Chapter 8
THE LANTERN CEREMONY
Ipeek out from behind the curtain, which has just enough girth to conceal the smoke machines positioned stage left and stage right.
Twig runs the one across from me on stage left, looking—as his mother said—a little peaked.
He releases a burst of smoke as performers in period attire flee across the stage.
Torches line the edge of town square, their flames flickering against brick storefronts.
The grassy plaza is alive with spectators watching the performance unfold.
Mayor Ridley sits front and center, dressed in his well-worn blazer with his phoenix lapel pin.
He’s surrounded by the entire board of the Foggy Hollow Preservation Society, not to be confused with the Foggy Hollow Historical Society.
The former is made up of wealthy, well-connected, socially prominent individuals who look down their noses at the latter, which consists of my boss, Maggie Henshaw, and her partner in crime, Walt Jensen.
What they lack in donations they make up for with tenacity and duct tape.
I scan the crowd for them now, but can’t find either.
Behind me, a stagehand rolls out a replica of the old schoolhouse, where Mercy Bogaard once taught. My moment in the spotlight is quickly approaching. I adjust the sleeves of my cotton dress, double check the tie of my apron, straighten my bonnet, and run my hand down the length of my long plait.
Twig releases more smoke.
Kate—AKA, Ida Vandenberg, wife of Amos Vandenberg—screams on stage.
And I catch sight of Rafe, who I haven’t seen since our encounter in the graveyard. He stands on the periphery of the crowd, next to a statue. Torchlight flickers across his features, sharpening the angles of his face.
His attention isn’t on the stage.
It’s on me.
Pulse jumping, I shift into shadow.
Harrison Locke’s voice booms across the square. “Miss Bogaard, the fire’s coming fast! You must find your father and get to safety!”
I run onto the stage, trying to lose myself in the role—a school teacher who single-handedly saved the lives of sixteen children.
But Rafe’s attention is distracting, his stare so unwavering its borderline inappropriate.
As the scene plays out, it becomes obvious.
He’s not watching the performance; he’s watching me.
A fact so flustering, I fumble my big line.
Instead of saying, “If this is to be my last night, let it be one of courage, not fear.” I replace fear with fate, which never happened in rehearsals. By the time the performance is over and the curtain call ends, I’m ready to march out onto the lawn and give Rafe Vandenberg a piece of my mind.
But he’s gone.
And Twig is getting sick in a garbage can.
He suffers from migraines. Bad ones. Sometimes, they make him throw up.
Last fall, he got one so severe, he had to miss Hollow Horror Night at the drive-in, when they played the first three Nightmare on Elm Streets back to back to back.
This year, it looks like he’s going to miss the lantern ceremony.
Harper and Naomi invite me to join them downtown, where the lanterns are launched.
But I like watching them drift downriver.
Which leaves me on my own, wandering through the stands and stalls in Willowmere Park, no longer in period attire.
I’ve changed into my street clothes—a Nirvana tee under an oversized flannel, black leggings, and a pair of white hightop Converse All-Stars.
Night has fallen. Fog rolls thick over the Blackwillow River, where the branches of weeping willows dip into its currents. The scent of roasted nuts, warm cider, and kettle corn mingles with the cool air. From atop the covered bridge, a lone violinist plays haunting Appalachian folk songs.
People claim their spots with lawn chairs and blankets.
Small children run around wielding paper lanterns and sparklers.
The Boathouse’s outdoor patio is hopping with patrons and servers.
I prefer to sit along the river’s stone wall, thirty yards or so past the bridge, where I can let my feet dangle above the water and watch the lanterns arrive like glowing specters through the fog.
The magical sight never ceases to take my breath away.
I pass a local writers group as they take turns reading poetry by candlelight, and catch a stanza of a young woman’s piece.
“What is a lantern but borrowed fire? What is a life but borrowed time?” The contemplative question hits just the right note.
I’m feeling contemplative. Which I suppose is an appropriate mood since the Procession of Lights isn’t meant to be a celebration, but a reverent ceremony.
At the local beekeeper’s booth, I purchase two honey caramels wrapped in wax paper for Twig.
They’re his favorite. At the Blackberry Bramble Wagon, I buy a pecan tart for myself.
I pass by the Wish Upon the River stall, where you can buy a smooth stone for a dollar, write a wish upon it, and toss it into the dark waters.
There’s a DIY lantern stand. I have two from years past, both carved with stars and moons.
And next to it is the Reflection Table, where people can write letters to lost loved ones, seal them inside envelopes, and set them to sail inside their newly made lanterns.
I take a bite of my tart, thinking about my mother and all the things I would tell her if I could, when a low voice rumbles in my ear. “Nothing says ‘honoring the dead’ like setting fire to paper and polluting the river.”
I turn around.
Rafe.
He stands behind me looking offensively handsome, the top two buttons of his shirt undone and that lock of midnight hair falling across his eyebrow again. He tosses a small stone into the air and catches it in his palm. “Does the EPA know about this, or …?”
“The lanterns are biodegradable.”
“Well, that’s a relief.”
People meander past us.
I step off the path. “What are you doing here?”
He steps with me, his gaze teasing with a dash of puzzlement, like there’s something about me that stumps him. I can’t imagine what. Surely I can’t be the only girl to have rejected his advances.
“Are you going to accuse me of following you again?” he asks.
“If the shoe fits.”
His attention drops to my sneakers before slowly sliding up my body in a way that makes me want to cover myself. “As much as I would love to follow you around, I’m here for my family.” He nods toward The Boathouse’s patio. “Networking dinner with the Everlys. We’re schmoozing.”
I spot Henry and Cosette, a formidable couple in their sixties.
Cosette is president of the Foggy Hollow Preservation Society.
The couple sit across from a woman I assume is Isabel.
She’s too far away to make out her features, but not so far away I can’t tell that she’s perfectly arranged—hair, outfit, makeup.
Jude sits beside her.
He’s not attending to the dinner conversation, either.
He’s watching us.
Me and Rafe.
“I’m pretty sure they want Isabel’s money,” Rafe says. “And since Isabel wants the honor of hosting the ball—”
My attention snaps to his face. “The masquerade ball?”
“Something about a hunter’s moon …?”
“It’s not going to be at town hall?”
“Not if Isabel gets her way. I, for one, think she should. This isn’t any old year, after all. This is Foggy Hollow’s bicentennial. Such a milestone deserves to be special, don’t you think?”
I don’t object.
The Vandenberg Estate playing host to the Hunter’s Moon Masquerade Ball? The idea makes me want to swoon. For a myriad of reasons. Namely, I’d finally get to go inside the place. A breeze ruffles my hair as I take another bite of tart.
“So,” Rafe says, “where are we watching the lanterns?”
“We?” I wipe a crumb from my lip. “Shouldn’t you return to your dinner?”
He waves his hand dismissively.
My attention returns to the patio, where Isabel tips her head back and laughs. Jude’s chair is empty.
“You did a fabulous job, by the way.”
I peer at Rafe.
“Playing Mercy Bogaard. The whole thing was so realistic. It almost felt like I was there.” He smirks when he pays the compliment, like it isn’t a compliment at all, but a tease. He’s making fun of me. He’s making fun of all of us.
I glare. “You were staring.”
“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do at a performance?”
“You were staring at me and only me.”
His smirk widens into a grin.
“It was rude. And distracting”
“You find me distracting?”
“I find you off-putting, if I’m being honest.”
He sets his hand against his chest, like I just shot him. “Well, if we’re being honest, the fact that you find me off-putting is rather fascinating.”
“Why would that be fascinating?”
He tilts his head like he’s trying to decide whether to let me in on his secret. Then he looks past me and gives the stone another toss. “I was wondering when you’d join us.”
I turn around.
It’s my new classmate—the one I’ve spent the latter half of this past week avoiding. The mere memory of our last encounter makes me want to hide under a pillow. I scolded him. Like, actually scolded him. And I’m pretty sure I called him good-looking in the process.
My stomach pools with heat.
“Rafe,” Jude says, flat and clipped. When he turns to me, I expect the same cold greeting. Surprisingly, his expression isn’t hostile. It’s more … concerned? “Selah,” he says, his voice a little husky.
A kaleidoscope of butterflies take flight.
Before I can reply in kind, he turns to his cousin. “I thought you wanted to join us for dinner.”
“I thought it would be more interesting,” Rafe replies.
“So you decided to bother her instead?”
“Bother? Come now, Jude. You wound me. I saw a pretty girl all alone and thought I’d keep her company. It’s not like you were volunteering. Watching, yes. Staring, a little.” With a dip of his chin, he leans closer. “A small word of advice? Selah doesn’t like staring.”
The torchlight along the path reflects in Jude’s eyes. They burn like fire. He stands there with his jaw clenched, his shoulders squared—a picture of measured restraint. Controlled stillness. He’s a carefully coiled snake. Any sane person would sense the danger and dial it back.
But Rafe?
His smirk widens into a grin as he shifts his weight and bends toward my ear. “And Jude doesn’t like fun. Not even a little.”
I lean away from him.
“But he’s not without hobbies. He plays the piano beautifully.
That prestigious boarding school of his instilled a proper appreciation of the arts, which I find sorely lacking among the youth these days.
” Rafe lifts a finger. “Speaking of the arts. I’ve been meaning to show you a portrait.
Painted by our most honored ancestor, Ezra. ”
I gape. Ezra Vandenberg predates Amos, who rebuilt Foggy Hollow after the fire. Ezra was his father, and a town founder. “You have a painting by Ezra Vandenberg?”
“Not just any painting. This one was his magnum opus. The girl he captured was quite a beauty.” His attention moves down my body, then flits up to my face. “I think it would capture both your imaginations.”
I eye him warily.
He’s navigated this conversation into strange territory, and he was very clearly navigating. Intentionally steering the ship. Judging by the expression Jude wears, Rafe’s the only one who isn’t lost.
A loud boom bursts through the night.
A cannon.
The signal that the lanterns have been launched.
“We better go find our seats.” With a wag of his dark eyebrows, Rafe gives the small stone in his hand another toss, then saunters away. Leaving me and Jude to stare after him, wondering what in the world he’s up to, and why.