Chapter 1

“Cathy, don’t forget you’ve got the historical society luncheon today,” my secretary-slash-office-be-all-end-all Martha told me as she placed a client brief on my desk.

“How could I forget? Clara Johnson’s called me once a day for the past week to remind me.”

Martha chuckled.

“Was she the same way with Dad?” Martha had been my father’s paralegal and office manager back in the day. He’d told me more than once he couldn’t have survived without her and joked she knew where all the bodies were buried.

“Nope. Whenever she was around your father, be it at a meeting or even if she happened to see him on Main Street, she’d smile and keep quiet as a dormouse.” Martha executed an eye roll a teenager fifty years younger would have been impressed with. “Clara was raised in a household where the menfolk ruled the roost and the women nodded, listened, and cooked.”

“That explains a lot.”

Martha left me alone to finish some preliminary paperwork I needed for an upcoming court appearance. At the door to my office, she turned. “Oh, I forgot. Fiona called.”

“On the office line? She didn’t use Instagran?” My ninety-three-year-old grandmother never called my office, or those of my sisters, if she wanted to speak with one of us. Instead, she used our cell phones, knowing we were never without them, and therefore available at any time. She called the speed dial we’d all assigned as her Instagran number.

“It went straight to voice mail. She thought you might be in court because that’s the only time you don’t pick up.”

I opened my desk drawer and pulled out my phone. “I forgot to take it off Do Not Disturb after yesterday’s court session.” I turned it back on. “Did she say what she wanted?”

“A reminder”—Martha’s lips twisted into a wry grin—“that she needs a ride to the doctor tomorrow. Her exact words were, ‘Tell Number One I’ll be ready to go at nine, and I’d appreciate it if she managed to get here on time and not be late like the last time.’ ”

“Two minutes.” I shook my head and held up my first two fingers. “I was two minutes late because I got stuck behind a school bus.”

“Don’t shoot the messenger. I already made sure your first appointment doesn’t start until after lunch. You’ve got the entire morning free in case she goes overtime with the doctor.”

My grandmother had broken her arm a few months ago and required casting and then a temporary move to an adult-care facility while she recuperated. Up until then, she’d been living in our family home with my middle sister, Colleen.

“Thanks. Nanny’s no doubt got a laundry list of questions for the doctor, plus another one filled with ‘suggestions.’ ”

“Should I cancel your afternoon?”

I knew she wasn’t serious.

Well, maybe a smidge.

“No. I’ll be back by one even if I have to clamp her mouth shut with my fingers like she used to do to us to keep us quiet in church.”

“I’d pay to see that.”

“Keep your money.”

Once she was back at her desk, I concentrated on the brief in front of me until it was time to leave for the meeting.

My father had practiced general law in our hometown of Heaven, New Hampshire, for over thirty-five years, and most people in the area knew, or knew of, him. My love of arguing and always wanting to be proven right no matter what the subject matter had led me to follow in my father’s well-heeled footsteps. With his retirement and my parents’ move south, I’d inherited his practice, his role as justice of the peace, and his position on several town boards and committees. Not to mention a third share in my elderly grandmother’s care and keeping.

And believe me, there was a lot involved in her care and keeping. A community activism gene ran deep in my family’s bloodline. Keeping Nanny out of jail when she was the ringleader of a protest march, boycott, or sit-in, was a full-time job. My lawyer status made me her de facto one call, and no matter what time of the day or night, I was available to bail her out.

At about fifteen minutes before twelve, Martha called out she was leaving to get lunch. A glance in my office bathroom mirror showed I needed to run a quick brush through my hair and reapply the lipstick I’d eaten off.

The historical society was a quick walk up the street from my office. Our New England winter temperatures had been mild the past week, but experience as a lifelong New Hampshirite had taught me never to be caught without warm gloves, a hat, and a scarf any day after Halloween. The weather today had decided to stick to its temperate forecast, and I made it to my meeting without the need to pull on my gloves.

Heaven’s historical society was housed in a two-century-old building as famous for its archives as it was for its Victorian Gothic architecture. The building had been designed by the great-grandson of the town’s founder, Josiah Heaven, and had been gifted to the town in the early twentieth century by the family on the condition it be turned into a museum.

As I jogged up the sixteen marble steps of the front entrance portico and pushed through the massive oak doors to the foyer, the warmth of the interior smacked me square in the face. I’d forgotten how hot it stayed in winter due to its twelve-inch-thick walls. The opposite was true in summer. The interior remained cool on all floors except the top, due to the marble flooring and tempered glass windows.

“Right on time,” Clara Johnson announced as I entered the dining room. “I don’t know why I was worried you’d forget about the meeting. You’re as punctual as your dear father always was.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to say there was no way I could have forgotten about the luncheon since she’d called me numerous times to remind me of it. If Nanny had taught me one thing in my thirty-nine years, though, it was to respect my elders.

Clara grabbed me into a bone-crushing hug. For a woman in her seventh decade, she was surprisingly strong.

I smiled at the society members taking their seats around the large table and found my own chair.

There were nine members present and ten places set for lunch.

“Is someone joining us?” I asked Davison Clarkson, my ninth-grade history teacher, seated to my right.

He tugged at his goatee—a habit he’d had even when I’d been his student—and said, “Writer fellow, what’s his name? The one who wrote that Emily Dickinson book a few years back? Frey?”

“Frayne?” I said. “McLachlan Frayne?”

“A-ya. ’At’s the one.”

“Mr. Frayne has requested to meet with us,” Clara said, butting into the conversation, “so I invited him to join us for lunch.”

“Do we know why?”

“Maybe he’s writing a new book,” Eloise Cruckshank said. She clapped her palms together like a tiny bird flapping its wings, a wide, childlike smile gracing her chubby cheeks.

“No one for him to write about ’round here. No one famous hails from Heaven.” Peter Gunderson’s booming voice startled me. I was wondering if he’d forgotten to turn on his hearing aids just when Olaf Tewksburry chastised him.

“Fer Cris’sake, Gunny. Turn your damn ears on. They can hear ya screamin’ in Concord.”

Peter’s hand flew to his ears. A second later, the air around us shattered with a shrill whistle.

“You’re gonna deafen us all!” Olaf clamped both his palms over his ears.

Clara thwacked her gavel against a book she’d placed next to her luncheon plate in an attempt to protect the antique table, and called us to order. “Let’s get started. We can get some work done before Mr. Frayne arrives.”

For the next several minutes, Eloise read the long-winded minutes from our last meeting in her singsong, high-pitched voice. My mind began to wander before she got to page two. For more than the first time since I’d become a member of the society, I wished I hadn’t been invited. For his last act as board president, my father had put my name in for consideration and knew, because I was his daughter, I’d be voted in unanimously. I was the youngest person in the room by at least thirty-five years, the only one who worked full time, and one of three females.

Nanny Fee likened my position as a board member to the Pope’s. Namely, I was stuck with it unless I moved at least one hundred miles away, was kicked off for a major offense like criminal malfeasance, or died, whichever of those three came first.

Since I was an officer of the court, I wasn’t getting voted off the island anytime soon for a crime, and I had no intention of leaving Heaven. Ever. It appeared I was stuck until my funeral mass was conducted at my parish church.

Clara banged her gavel against the book again, and I was yanked out of my mental meanderings.

“Any discussion on the minutes before we vote to approve?”

I crossed my fingers and prayed no one issued a challenge.

“Good.” Clara smiled and rang the one-hundred-year-old dinner bell sitting at her right to call for the staff to serve lunch. And just in time, thank you, Jesus. Forget growling, my stomach was literally howling with hunger.

A knock on the door sounded at the same time it was pushed open.

“Ah, wonderful,” Clara said.

“Looks like the writer fella is here,” Davison said. “Right on time to eat, too.”

I had a vague idea of what McLachlan Frayne looked like from his last book jacket photo—a book I’d devoured in bed one Saturday night, because Emily Dickinson was my favorite poet. He was in his late thirties maybe, with a serious, authorial air only a black and white headshot gave justice to. His eyes were light hued since the photo was devoid of color, his hair a generic dark, cut military-like. If I’d had him for an English professor in college, I might not have chosen law and instead opted into literature. Not that it would ever have happened. Not if my parents had anything to say about it.

Clara jumped up and trotted to greet our visitor. An impressive set of wide shoulders filled the doorframe. Gone was the chopped crew cut of the book jacket photo, replaced by a longish mop of wavy, salt and pepper hair, heavy-handed on the salt. Clara pumped his hand, and I could imagine the jaw-wide smile she graced him with. My secretary hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d told me the head of the historical society was deferential to the male population.

With Frayne’s hand still clasped in her own, Clara turned to the group. Yup. Her maniacal smile was front and center. “Everyone, Mr. Frayne is here.”

“We got eyes in our heads, Clara.” Olaf’s mouth pursed into a decided sour pucker as he shook his head. Under his breath he added, “Fool woman. Thinks we’re all blind.”

I bit back a grin and lowered my head to hide it. These two had known one another since the cradle, gone all through school together, and even—old gossip had it—been involved romantically for a while when both their spouses died.

When I was sure my amusement was no longer noticeable, I lifted my head as Clara arrived at the table with our guest.

Any remnants of a grin remaining on my face died the moment my gaze lit on McLachlan Frayne.

On the book jacket, he’d given off an air of commanding arrogance as he’d stared into the camera’s lens. In the flesh, that description flew out the window.

He was tall, so I had to lift my head to view him properly. Those wide shoulders were covered in a dark sports jacket a size or two too big for his frame. Under it, a black V-neck sweater sat over the same color T-shirt, the collar peeking through the jagged neck of the vee. Yards of leg were covered by faded jeans, white from wear in all the regular stress places. Black Converse sneakers adorned his feet and looked so soft and comfortable, I grew a little jealous.

Shaggy hair a good time past a trim framed a face that could have been a tourism board ad for Ireland. Eyes the same color as frozen Arctic ice were deer-caught-in-the-headlights wide as a twin set of commas indented the corners of his mouth. The notion he was in some kind of pain shot through me, and for the briefest of moments, I wanted to reach up and run a finger along those grooves to smooth away whatever anguish had caused them.

Clara introduced us all in turn, Frayne reaching out to shake each hand as it was offered. When I slipped my hand into his, his wide eyes narrowed, tiny lines fanning out from the corners to his temples.

His gaze swept over my face and confusion drifted over his features as if he recognized me but couldn’t place from where.

A moment later he tugged his hand from mine.

“We were about to have lunch, Mr. Frayne. Please, join us.” She indicated the chair next to hers, which put him directly across from me. As everyone around me started in on what I knew were delicious crab cakes, I took my time opening my napkin and placing it in my lap. Time spent in a feeble attempt to get the unusual sensations circling through me under control.

“I’ll admit,” Clara said, her bright smile aimed at Frayne, “we’re all excited to hear why you wanted to meet with us today.”

“The man’s a writer, Clara.” Olaf shoved half his crab cake into his mouth. “Obviously he’s here to write ’bout something,” he added, speaking around the food.

Frayne opened his mouth, but Eloise spoke before he could.

“Or someone,” she twittered. “Someone famous.”

“Nobody famous ’round these parts,” Gunny said, loudly, preventing Frayne from answering again.

“Wasn’t that gal on the TV singing-competition show from Rutland?” Olaf asked. “You know, the one where you vote the lousy ones off each week?” A sea of bobbing heads circled the table. “Rutland’s only thirty miles away. You writing about her?” he asked Frayne.

“Why would he be writing about someone who lost, you old coot?” Finlay Mayhew, who’d been unusually silent up until now, asked.

Once again, Frayne open his mouth to answer, then shut it when Finlay started laying into his brother-in-law.

This started a loud discussion between the two, each vying to be heard over the other. Unfortunately, this wasn’t an uncommon occurrence at these meetings.

Clara’s inability to scold anyone who possessed a Y chromosome had rendered her useless to halt these two once they got started. Since I spent my days dealing with argumentative clients, I stood, grabbed my filled water glass, and rapped it a few times with my knife.

I rapped harder when they ignored me.

“Gentlemen.” I used my firm, loud, lawyer voice cultivated over years spent in the county courthouse. “Why don’t we let Mr. Frayne explain why he’s here instead of getting all riled up with unnecessary speculation?”

Their bickering came to a stuttering stop. Both octogenarians looked first at me, then one another, the rest of the room, and then back to me, mouths agape.

“He is, after all, our guest.”

Olaf was the first to capitulate. With a determined shake of his hairless, billiard-ball head, his mouth closed, the corners of it pulling upward. He winked at me, then at Finlay. “Smart. Same as her pa.”

“But prettier,” Finlay, who always wanted the last word, added.

With a smile for both of them, I then turned my attention to Frayne. His gaze hadn’t left my face since I’d stood and commandeered the situation. The comma in one corner of his mouth grew and a dimple appeared deep enough to shove a button into.

A moment after the darling curl appeared, it flew, and once again Frayne’s expression grew serious.

“Mr. Frayne? You’ve got the floor.”

I sat back down, and he stood.

With one hand, he swiped the hair tumbling across his brow straight back on his head, only to have it fall forward again the moment he let go. “Thank you, Ms. Mulvaney.”

I have to admit I was impressed he’d remembered my name. I was good at names—a factor of my job—but I don’t think I could have had the immediate recall he had after being introduced to nine new people all at the same time.

“And thank you all for letting me intrude on your lunch today.”

“Oh, it’s no intrusion at all,” Eloise piped up. “We’re all excited to meet such a famous writer.” She probably more than any of us, evidenced by the way she fidgeted in her chair.

“Eloise.” Clara made a zip-it motion with her hand across her lips.

Frayne took a breath and then ran his gaze down the table, briefly touching on each of us. Because I was the last one he lit on, he addressed me. “I’m writing a new biography, and I need access to your historical archives for research. Frequent access, in fact.”

“Who’s the book about?” Clara asked.

“Your town founder, Josiah Heaven.”

“Oh, goodness.” One of Clara’s hands flew to her throat as her eyes popped wide open. “What an—”

“Honor,” Eloise gushed, clapping her hands together again.

“Don’t know it’s much of an honor, Weezy,” Olaf said, his lips twisting. He turned his attention to Frayne. “Why’d anyone outside of Heaven want to read about ol’ Josiah? Man’s been dead a couple hundred years. I can’t see much interest in him in this day and age.”

Peter and Finley started defending the town founder, both of their sonorous voices rising against the other to be heard.

I shot a quick glance at Frayne. The furrows in his brow deepened as his gaze ping-ponged between the two—now three—men who were all vying for attention. The notion the poor man was out of his league blew through me. Once again I rose, dinged my water glass with a knife, and called for the trio of city elders to quiet.

With reluctance, all three did, but not after I shot each of them what my sister Colleen called my lawyer death stare. She claimed she’d seen me use it on trial witnesses when I didn’t like an answer I’d been given and the witness tended to disintegrate under its power. She also claimed I used it on family members when I was being pissy—her word—about something.

Once the room was again quiet, I said, “Please continue, Mr. Frayne.”

He lifted his water glass to his lips and, after taking a large draft, said, “Thank you. Well, as I was saying. The biography is of the reverend. There have been one or two books written about him over the years, though none have presented a sense of the real man behind the legend. For instance, what brought him to New Hampshire? I’ve never been able to find the answer in any research I’ve done. The man doesn’t exist on paper before he showed up here one day, built a homestead, and then a town. No birth certificate on record, no background material at all.”

Heads bobbed around the table. This was information we’d all been weaned on.

“And why did he insist all the streets and businesses have Biblical associations? I understand the town charter still requires any new enterprises to use a city-council-approved name whether it fits the business or not.”

“That’s the truth.” Davison nodded. “It’s written in perpetuity in the town charter.”

“Why? Why did he want to ensure the town continued on the same way generations after his death?”

“Some folks think he was a bit of kook,” Olaf offered.

“I’ve read that.” Frayne nodded. “It’s also been theorized he had a God complex, a mental fixation on Heaven and Hell, perhaps even, that he suffered from delusions.”

The table grew quiet for a moment.

“The reverend was a complicated man,” Clara said.

Frayne cocked his head to one side. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but this society has never allowed any writers into the Heaven archives, the personal ones I mean, of Josiah, his sons, or grandsons, have you?”

“No.” Clara shook her head. “Not the personal annals. We’ve had people conduct research through the town charters and the county historical records. Never Josiah’s personal ones, though.”

“Why not?”

All committee members turned to me. Since I was the sole lawyer at the table, it was my duty to answer what they collectively viewed as a legal matter.

Frayne’s attention lit on me as well. I could tell from the question in his eyes he didn’t understand why they’d all zeroed in on me to provide an answer.

“The Heaven family,” I explained, “viewed the private documents as personal property, which legally, they were, and which weren’t, therefore, included in the museum’s archives. They kept a tight hold over those documents. Whenever someone wanted access to them, we needed to ask, formally, in writing, for permission to show them. It was always denied.”

“Why?”

“We never asked,” Clara said.

“As I’ve said, the documents were ruled over by a family member who was placed in charge of their caretaking. I believe the society asked for decades for the public to be allowed access to them.”

“And they were always told no,” Eloise said.

“Are there any descendants I could ask now for permission?”

“No. Josiah’s line ran its course two decades ago with the death of his four-times-great grandson. He left no children when he died, and no other direct blood relatives exist.”

“So, there’s no one to seek authorization from to view those files or documents but this committee, then?”

All eyes settled on me again. I took a silent breath. “Correct.

With a hopeful expression on his face and in his eyes, Frayne bent forward and leaned his knuckles on the table, all the while keeping his gaze on me. “So.” He took a breath. “What do I have to sign to be allowed access?”