That Night on Thistle Lane. Carla Neggers

was easy to like since he didn’t have to deal with the details of paying bills, raising their sons, figuring out their future. When faced with unemployment, he’d taken off for the mountains with a backpack and his dreams. He’d never meant to be a carpenter forever. He was good at it, he even liked it—but he thought he should be doing something else. Maggie didn’t even know what anymore. She doubted he did, either.

      She put him out of her mind and dialed her mother’s house. Tyler picked up. “Gran’s making hot chocolate.”

      “Hey, Tyler. Why are you still up?”

      “The bat woke us up.”

      “I see.” Bats weren’t unheard of at her mother’s farmhouse, especially in summer. “Where’s the bat now?”

      “Gran shooed it outside with a broom. I helped.”

      “Good for you. What about your brother?”

      “He hid under his blanket. He’s having hot chocolate, too.”

      “All right. Well, you two be good and help Gran. Tell her I called, okay?”

      “I will, Mom. When are you coming home?”

      “Tomorrow.”

      “Did you see Dad?”

      She couldn’t lie to her son. “I did, but just for a few minutes.”

      “He’s taking me and Aidan camping.”

      Maggie heard the questioning note in Tyler’s voice and responded without hesitation. “Yes, absolutely, he’s taking you and Aidan camping.” That was one thing she knew for certain: Brandon would keep his promise to his sons. “Go enjoy your hot chocolate. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

      When she disconnected, she threw her phone onto the entry table and sank onto the sofa. It opened out into a bed. She would sleep there.

      She kicked off her shoes and noticed a side seam in her flowing dress had split an inch, probably from dancing with her husband.

      “Why aren’t you here with me, Brandon?”

      She hugged her arms around herself and burst into tears.

      * * *

      Phoebe could hear the pitter-pat of rain on the library roof as she sat cross-legged on the wood floor of the hidden attic room. Too wired to sleep after the masquerade ball and the drive back to Knights Bridge, she’d changed into yoga pants and a lightweight fleece tunic, intending to do a few stretches on the living room floor, but she’d ended up grabbing a flashlight and heading out into what was then a light drizzle. As she’d breathed in the damp night air, she imagined her swashbuckler’s arms around her.

      What a night it had been.

      She’d walked down Thistle Lane to the library, letting herself in through the side door. Putting aside thoughts of ghosts, she’d debated a moment before starting up the back stairs. A more formal set of stairs in the main room led just to the second floor. In her five years with the library, she’d seldom ventured up to the attic. One of those rare times was two weeks ago, and it had resulted in the discovery of the dresses that she, Olivia and Maggie had worn tonight.

      It was pouring rain now, pitch-dark outside. Phoebe had never been up to the attic at night. She half expected a bat to fly out from its dark recesses, crowded with cast-off library furnishings, archives, books and everything her waste-not, want-not predecessors over the past century-plus had thought might come in handy someday.

      She’d come upon the hidden room accidentally, when she’d lifted a small paper bag sitting on top of an old filing cabinet and a dozen antique marbles broke out of the bottom. They dropped onto the floor, rolling every which way. Several rolled under two tin closets standing side by side, filled with more junk and treasures. She’d edged between the closets, determined to collect the marbles.

      As she’d bent down to retrieve a colorful swirled boulder, she noticed a door behind the free-standing closets. She’d had no idea it was there. Madly curious, she’d tucked the marble in her dress pocket and shoved the closets back just enough to give her room to get at the door. It was unlocked but obviously hadn’t been opened in a while. It hadn’t given way easily.

      She’d expected to 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