find that it was a closet, probably stuffed with more of the mishmash of materials in the rest of the attic. Instead the door opened into a small room that she hadn’t even realized existed. It was lined with shelves and cupboards neatly arranged with fabric, patterns, buttons, zippers, needles, thread, notions, buttons—everything an avid seamstress might need.
A secret sewing room.
It felt like a hideaway, a tiny retreat where someone could sit and work in peace and quiet. Another door opened onto a remote corner of the sprawling attic, by a small window that overlooked the town common. A dusty sewing table was positioned so that a seamstress could work with a pleasant view and a bit of natural light.
The only thing that seemed to be missing for a fully equipped sewing room was an actual sewing machine.
Phoebe had done a quick survey of the contents of the room and discovered the Hollywood-inspired and period dresses in two matching cedar-lined trunks and several hanging garment bags. Leaving everything undisturbed, she’d replaced the tin closets in front of the door and decided to keep the room her secret for the time being.
A few days later, she’d gone back and picked out the three dresses to be cleaned.
Now, tired, a little spooked with the dark night and rain, she raised the lid on a sewing basket. Given the conditions, she was ever-watchful for mice and spiders but the sewing kit yielded only pins, needles, thread, embroidery floss, a tracing wheel, cards of zigzag and seam binding.
Who had sewn up here? Why leave so much behind?
Phoebe took a sharp breath. Had the sewer of all these clothes died? Was that why the incredible dresses were still here?
I have to know.
She pulled all the notions and other items out of the sewing kit and laid them on the floor, looking for any clues that would help identify who had sewn the dresses she, Maggie and Olivia had worn to Boston tonight.
Her Edwardian gown had attracted her swashbuckler and hidden her from the scrutiny of the mystery man in the coatroom.
A night of mysteries, she thought, untangling several zippers.
A browned sheet of paper was matted to the bottom of the sewing basket. Phoebe carefully peeled it off and saw that it was a practice sheet of the conjugation of the French verb to be in a neat, feminine handwriting: Je suis, tu es, il/elle est, nous sommes, vous êtes, ils/elles sont.
Phoebe had taken French in high school and college but she was rusty and wasn’t sure she could have managed to conjugate even a simple verb. Had the seamstress gone to high school in Knights Bridge? Had she been a student when she’d set up this room?
So many questions.
Phoebe returned the sheet of French verbs to the sewing kit and carefully replaced all the supplies. She stood, finally feeling the effects of her long day. She grabbed her flashlight and shut the door, moved the closets back into place, then headed back down the steep, dark stairs. The creaks and groans of the old building normally didn’t faze her, but the hidden room had her thinking about ghosts as she locked up.
It was still raining when she started back down Thistle Lane. She’d gone out without a raincoat or umbrella, but it was a warm, gentle rain, as if to remind her what was real and what wasn’t real.
Pretending to be a princess and dancing with a mysterious swashbuckler at a Boston charity ball had been a fleeting fantasy, a peek into another kind of life.
Someone else’s life. Not hers.
Five
Noah slept fitfully and awoke wishing he had sent a check for the neonatal ICU instead of attending the masquerade ball. He could have gone straight back to California after hiking in the White Mountains or stayed in California altogether. Either way, he’d have spared himself meeting the potential love of his life and letting her slip through his fingers.
It was his own fault. He never should have left his princess and chased after his mystery man, if, indeed, that was who he’d spotted.
There had to be a way to find her.
He decided he didn’t want to deal with email and voice mail and “accidentally” dropped his iPhone in the water-filled bathroom sink.
The people who truly needed to reach him would figure it out.
He got dressed, appreciating his normal black trousers and black shirt. No more hiking clothes, no more swashbuckler cape. He went down for breakfast and tried to act as if he’d had a good night.
Once he had coffee, he decided he probably shouldn’t have tossed his phone into the sink.
He’d run into people last night from his MIT days. Rumors were circulating about what was next for him now that NAK had gone public. One account had him staying on as CEO, another shifting into research and development. Focusing on his Central Coast winery. Getting deeper into venture capital, starting a new business, devoting himself to philanthropy, moving into academia.
None of the rumors were true, if only because Noah had no idea what was next for him beyond whole-wheat pancakes and warm Vermont maple syrup for breakfast.
He’d finished his pancakes when Dylan and Olivia wandered into the restaurant and joined him at his table. Waiters quickly brought out fresh place settings. Olivia had on lightweight jeans and a green linen top that matched her eyes. Dylan was in jeans and a hiking shirt, as if he hadn’t thought about being at the Boston hotel this morning. Noah hadn’t, either. He just generally wore the same thing.
Olivia sat next to Dylan. She looked radiant, comfortable in her own skin in a way she hadn’t on Noah’s brief trip east in early spring.
He’d been assaulted by black flies then, he remembered.
“Loretta called,” Dylan said. “She said she emailed you and left you a voice mail and thought she’d hear back by now.”
“Phone’s broken.”
“Dropped it again?”
“In the sink. Water damage.”
“Ah.” Dylan shifted his gaze to Olivia. “Noah breaks a lot of phones.”
“You get distracted and drop them?” she asked.
Noah ignored Dylan’s obvious amusement at her question. “You could say that.”
Dylan grinned. “He gets pissed off and kills his phone.”
“Not often,” Noah said, keeping his attention on Olivia. “Dropping my phone in water is an indulgence but the alternative is to get distracted by the thing.”
“It’s how his mind works,” Dylan said, leaving it at that. “What does Loretta want with you?”
Noah glanced past him and looked out tall windows as Boston slowly came to life on a quiet, sunny Saturday morning. “I guess I’ll call her and find out.”
“Noah?”
He heard the concern in his friend’s voice
