ONE

I cherish Emily Dickinson’s If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain. As a high-school English teacher, I weekly assigned an essay on the meaning of the quote I printed on the blackboard, everything from Erma Bombeck’s It takes a lot of courage to show your dreams to someone else, to Plautus’s Consider the little mouse, how sagacious an animal it is which never entrusts its life to one hole only.

Sudsy warm water swirled around my ankles (think Galveston in August) as I enjoyed another lovely day in Paradise, strolling in saltwater and picturing a sagacious mouse. In an academic robe? Or perhaps twirling his whiskers.

‘That’s a boy!’ Bobby Mac’s robust shout urged our black Lab Sleuth to retrieve the ball bobbing in the surf. Bobby Mac is as dark-haired and vigorous now as when we met in high school. My husband never met a wave he didn’t challenge, a tarpon he didn’t chase, or a dog he didn’t love. And yes, our dogs and cats are with us in Heaven.

Heaven? Do I hear polite laughter? Or perhaps your glance is dismissive. Rest assured, as you will assuredly rest one day, Heaven exists. Those who deny that reality also scoff at the possibility of our faithful earthly companions joining us. St Francis points out that Heaven would not be Heavenly without all of God’s creatures. Edith Wharton’s sweet observation danced in my mind: My little dog – a heartbeat at my feet.

Heaven? St Francis? Dogs? Cats? Oh yes, and parrots, donkeys, goldfish, and rabbits. I sense bewilderment. Perhaps I should present my credentials. I am the late, as in Dearly Departed, Bailey Ruth Raeburn of Adelaide, Oklahoma, a lovely small town nestled in the rolling hills of south central Oklahoma. Bobby Mac and I arrived in Heaven precipitously when he ignored lowering black clouds to pursue a tarpon in the Gulf of Mexico. A summer storm sank Serendipity, our cruiser. We were on the shady side of fifty when we met St Peter. Age, of course, is up to you in Heaven. Twenty-seven was a happy year for me and that’s how I Appear, flaming red hair, a skinny face, green eyes, lots of freckles, five feet five inches of curiosity, energy, and, I hope, fun. As e. e. cummings wrote: The most wasted of all days is one without laughter.

One moment I was barefoot in sudsy foam. The next I clutched a telegram in one eager hand. The message was a summons, oh happy day, from Wiggins, who supervises Heaven’s Department of Good Intentions. The department is housed in a replica of a train station circa 1910, when Paul Wiggins was a stationmaster. Now he dispatches Heavenly emissaries on the Rescue Express to help those in trouble on earth.

I adore Wiggins, though he is a stickler for rules. Yes, there are definite rules (Precepts) for emissaries. I am abashed to admit I sometimes have a problem with rules. I quickly murmured the Precepts aloud, hoping to reassure Wiggins that this time I would honor each and every one. I would. Yes. I would.

Precepts for Earthly Visitation

1. Avoid public notice.

2. No consorting with other departed spirits.

3. Work behind the scenes without making your presence known.

4. Become visible only when absolutely necessary.

5. Do not succumb to the temptation to confound those who appear to oppose you.

6. Make every effort not to alarm earthly creatures.

7. Information about Heaven is not yours to impart …

I will posit here that I am not willfully ignoring Precept Seven. I am simply establishing my bona fides. Wiggins would surely approve. He is thoughtful, kind, and very proper. He believes in Rules and Regulations. I recalled the last time I recited the Precepts to him. Wiggins sorrowfully pointed out that implementation, not recitation, was the goal.

Wiggins is very much a man of his time. He has firm ideas of maidenly decorum and circumspection. Decorum and circumspection do not describe me. I am impulsive, outspoken (I booted the high-school football captain from my class. You have to live in Oklahoma to understand the enormity of that offense) and I am perhaps a tad reckless. I do try to honor the Precepts. I always intend to honor the Precepts, but the results, to be generous, are mixed, so the telegram in my hand was a thrill. Wiggins was calling on me despite any misgivings he might (oh, all right, surely does) harbor.

I immediately transformed my appearance. Gone was the cream hibiscus-patterned swimsuit, replaced by a green silk top, ankle-length gray skirt and respectable two-inch black heels. I suppressed a slight shudder, but Wiggins equates fashion with frivolity. I almost added oversized horn-rim glasses, but I have my limits. I checked the message: Great peril. No time to lose. Come posthaste. I waggled the yellow sheet at Bobby Mac, who understood at once.

I arrived immediately at the replica of Wiggins’s train station. In Heaven you simply wish to be there and you are. Travelers thronged on the platform. A languorous blonde in a magnificent 1940s evening gown, a gorgeous shade of lavender, gave me a sweet smile as I brushed past. A seventeenth-century English Cavalier sporting a scarlet feather in his black felt hat looked at me, his dark brown eyes admiring. I flashed an appreciative smile. Some verities are constant, whether in the sixteenth or twenty-first century. Men admire women. As Shakespeare elegantly wrote: So long as men can breathe or eyes can see …

Suddenly Wiggins was at my side as thundering wheels and a deep-throated whoo announced the arrival of the Rescue Express. A stiff blue hat with a small black brim perched on Wiggins’s thick reddish hair. A walrus mustache adorned his florid face. He wore his usual high-collared white shirt with arm garters between elbow and shoulder. A thick black belt, aided by suspenders, supported heavy gray flannel trousers. His sturdy black leather shoes glistened with polish. But he lacked his usual aura of orderliness. ‘Jump right aboard.’ He took my elbow and helped me up the steps. ‘No time for a ticket. Imminent peril. Dark water. Do your best.’

I knew my destination. I always arrive in present-day Adelaide, Oklahoma. I adore my hometown, but hope someday Wiggins might send me to Paris or perhaps Tahiti. But as St Therese of Avila wisely advises: Trust God that you are where you are meant to be.

I was scarcely aboard when the Express roared from the station. Clutching a handgrip, I looked back at the platform. Wiggins called out, ‘The water is cold and deep. I’m afraid—’

The Express lifted into space. Wheels clacked on the track. I felt a sense of urgency. I didn’t step into a compartment, but stood at the doorway, willing us speed. Faster. Faster. No time to lose.

I was familiar with the breathtaking swoop to earth, but this time stars whirled past in a blur. It seemed only an instant and the conductor was at my elbow. ‘Next stop, Adelaide.’

The Express whooshed to a halt.

I moved to the door. Imminent peril. I must hurry and this time I would follow the Precepts. An emissary has the ability to be present or not. Wiggins expects behind-the-scenes efforts. In past adven—missions, perhaps I Appeared sometimes. Oh, well, to be honest (a Heavenly virtue), I was rather more on the scene than not. In my defense, sometimes I was sure my physical presence was imperative to put someone at ease or to further the mission. But this time I would be the perfect invisible emissary. I felt a pang of regret. I love gorgeous clothes. Wearing a stylish outfit I can’t see is like champagne without fizz. This time I would sacrifice my delight in fashion and remain unseen. I would make Wiggins proud. I would simply take pleasure in knowing my clothes were gorgeous without seeing them. No sacrifice was too great. To boost my spirit, I switched from the prim costume donned for Wiggins’s benefit to a paisley blouse with swirls of red and blue and sil—

‘No time to dawdle.’ The conductor’s tone was urgent.

I swung down the steps into darkness and shivered as a north wind gusted. I immediately changed into a snug navy cashmere pullover, gray wool slacks, and knee-high navy boots. A navy wool jacket was a perfect buffer for the wind. I added amethyst buttons for a colorful accent. I wasn’t visible, but I knew the brilliant color was there.

The Express pulled away, cinders sparking, wheels rumbling. The scent of coal smoke faded. I stood on a path amid a cluster of trees. A crescent moon was scarcely visible through leafless limbs that creaked in the wind.

‘Yip. Yip. Yip.’ A shrill bark shredded the night silence.

Thankfully an emissary can move immediately from one place to another. I thought Dog.

‘Yip. Yip. Yip.’ A canine shriek.

In an instant I hovered above a pond in a clearing at the base of a hill. The woods were behind me. Lighted windows glowed in a house atop the hill. Garden lights framed steps in a stone stairway leading down from a terrace, but the only illumination at the pond was a single lamppost next to the wooden dock.

‘Yip. Yip. Yip.’ A small dog trembled at the edge of a wooden floating dock. ‘Yip. Yip. Yip.’

A dimly visible figure thrashed in the water a good six feet from the dock.

The dog teetered on the edge of the dock, ‘Yip. Yip. Yip.’ The frenzied barks bristled with irritation and bravado. With a final high yip, the dog jumped into the water, untended leash trailing behind. Quickly a small head popped up. As the dog swam, the struggling figure slipped beneath the surface. The dog never hesitated, went down in pursuit.

I hovered just over that spot, ready to plunge into the pond. The surface rippled. The dog’s head emerged. I was close enough to see the dog tugging a coat sleeve, straining to pull the burden to shore.

I grabbed a sleeve of the coat. Without a sound its wearer rolled to one side and was gone. I held one empty sleeve, the little dog gripped the other sleeve in his mouth. The weight of the soggy coat slowly pulled the dog down.

I let go of the empty sleeve and dived. As I arched below the surface, I gasped at the icy cold of the water. I stroked down, down, down, shed my clothes and boots for a wet suit, instantly felt warmer. Dark, so dark. I made sweeping motions with my arms. My right hand brushed the dog. I grabbed his ruff. My left hand touched an arm, a woman’s arm. I seized her and held tight. I tried to remember my son Rob’s lifeguard manual. Something about a vise grip. I maneuvered below and behind her, slid my left arm around her. My right hand held tight to the dog’s collar. I kicked the three of us to the surface. She thrashed weakly, trying to break free. I instructed in my back-of-the-classroom-ignore-me-and-you-are-expelled-forever voice, ‘Go limp. I’ve got you. Go limp. Go limp.’

Still kicking, I propelled us toward the dock. Only a few feet more. One foot, another. Breathe. Kick. We reached the end of the dock. I kept a firm grip on the wriggling dog and now quiescent woman. I clutched at the edge of the dock with my left hand but my arm still encircled her. I alley-ooped the dog, along with the heavy wet coat, tenacious beast, up and on to the dock.

Now I could focus on the near drowning victim. I held to the dock with my free right hand and pressed her close to the boards. ‘Breathe. One, two, three. In. Out. Deep down. In. Out.’

She leaned against me, rasping for air, shoulders heaving. She was thin and wiry, about my height, but skinnier.

Back-of-the-classroom voice. ‘Keep breathing. In. Out.’

Gradually the gasps eased and her breath came more evenly. ‘Brrr.’ She shivered. The water was cold. She was cold. I was cold. I maneuvered her closer to the dock. ‘Let’s get you out of the water.’ I placed her arms on the boards. ‘I’ll boost you up.’

She murmured, ‘Out.’

I felt her muscles tense.

‘One. Two. Three.’

She grabbed at the dock’s edge, made a huge effort as I shoved. She tumbled awkwardly up and over the side on to wooden slats.

I saw no reason to exert myself. I simply thought Dock and I was out. The wind cut like icy needles. I dismissed the wet suit and was instantly dry and warm in a long-sleeve blue-and-white-striped bateau sweater with graceful ribbing at the yoke, navy wool slacks, argyle wool socks, fleece-lined boots. I added a tassel necklace of navy and white beads with a few pink beads for dash. And the lovely navy wool jacket.

‘I’ll help you up.’ I reached down, gripped her arm.

She came unsteadily to her feet, twisted her head to look at her forearm where my fingers were firmly planted. She half turned to stare groggily at the pond, her face squeezed in befuddlement.

A few feet away the dog gave a low growl as he wrestled with the wet coat.

I let go of her and donned my jacket. Navy absolutely favors redheads. For a moment I was distracted, considering colors. Purple was always good. And cream. And jade. And … I brought myself to heel. Speaking of, the dog’s growls intensified. Perhaps he smelled some pond creature from the coat’s immersion in water.

The woman glanced again at her forearm, now free of my grasp. She shook her head as she struggled to understand the inexplicable. She scanned the dock and the pond, empty except for her. She was a pitiful sight in the scant light from the lamppost, hair plastered to her head, sopping turtleneck sweater and slacks clinging to her, short boots. She took a step nearer shore and squished. ‘Damn.’

The dog was burrowed under the coat, growls muffled. She swung toward him, moved stealthily, pounced and in a swift swoop grabbed him. The coat slithered over the edge into the water.

She watched the coat sink, then put the dog on the dock, holding tight to the leash. ‘What a night.’ Her tone was bitter. ‘Decent dogs come when you call. Or whistle. Not you. Oh no, you run. And run and run. Straight to that damn pond. I was afraid you were going off the dock and I got tangled on the leash and my head hurts and I don’t know what happened. Not the night for a swim.’ A shiver. ‘My coat’s down in scum and my favorite boots are a mess.’ Keeping a tight hold on the leash, she used her free hand to pull off one boot, empty more water. She put it on, did the same with the other boot. ‘My boots will never be the same.’ She looked down at the dog, bent, touched his fur. ‘How’d we both end up in the water? Anyway, Buddy, it’s all your fault. But I’ve got you now.’

She yanked at the leash and walked unsteadily across the dock to shore. She headed for the woods, still muttering to the dog. ‘How’d we get out? It was like someone helped us. But no one’s here.’ She reached the woods, looked back at the pond and the illuminated steps, then turned to stare at the lighted house at the top of the hill. ‘Where is she, Buddy?’

Buddy darted off the path, snuffled in a pile of brush. She tugged and he reluctantly returned. She moved determinedly into the darkness of the woods, pulling the dog with her. Dried leaves crackled beneath her feet. Branches creaked as the wind gusted. Yet the woods seemed very quiet.

As I followed her, I pondered the silence so meaningful to me. No whoo. No rumble of wheels on tracks. I arrived to find a woman and dog in peril. I saved them. Rescue accomplished. Yet I was still here. Clearly she still needed assistance. How splend— Strike that thought. As a good emissary should, I focused on acceptance of grave responsibility. The fact that I was happy as a fire horse hearing an alarm was irrelevant to the task at hand. Her rescue was just a beginning so this was no time to jeopardize my exemplary performance. I had not Appeared. Not once! I was so struck by my excellence I clapped my hands together. ‘Yee-hah.’ That’s Oklahoma for Babe-you-knocked-it-out-of-the-park.

She jolted to a stop, swung to look back.

I scarcely breathed. What was a little yee-hah between friends and of course saving the woman and dog from the pond surely made us friends. I hoped she would decide my whoop was imagined, a by-product of her stressful night. No doubt at this moment Wiggins was nodding approval of my behind-the-scenes effort. Might I receive an Emissary Award for working unseen? A gold star? I felt modest. (Modesty is also a Heavenly virtue.) Perhaps adherence to the Precepts only rose to the level of a silver star. I imagined my graceful acceptance, voice well modulated. I murmured. ‘It was nothing, simply honoring the Precepts which I always endeav—’

She stopped abruptly, stood stiff as a telephone pole.

I bumped into her. ‘Oh, sorry.’ I clapped my hand over my mouth, backpedaled. Do you ever practice out loud? Especially acceptance speeches? Not that I’d given that many. And then to bump into her and exclaim. Oh my.

She gasped, dropped the leash, whirled to look behind her.

Buddy bolted toward a street that sloped up the hill to my left. A lamppost offered enough illumination to see small ranch-style homes on both sides of it.

A car came around a curve.

Buddy was almost to the street.

In an instant I was at the curb. I slammed my foot on the leash, jerking him to a stop. He turned on me, planted his paws, looking outraged. In the light from the lamppost, I had my first clear view of him, a handsome King Charles spaniel, silky black-and-tan fur, still damp but almost dry. His small sharp white teeth bared in a growl. Buddy was a small dynamo of a dog with a high opinion of himself.

She remained in the deep shadow of an evergreen until the car was midway up the hill, then walked slowly toward Buddy, pausing twice to look behind her at the empty expanse of grass and the dark woods. She stopped a scant foot from the dog, gazed down at his leash. The leash jerked on his end, but remained unmoving on the ground beneath the pressure of my foot.

‘Caught by a twig? Serves you right.’

When she grabbed the leash, I lifted my foot.

‘If I ever get you inside,’ she said in a clipped voice, ‘as far as I’m concerned, you can stay there forever.’ She picked him up, turned away from the street. She took one step, a second, stopped, looked back up the hill at the lighted house, hunched her shoulders in a shiver.

She stood for a long moment, staring. She used her free hand to push wet hair away from her face. I studied her in the light from the street lamp. She was likely in her early thirties. Curly hair in tight ringlets was plastered wetly to her head. Dark brows. Dark brown eyes. Thin nose. High cheekbones. A generous mouth but her lips now firmly pressed together.

An unguarded face speaks volumes. With no awareness of observation, there is no pretense. I was struck by a cast of countenance that suggested sadness and reserve, a determination to keep emotion at bay, a woman who had borne pain and loss.

Clutching the dog firmly, she turned and headed for a brick one-story house. A small Honda was parked on one side of the drive.

I checked the street sign near the lamppost. Burnett Place. I remembered that Burnett Place curved up to intersect King’s Road, home to Adelaide’s finest stately mansions. The lights visible from the pond belonged to one of those fine houses.

It was likely that she and the dog came down the hill from those lights. Yet all appeared serene there. I wanted to visit the house that drew her gaze, but first I must see her safely home and be sure I could find her again.

I joined her on the porch. She squared her shoulders, turned the knob of the front door. She stepped into a small lighted foyer graced by a maple side table. A leather shoulder bag lay next to a bronze mail tray.

I was entranced by murals on the foyer walls, tall slender palms and a white-sand beach and clear water with the faintest hint of pale green. I immediately felt in a holiday mood.

Buddy wriggled. She unsnapped the leash from his collar and put him down. He danced away, claws clicking on the wooden floor. She stepped into a dim living room with a sofa, coffee table, several chairs. Light glowed from a floor lamp in one corner but most of the room was shadowy. She walked swiftly to an equally dim dining room, made a sharp right turn into a dark hall.

The dog was at the first door, front paws lifted to scratch.

She joined him, knocked sharply. ‘Jennifer.’ Her tone was forceful, determined.

No reply.

Buddy clawed the door, insistent, confident.

Another firm knock. No reply. She twisted the knob. The door opened to darkness. She fumbled for the light switch. Soft light from a ceiling fixture illuminated a charming room, queen bed with a cheerful striped spread, two easy chairs on either side of a low table littered with books and magazines. Cream drapes were drawn at two windows. Three walls were a pale gold. A mural on the fourth wall was bright with a Paris scene, likely a street in Montmartre. The bedroom wasn’t occupied.

Returning to the hall, she moved in a rush, checking another bedroom, flicking on the light to reveal what was clearly an unoccupied guest room. The last room was a spacious artist’s studio with an easel beneath a skylight. A palette held oil paints. The canvas was bright with daubs of orange and yellow and vibrant purple. She hurried back to the dining room and pushed through a swinging door into a lighted, unoccupied kitchen. The sink held unwashed dishes and silverware. She walked to a side door, yanked it open. A blue Toyota sedan sat on one side of the garage. The other space was empty. She closed the door, leaned against it. Her frown was intense.

Frenzied barks sounded from the living room.

She dashed from the kitchen into the dining room.

Buddy was in the foyer. ‘Yip. Yip. Yip.’

The front door swung in. A glad cry. ‘Buddy, oh Buddy, Buddy.’ A slender young woman in a pink sweater, gray leggings and gray loafers picked up the eager dog, held him in a tight embrace. A quick tongue licked at the face buried in his ruff.

Her expression troubled, the woman in the soggy clothes hurried to the foyer, her boots squishing. ‘Jennifer.’ Her voice held a mixture of relief and concern.

The young woman looked up, stiffened. She was pretty in an understated way, soft brown hair, gentle features, but her young face was drawn and pale. She stared at the disheveled woman. ‘My God, Fran, what happened to you?’

‘I ended up in the pond. Chasing your damn dog. I was glad when you and Buddy went after Travis. I hoped you’d catch him, soothe him down. But I got worried when neither of you came back. I should have gone home.’

Jennifer stood unmoving, unresponsive, as if she were in a faraway place surrounded by silence. The dog wriggled. She eased him to the floor.

‘But I didn’t. I went up to the terrace.’ The bedraggled woman’s gaze was hard, demanding.

Jennifer shifted to stare at the mural of the palm tree.

‘You know where I found Buddy.’ A declarative sentence, again demanding.

Jennifer fingered the golden beads on a fine chain.

‘Tied to the stair railing. Barking his fool head off. My God, why did you leave him?’

Jennifer smoothed a strand of hair. ‘I need to go to bed.’

The woman I’d tugged from the scummy water moved closer, stood rigid, face tight, hands on her hips, a scant foot away. ‘Jennifer, did you go inside?’

Jennifer leaned down to pat Buddy, who pressed against one ankle, then straightened. She folded her arms across her front, a classic posture of resistance. Her lower lip pushed out.

I recalled a long-ago classroom and a teenage girl unable to produce her homework. Her lower lip pushed out. ‘Someone took it.’ She repeated her claim over and over.

Jennifer’s blue eyes were suddenly vague. She blinked several times. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Her tone was bemused, puzzled, patient. ‘And you sound so harsh. Perhaps it’s time for you to go home.’ She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. ‘I have a terrible headache. I rested in my bedroom all evening. With Buddy. I went there right after Travis left. I didn’t know you were still here, Fran. Anyway, I never left my room tonight. No one can say I did.’ She whirled away, left Fran in her drenched clothes, hair wet against her head, standing in the foyer, staring after her.

Jennifer hurried through the living room and dining room, turned into the hall. A door slammed shut.

Fran’s face twisted in a tight frown. She took two quick steps, grabbed the brown leather shoulder bag from the maple table, slid the strap over her left shoulder. She looked once more at the empty living room and made an oddly helpless gesture, turning her hands palms up.

At the front door, she hesitated, gave a hopeless shrug. She stepped outside, shivered as the wind gusted, hurried to the Honda in the driveway, slid behind the wheel.

I settled in the front passenger seat.

Fran tossed her purse to the floor in front of me. A buckle scraped my shin. ‘Ouch.’

Her head jerked toward the unoccupied seat.

My mouth opened, closed. Reassuring words issuing from empty space would not be helpful.

Fran stared at the passenger seat. Her head twisted as she checked the back seat. She finally turned the key, backed from the drive. She drove fast, hands clamped tight on the wheel. In the occasional illumination from street lights, she looked tense, worried, somber. As we neared downtown, she slowed on Fulton. We passed a one-story white stucco building. A mural on a side wall featured a massive bison on a hillock in a sea of prairie grass. In my Adelaide days the structure housed a real-estate office. Gold letters on the front plate-glass window announced: Roberts Art Gallery.

Fran slowed the car as she passed a deserted parking lot. She bit her lip, shook her head, then lifted her shoulders and let them fall, as if accepting a fact that she could not change. The Honda picked up speed.

She turned on Main Street. We passed Lulu’s Café, dark now. Lulu’s was a thriving café in my day and sixty years later still served the best breakfast in town, bacon, grits, hash browns, and scrambled eggs with chives. Thoughts of delectable items from Lulu’s menu – chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes with cream gravy, green beans cooked with ham hock – entranced me as we wound past City Park across from City Hall and neared Goddard College, a lovely, small campus spread over several hills.

The residential area near the college was modest with many frame houses, none of them imposing. She took a right on to Carleton Way. Midway up the block, she turned into a narrow drive. A lamppost near the house revealed a charming bungalow. Fran didn’t bother with the garage. She parked on the driveway, hurried up the steps to the porch, unlocked the front door. A sleek-furred black cat with glowing green eyes waited in the entrance hall. The cat mewed, a hello, glad-you’re-back mew.

Fran bent to stroke the silky coat. ‘I know. I’m late.’

Another mew.

‘It doesn’t do any good for me to say everything’s all right. You know better, don’t you, Muff. You always know.’ Fran picked up the cat, gently nuzzled her neck.

Muff mewed.

‘Do you smell pond water? I’ll wash my clothes. And me. And maybe I’ll learn to mind my own business. Travis isn’t a little boy now. He’s a man. I can’t pick up the pieces if he breaks something. Oh Muff, I should have … But I didn’t. Muff, I’m scared.’ She pressed her face against the cat’s fur, then gently put her down.

She bent, pulled off short gray leather boots, held them for a moment. ‘My Bill boots. Oh Muff, they were so beautiful.’ She choked back a sob, cradled the soggy boots in her arms. She turned from the foyer into a hallway, carrying her boots. She opened a door, stepped inside. In an instant came the rush of water splashing into a tub.

I stood in an inviting living room, comfortable furniture, the beige sofa bright with stitched butterflies, a chair with gold fabric, another with soft stripes of rose and gray, tables with cut glass and painted vases and framed photographs. Books were stacked on an end table.

I lifted my head to listen.

Water splashed in the bathroom. Muff purred. A wall clock ticked. Branches outside creaked in the wind. There was no whoo, no clack of steel wheels on silver rails, no whiff of coal smoke.

Fran was safely home, but she was scared. What happened tonight at the house high on the hill?