“Isn’t it just perfect?” Jillian’s voice bubbled with enthusiasm. She’d been the one who’d found Haworth House on Belle Island off the coast of Maine. It had just the kind of rich history that would appeal to her. According to Jillian, Hattie Haworth’s life had been a mess when she’d retired here to the haven she’d built for herself. When the star had failed to make the transition to the talkies, her studio had dumped her, and her husband had left her for a younger woman with a more promising future.
Reese let her gaze sweep the tower room that had once been Hattie’s private boudoir. “Perfect might be pushing it a little.”
Naomi had to agree. The sunshine battling its way through the grime-coated tower windows illuminated dancing dust motes and not much else—which was probably a blessing considering the state of the faded wallpaper and the crumbling bricks in the fireplace.
Totally unruffled, Jillian said, “This tower will rehab beautifully, and you have to admit, the rest of the place is great.”
“True,” Reese agreed with a smile. “The kitchen has definite possibilities. And you can’t beat the view.” She gestured to one of the windows, where the Atlantic stretched as far as the eye could see. “But this room looks like no one has touched it in years.”
“No one has,” Jillian said. “I did some research in the local paper, and in the beginning—right after Hattie died—there were rumors that she haunted the place. So the new owners boarded up the tower. After that the stories seemed to fade. But none of the subsequent owners ever ventured up here.”
“And you just decided to tear down the boards and barge in on a ghost?” Reese gave Naomi a rolling eye glance that said typical.
Jillian lifted her chin. “I think Hattie’s happy to have us here.”
“You think?” Naomi asked.
Jillian nodded. “The first time I came up here, I sensed her presence. Look.” Setting down her glass, she grabbed her sisters’ hands and drew them toward an old beveled glass mirror. “What do you see?”
“I see the Brightman sisters,” Naomi said. They were so different. Jillian, with her curly blond hair, was the shortest, her style of dress early gypsy. Reese, the tallest and most striking, wore her dark hair pixie short and had on her usual uniform of jeans and T-shirt. Compared to her sisters, Naomi thought of herself as ordinary. Her hair was trapped between blond and red, her eyes a mix of green and gray. The conservative business suits and practical shoes suited her job in the Boston law firm where she worked.
“Wait for it,” Jillian urged.
Seconds ticked by. They stood side by side staring into the mirror as the air chilled around them.
Jillian squeezed their hands. “Can you feel the drop in temperature? ”
“You could hang meat in here.” Reese’s voice was hushed.
Naomi suppressed a shudder. Later, she decided that if she’d been there alone, she would have chalked it up to an overactive imagination. But when the mirror suddenly flashed as if it had caught a beam of sunlight and then shimmered, she heard all three of them catch their breath simultaneously.
For an instant, there’d been a fourth image in the dusty glass.
“Did you see her?” Jillian whispered.
“Tall, beautiful, in a filmy white dress,” Reese said.
“Red-gold hair,” Naomi murmured. It nearly matched the shade of her own. And it had fallen in a tumble of curls nearly to her waist.
“And her feet didn’t touch the ground,” Jillian said. “Did you notice that? I did some research. Ghosts float. Their feet never touch the ground.”
“Well, I’ll be,” Reese said.
“She’s here.” Jillian’s tone was triumphant. “And if she didn’t want us here, we wouldn’t be.”
For a moment there was silence in the room.
Naomi swallowed hard and wondered what had happened to her practical, sober side. She’d seen that image in the mirror. She should be telling her sisters that this wasn’t going to work. They couldn’t possibly live in a tower that was already occupied. But what she said was, “So we’re going to build our new home in a space that’s probably haunted.” And as she let her gaze sweep the room again, she realized she’d made a statement, not a question.
“There’s something else,” Jillian said. “Something I haven’t told you yet.”
“What?” Naomi and Reese asked the question in unison as their eyes shot to their sister.
“There’s a secret room.” Jillian hurried over to the one wall that didn’t have windows and pulled a lever. A panel slid open.
“Of course, it has a secret room,” Naomi murmured.
“And it’s just like Jillian to spring it on us,” Reese said.
Even in the dim light pushing through the windows, Naomi could see that the room was small, no larger than a closet. She and Reese waited in the doorway as Jillian stepped in.
“There’s more. Wait till you see.” Jillian picked up a linen-covered hatbox, turned and held it for her sisters’ inspection.
As she and Reese moved closer, Naomi noticed the piece of parchment fastened to the top of the box. It read:
Fantasy Box. Choose carefully. The one you draw out will come true.
Reese shot Jillian a suspicious glance. “This isn’t a joke.”
Jillian shook her head. “I swear it’s not. I found the room the first time I came up here. I was looking into the mirror and I saw the door open behind me. But I waited for the two of you before opening the box. Naomi, you’re oldest. You go first.”
Naomi firmly ignored the chill working its way up her spine as she lifted the cover off. Inside were folded pieces of the same parchment as the note. Curiosity warred with a firm tug of apprehension. There had been a definite warning in that message.
She met her sisters’ eyes, then carried the box to a table and set it down. “Let’s all take one on a count of three. One.”
“Two,” Jillian said.
“Three,” Reese finished.
They reached into the box and together pulled out a parchment each.
For a moment there was no sound in the tower room other than the muffled crash of waves on the rocks below.
Reese whistled softly. “I don’t know about the two of you, but the fantasy I drew out seems pretty sexual in nature.”
“Me, too,” Jillian said.
“I guess we know what Hattie Haworth did to amuse herself after she retired from her film career,” Reese commented.
Only Naomi remained silent. She didn’t think she could talk. She certainly couldn’t seem to take her eyes off the words written on the parchment. What she was reading was the secret sexual fantasy that had fueled her imagination when she’d been a teenager in that French Catholic boarding school.
But who would have known about it? She’d never even shared it with her sisters. It was forbidden. Unthinkable. Yet there’d been a time in her life when she’d thought of little else. Still, there was far too much guilt associated with it.
And pleasure? A little thrill moved through Naomi as she thought of the message on the box.
The one you draw out will come true.