The kid nodded but didn’t look at her. “It’s been crazy. Three lightning strikes reported in town so far. One of ’em hit the old Hamilton place out on East County Road. Fire department’s up there now and it must be bad, because they’ve called in two other towns to come help.”
“Terrible,” Helen said. She paid for the bread, slipped five dollars from her change into the coffee can. The boy looked at her then, but instead of looking grateful or pleased by her donation, he scowled, said, “I know who you are.”
“Excuse me?”
“You bought the place out by the bog,” he said.
“Yes,” she said, smiling. “I’m Helen. My husband, Nate, and I bought the land. We’re building a house up there. We just love Hartsboro.”
The kid stared, silent.
“Well,” she said at last, “nice meeting you.” And she turned to go, clutching her bread in its paper bag to her chest, feeling his eyes on her back as she left the store.
. . .
The squat brick Hartsboro post office was right next to Ferguson’s. Helen stopped in there to check the PO box she and Nate had rented. The only thing in it was a flyer for an exterminator. No house to be infested with critters just yet. A little farther down Main Street stood her true destinations: the tiny stone library and the white clapboard building that housed the town clerk’s office. She tried the town clerk first, but the door was locked and had aCLOSEDsign. There were no hours posted, no signs of life inside.
The rain pounded down around her, blew in sheets, as she held up her umbrella to try to keep the worst of it away. She hurried next door to the library. The smell of old books comforted her as soon as she stepped through the door.
She stopped in front of the bulletin board in the entryway and closed up her umbrella. There were signs advertising firewood for sale, a day care, rototilling services, and a poster for the high school drama club’s performance ofInto the Woods—she noticed the date was three weeks ago. There was an old poster for the vigil for the kids who were killed in the bus accident. Tucked into the left corner was a small square of white paper with an eye looking out of a cloud:HARTSBORO SPIRIT CIRCLE. LET US HELP YOU MAKE CONTACT WITH A FRIEND OR LOVED ONE WHO HAS PASSED.Then a phone number.
Helen stared, amazed. She’d moved onto land that supposedly had its own ghost and into a town with its own “spirit circle.” She definitely wasn’t in suburban Connecticut anymore.
Helen walked in, expecting an antiquated library with an old-fashioned paper card catalog. But there were three computers on the left with instructions above for searching the online catalog. There was also a poster explaining that e-books and audiobooks were available electronically. She said hello to the woman behind the desk and did a quick walk through the library: periodicals, audiobooks, reference, nonfiction, and then fiction.
There was a mom with a toddler playing at the train table set up in the brightly painted children’s area, but they were the only other patrons. Helen went back to the computers and searched the online catalog for books about Hartsboro. The only titles she found that focused on Hartsboro itself were the VFW Ladies Auxiliary cookbook (which involved lots of maple and bacon) and a book about the flood of 1927.
She walked up to the desk. “Excuse me. I’m looking for books on Hartsboro history.”
The librarian, a middle-aged woman in a Snoopy sweatshirt, told her she should check out the Hartsboro Historical Society.
“Where’s that?” Helen asked, thrilled to hear such a place existed.
“A couple of doors down on the left, in the basement of the old Elks Lodge. But they’re open funny hours—like every second Saturday or something. You’ll want to call Mary Ann Marsden. She runs the place and she’ll open it up by appointment. I’m sure I’ve got her number here somewhere.” She tapped at her boxy computer. “Here it is!” she chirped, sounding thrilled with herself. She copied the number down on a piece of scrap paper.
“You looking for anything in particular?” the woman asked. “I’ve lived here my whole life and know a thing or two about the town.”
“My husband and I just moved to town and I was hoping to learn a little local history. I’m a—I mean, Iwasa history teacher. In my old life.” Helen laughed, but she thought,Yes—this is my life now.“Anyway, we’ve bought land out by the Breckenridge Bog and I’d love to find out whatever I can about the area.”
“The Breckenridge place?” The woman smiled, showing small pearly-white teeth. “You bought it from George Decrow, isn’t that right?”
“Yes.” Helen nodded.
“Poor George, such a sweet man. How is he?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know. We never actually met him. Apparently, he’s not in great health and lives out of state.”
“Don’t blame him for not coming back. Not after what happened.”
Helen gave her a blank look. “What happened?”
“The accident, I mean.”
“I didn’t hear anything about it,” Helen admitted.
“Well,” the librarian went on, “his wife, Edie, she nearly drowned in the bog.”
“Oh no,” Helen said, thinking of what Nate had said—it was spring fed, could go down very deep.
