as pragmatic as their father and as caring as their mother. She wore a faded blue plaid flannel shirt over jeans that were baggy on her slender frame. Her hair, as dark as Olivia’s, was chin length but still managed to look wild and unruly. Her eyes were flat-out green, not Olivia’s hazel mix. Her sister’s one concession to not looking as if she had just stepped out of a barn was a silver Celtic-knot necklace, a present from Mark Flanagan, a Knights Bridge architect who specialized in historic preservation and restoration. Olivia, and no doubt everyone else in town, expected an engagement ring would be forthcoming.
It was Mark who had introduced Olivia to Roger Bailey in the first place.
“How long are you keeping your apartment?” Jess asked.
“Through April, at least. I’ll be freelancing for a while, but my landlord won’t have trouble finding another renter when the time comes.”
“You’ll miss Boston.”
“It’s not even two hours from Knights Bridge. I’m not moving to Tucson.”
Jess lifted a box of dishes. “Have you decided on a name for this getaway of yours?”
“I have. I’m calling it The Farm at Carriage Hill. What do you think?”
“Love it.” Jess headed through the kitchen into the living room with her box, but stopped abruptly at a large open box on the floor. She glanced back at Olivia. “Why do you have a hundred sets of sheets?”
Olivia smiled at her sister’s exaggeration. It was at most fifty sheets—a lot, she knew, by most standards. “They’re antique sheets. I’ve been collecting them at flea markets and yard sales and such.”
“What are you going to do with them?”
“I don’t know. Something will come to me.”
Jess shrugged. “You’re the one with the creative flair.”
When they finished loading the truck, they threw a blue tarp over the back and secured it with bungee cords as best they could. Olivia could have hired a mover but why spend the money? She had always watched her expenses. A good thing, she thought, now that she wasn’t drawing a regular paycheck. In the back of her mind, especially lately, she had known she would go back to her hometown one day and start her own business. Over the past week she had wondered if that was part of the reason she hadn’t experienced the kind of explosive success Marilyn was enjoying. Then she reminded herself that she had enjoyed great success and was still a sought-after designer.
Her sister was frowning at her and Olivia forced herself to stop thinking about the past. She couldn’t let Marilyn get to her. Marilyn was a superb designer. Her work was striking a chord with people. Olivia didn’t want anything bad to happen to a friend, even if that friend had betrayed her trust and dropped her once she was no longer of use.
She’d just learn to watch her back.
“No one’s here to see you off?” Jess asked.
“It’s a workday and I’m not going far.”
As she pulled open the passenger door, Olivia felt a sense of excitement tempered by no small measure of uncertainty at what lay ahead. Maybe on some level she was running from failure and disappointment, but she was also running to something. A new life. A new set of challenges.
“All set,” Jess said, climbing in on the driver’s side. She gave her sister a sideways glance. “Are you sure you don’t want to change your mind?”
“Positive.”
“It’s warmer here than at home. We still have snow on the ground.”
Olivia settled into the passenger seat with her little pots of herb seedlings on her lap. The dill was tall enough to tickle her chin. “I know, Jess. I was just there.”
“All right, then. Let’s go.” Jess was still obviously unconvinced. “Olivia, are you sure—”
“I’m sure.”
“Nothing’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“Liv—”
“It’s just time to make a change, Jess. That’s all.”
Her sister gripped the steering wheel. “It’s Marilyn Bryson, isn’t it? She’s done something. Flaming narcissist. Never mind. You’ll tell me if you want to. I’m not going to pry.”
Olivia said nothing, watching out her window as urban sprawl gave way to rolling hills and fields.
The Farm at Carriage Hill…
It was perfect, she thought. Just perfect.
A winding, off-the-beaten track road led from the main highway to Knights Bridge, often cited as one of the prettiest villages in New England. Situated on the edge of the Quabbin Reservoir and its protected watershed, the village had changed little in the past century, at least in appearance. Olivia watched the familiar landmarks pass by: the white church, the brick library, the town hall, the general store, the school, the pristine town common surrounded by classic houses, the oldest built in 1794, the newest in 1912. When her historic house came onto the market in October, the idea of converting it into a getaway had seemed more like a fantasy than a realistic goal. Regardless, she had expected to keep her job and apartment in Boston for the foreseeable future.
Jess was silent as she turned onto a narrow road just past the village center and navigated a series of potholes as they came to an intersection with an even narrower road. Olivia grimaced at the run-down house on the corner. The whole place had become an eyesore. The house, built in 1842, was in desperate need of repair, its narrow white clapboards peeling, sections missing from its black shutters, its roof sagging. If possible, the yard was worse, overgrown and littered with junk.
Its one redeeming feature was its location, one of the most beautiful and desirable in Knights Bridge with its sloping lawn, mature shade trees, lilacs, mountain laurel, surrounding fields and woods—and, peeking in the distance, the crystal-clear waters of the Quabbin Reservoir.
Jess downshifted as she turned onto the quiet one-lane road. They were only two miles from the village center, but it seemed farther. “Mark says the house should be condemned.”
“At least someone should clear the junk out of the yard. Grace hasn’t seen it, has she? She’d be devastated.”
“I don’t think she’s been back here since she moved out.”
Olivia noticed a rusted refrigerator on its side amid brambles, melting snow and brown, wet leaves. Whoever had bought the house two years ago from Grace Webster, a retired English and Latin teacher, hadn’t done a thing to it.
“How did a refrigerator end up in the yard?” Olivia asked.
“I don’t know,” Jess said. “Kids, probably. The house has sat empty for two years. There’s a washing machine, too.”
Indeed there was.
Olivia had asked her friend Maggie O’Dunn, a local caterer, to find out what she
