her dreams of opening an overseas adoption agency vanished, too. Two losses at once.
At the pain in her heart, she frowned. Where had their relationship gone off the rails?
They’d met at her mentorship opportunity. She had been one semester shy of graduating and had applied to law school. He’d noted her LSAT numbers but disapproved of her choice in attending an American law school, suggesting she stay in Toronto instead. When she came to Sugar Creek last year for Christmas, their relationship was so new, she didn’t bother telling anyone about it. By the time the summer came around, they’d been dating almost a year. She thought things were on track to accelerate in their relationship.
Boy, was she wrong!
Her phone rang, making her jump. She checked her caller ID.
Westley.
Should she take it?
Would he be mean again? Or apologize?
She didn’t care. She let it go to voicemail. Would he leave a message?
A notification passed across her phone.
She stared at it.
She’d listen to it later.
Grabbing the hair dryer, she dried her hair. A clicking sound interrupted her thoughts.
Preston wasn’t supposed to be home yet. He planned to pick her up with Coco after dusk. Since they had to drive a ways out to the bonfire, they would be late because Preston forgot to pick up marshmallows from the store.
Now the clicking sound intensified. She turned off the hair dryer to listen.
She looked into the mirror.
A man’s face appeared over her shoulder in the darkened hall.
She screamed, dropping her dryer into the sink. Grasping her heart, she turned around, breathing hard, adrenaline coursing through her.
No one was there.
Was her mind playing tricks on her?
Holding onto both casings around the door, she peeked out into the hall. Nothing was there.
Maybe she’d just imagined the face and the shoulders. She could still remember what he looked like—pinstriped shirt, suspenders, handlebar mustache. Why would her imagination be so specific?
With all the bravery she could muster, she threw back the shower curtain. Nothing.
But when she went back to dry her hair in front of the mirror, someone had written in the steam.
SORRY.
She stared at it until it slowly disappeared, heart exploding in her chest.
Someone had been here.
But she didn’t see anyone now. And those words definitely weren’t there before. They couldn’t have moved so quietly around her.
A shiver of energy went through her. She ran downstairs, still wrapped in her bath towel, pacing the front parlor.
When Preston’s car pulled into view, she relaxed. But she couldn’t be seen downstairs in a towel.
She ran upstairs, grabbed her clothes and got dressed lightning fast with her eye always over her shoulder.
She dropped off her dirty clothes in her room.
Her book was open on her bed. She had pulled it from the library earlier to read.
She did not leave it open. She stepped forward to see where the page opened to.
A history of Sugar Creek, specifically about the house. She read a few paragraphs.
Preston opened the front door downstairs and came in talking loudly to Coco. “Charlotte? You ready? We’ve got to go.”
Should she tell Preston and Coco? She put down the book.
Would they even believe her?
Once in the clearing he’d chosen, Eric unloaded the wood from his truck. It was a nice spot where no one would hear them if they got loud. And where no one would be bothered by the smoke.
Also, it was far enough away from anyone’s house that if the fire got away from them, they would be able to contain it before it burned anything important.
He had to get here early because a bonfire would take a while before it would really get cracking.
Stacking the wood at an angle, he placed the small amount of newspaper and lint in the center. When the fire settled down, they’d have their cowboy fondue.
He set out a few camping chairs he’d brought and a couple of quilts his mom made. Oh, no! He forgot to remind Coco or Preston to bring marshmallows and sticks for roasting. Could he catch them before he left?
He checked his phone. No service. He was too far away from civilization to get reception. Dang.
He’d just have to hope they remembered.
About sundown, the wind picked up, blowing smoke a different way. That’s when people started showing up. First, a bunch of friends from high school—Seth, Levi, and Ethan with local gals Virginia, Lois, and Carol. Seth and Virginia brought the large cast iron pot.
Lois and Levi brought oil.
Then a few of his friends left over from attending college in Stowe, Freida and Kris.
“The fire’s perfect,” Ethan said, staring into the tented logs with his hands in his pockets.
Of course, the compliment made Eric soar. He prided himself on his outdoor skills.
Soon Preston and Coco pulled up.
Eric checked to see if there was another head. A golden corona of curls filled the backseat.
Charlie was with them.
He ran to greet them as they descended from the car.
She stepped out onto the dirt as Coco held up a bag of marshmallows and sticks. “For later.”
Eric nodded toward the fire. “Glad you remembered.”
“Actually, I forgot.” Preston wrapped his arm around her, grinning and rubbing her upper arm. “But Coco remembered.” They headed toward the fire, welded at the waist.
Eric found Charlotte. Only, she didn’t smile or even look at him. She looked…distracted. Her hair coiled in wet ringlets at the sides of her face.
Eric nudged her. “You okay?”
Finally, she lifted her gaze and made eye contact. “Yes!” She flashed him a strained smile and furrowed her eyebrows. Clearly, she was thinking about something else.
Since she wasn’t ready to talk about it, he knew something that would make her smile. “Ready for cowboy fondue?” He nodded toward his pickup and started off toward it.
Now she brightened for reals, walking beside him. “I’m so curious.”
“You should be.” Earlier, he had grabbed a few pitchforks from the tool shed. He lifted them from the bed of his truck. “Hold these.”
“Pitchforks?”
With a groan, he hefted out a cooler. “It’ll make sense in a moment.”
He led her over to where the others stood around the fire. Atop of the fire sat a large cast iron pot of boiling oil.
“Oh yeah, that’s perfect.” He laid the giant cooler near the fire then opened the lid. “Hold out your pitchfork.”
Charlotte slid it toward him, nearly gouging him in the face.
“Careful, don’t spear me.” He nudged it aside with a chuckle.
From the cooler, he hauled out a strip steak, unwrapped it, and slapped it onto the four tines of her fork.
“What now?” She held it with both hands, laughing.
“Dip it into the boiling oil.” He nodded to the vat over the fire.
Her eyes grew large. “I do what, now? This thing is heavy.”
She wasn’t used to pitching hay around with that thing. “Here. We’ll do it together.”
He grasped the handle next to her. Together they walked over to the oil and stuck it in. In the bubbling oil, the red meat browned.
“Cowboy fondue?” She murmured with a slight smile. “I’ve had fondue before, only with not a pitchfork or a pot this big. Please tell me you sterilized the pitchforks.”
He winked again, watching the meat. He didn’t want it overdone. “Don’t worry. The oil will kill anything.”
She arched a brow. “You don’t use these to pick up cow poo, do you?”
Eric belted out a laugh. Charlotte was so adorable. “No, we just use these for hay. Don’t worry. No cow paddies have ever touched these tools. We use shovels for that job.”
When the meat was finished, they plopped it on a plate and started on potatoes, peeled, four on each tine.
Eric fished out his knife and cut chunks of meat for everyone.
“No sauces?” Charlotte asked. “In Switzerland we usually ate with at least a béchamel.”
“What’s béchamel?”
“A white sauce.”
White sauce? He chuckled to himself. She must be used to more uppity food. “I might have a few ketchup packets in my truck.”
“Ethan bought BBQ sauce and honey mustard.” Carol nodded toward the short-haired Ethan, who handed over two bottles.
“That’ll do.” Taking them, she squeezed blobs onto her paper plate. She sat on a log around the fire and motioned for Eric to come sit.
Eric didn’t have to be persuaded. “Isn’t this fun?” He settled near her, digging into his plate full of food.
“This is crazy. How often do you do this?”
“Usually we get together—all the kids who are still in town who went to high school together at Sugar Creek High—at least every couple of months. A lot of us stayed in town.”
“I don’t keep in contact with anyone I knew from high school.”
What a strange life she must lead!
“I do still have college friends, though,” she said around bites.
The potatoes finished and they removed the oil from the fire so it had time to cool.
Around ten, another car arrived and parked. Eric squinted. Laurie’s car.
But Angie stepped out of the door.
“I thought you were supposed to stay home with Lizzie.”
“She’s fine. She’s asleep, and Mom’s next door at Tara’s.”
For some reason, her showing up uninvited annoyed him—his little sister tagging along. Usually he didn’t mind her, but tonight, her crashing the party annoyed him. He didn’t want Angie reporting all the news to Laurie.
“I’ll only stay for an hour. Geeze.” Stepping into the circle and grabbing a plate, she rolled her eyes. She dug into the meat.
When the fire died down, Coco brought out the marshmallows.
“There aren’t enough sticks for everyone to have their own. You’ll have to share.”
Charlotte grabbed a stick. “Wanna share with me?”
“Sure.” Eric glowed brighter inside than the embers in the rock circle. He grabbed a bunch of marshmallows and stuck them on the stick. “Let’s do, like, five at once.”
Charlotte laughed. He’d do anything to make her laugh. He held the stick closer to the fire so Charlotte could stay out of the smoke.
Once they started going, he noticed Charlotte started to shiver.
“You cold?” Eric leaned forward, still holding their stick.
“I didn’t get a chance to dry my hair.”
“I got a blanket in my truck.” Since he was holding a stick in the fire, he motioned to Angie. “Hey, Ange, will you grab my keys and get the other quilt out of my truck?” She might as well make herself useful out here.
Angie sighed, glanced at Charlotte, and then stood. She grabbed his keys and trudged over to the truck.
Eric waited until the marshmallows crisped to a nice a golden color but not burnt. “There. Perfection.”
Angie returned with the quilt. “Here.” She tossed his keys and the blanket at him.
“Thanks.” Pocketing the keys, he spread the blanket over Charlotte’s lap and settled underneath a corner. They shared their gooey mess.
“These taste so good,” Charlotte said around a white gooey mouthful. “I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed such toasted perfection before.”
The compliment warmed him.
“But now my fingers are all gooey.” Charlotte held out her fingers, pulling them apart, creating marshmallow strings.
“Mine, too. I’ve got wet wipes in the truck.” He nudged his sister again, holding out his keys. “Ange, will you grab the wet naps?”
Again, she sighed. “Fine.” She grabbed his keys, headed to the car, and returned with the package of pre-moistened towelettes, tossing them. “Here.” She sat down on the bench with a grumpy expression on her face.
A white bit of sticky clung to Charlotte’s lip. What would she do if he bent over and kissed it off? Shaking his head, he leaned in instead, pointing. “You’ve got something above your lip.”
She held still while he wiped it off with a moist towelette, holding her chin as tenderly as he could. “There. All better.”
She looked up at him and smiled.
His heart careened into his rib cage.
“Anyone have any good stories to tell?” Preston asked.
Eric had better focus elsewhere.
“I have one.” Kris, a basketball player with shoulder length hair, always had a story or two to tell. While not technically in Sugar Creek, but from Stowe, he lived close enough to come to these events. “Old Boots Berry.”
The others groaned. “We’ve heard that story a thousand times,” Virginia said. “Everyone knows about him.”
“I’ve never heard about him.” Charlotte sat closer to Eric.
Should he put his arm around her?
“Me neither.” Preston set down his roasting stick, Coco curling into him on the log.
“All right. Fine,” Virginia said, crossing her arms. “Tell the story.”
Kris leaned forward, his face lit by the dying embers. “Back in the 1800s in Stowe, there was a man who was born in room 302 at the Green Mountain Inn. He was a nice enough fellow, worked with horses, did his job, and lived a good life until one day…”
“He died.”
“No.” He scowled at Freida. “You’re getting ahead.” He held out his hands dramatically. “One day, a stagecoach had run away, the horses spooked. Everyone inside cried out for help. Boots Berry, an accomplished horseman, wrangled the horses and saved everyone aboard the coach.”
“Doesn’t sound too scary.” Charlotte cast her gaze up to Eric.
He grinned. “Just wait.”
“Well, because of his good deed, everyone in town wanted to buy ol’ Boots Berry a drink. Never one to turn down a free whisky, Berry came under the influence of alcohol, so much so that he couldn’t be reliable at the stables at the Inn and eventually the owners had to fire him. Without a job, Berry eventually headed south until he landed in New Orleans, where he found himself in jail.”
“Oh dear!”
“Yes! And there, one of the old jazz players taught Boots how to tap dance. When he was freed from jail, he came back up to Vermont with nothing but the clothes on his back, hoping to redeem himself. Well, the perfect opportunity happened when a young girl got trapped on the icy roof during a snowstorm. Boots, always a good-hearted man who blamed liquor for his problems, didn’t hesitate. He rushed up to the roof above the very room where he was born. And just as he let down the little girl safely, he slipped on the icy roof and died.”
“Oh no!”
“Yes. Although he died a hero, you can still hear him tap dancing on the third floor. I’ve heard it myself when we stayed there.”
“Why can’t he move on?” Charlotte leaned forward.
“I don’t know.” Kris shrugged. “It’s just a story.”
Charlotte persisted. “But did he have something he was supposed to do? He already redeemed himself with the little girl. Why does he have to stay a ghost?”
“Asking too many questions ruins the story.” Kris scowled at her.
Charlotte sat back, tucking her head to her chest.
“Back off, Growski. She’s just asking questions.”
She glanced up to Eric with a grateful smile.
Eric’s heart soared. Dare he put his arm around her? Or was that too bold?
“I have one. A ghost story.” Freida leaned in, her face half-shielded from the light of the fire from where Eric sat. She sat up straighter. “Bennington Triangle.”
Just hearing the two words made hairs rise on Eric’s arms.
“Hundreds of hikers are lost each year. One time, one of my cousins took a group hiking, and they got lost near Lake Memphremagog. They saw a band of smoke rising over the trees and headed toward it, thinking they’d found civilization. All they found was an old beat-up cabin. But at least it was shelter. They knocked, hoping to find someone home to let them get warm by the fire before they died of hypothermia. After knocking several minutes and no one answering, my cousin and his friends opened the door. Inside, they found no fire going, but a lady was standing near the hearth. They approached her and asked if they could start a fire, which was weird because the smoke was what led them to the cabin. The woman turned, dressed in clothing from the 1920s, including a bonnet. She was ice blue, her face was blue, her hands were blue even her clothes were blue. She rubbed her hands together and held her hands to the fire and said, ‘Cold, so cold. I’m so cold.’ My cousin and his friends ran out of there, nearly tripping down the stairs in their fright.”
Everyone laughed.
“My cousin said on a later trip, he tried to return and find the cabin, but he never did.” Freida leaned closer to the fire, her face lit. “They’re not the only ones who’ve seen her. All the hikers in that area have their own tales. They call her the Blue Lady of Lake. They tell a story about a woman who went hiking in the winter of 1923 and died of hypothermia. All they found were her blue clothes. It happened to my cousin, so it’s a true story.”
A heaviness hung in the air. People stared into the fire. Or over their shoulders, shifting in their seats.
“I have one,” Charlotte said, barely a whisper, her eyes glued to the flame.
“A story?” Eric asked.
Her gaze snapped up. “A ghost story.”
Eric and all his friends turned their attention to her.