Prologue

"I could just kill him."

Monica Mayes pressed the gas pedal of her little BMW to the floor and zoomed around a pokey Dodge Caravan, cutting it a bit too close as she pulled back into her lane. The driver of the Caravan braked, and the van swerved, but Monica didn't notice.

"How could he do this to me?" she asked herself, pulling out the cigarette lighter. With a trembling hand she held it to the end of a Virginia Slim and took a long, slow draw. No longer used to the smoke, she hadn't had a cigarette in years, she coughed.

"He's not worth it," she decided, tossing the cigarette out the window. She was damned if she was going to sacrifice her health for him. He'd gotten enough from her already. Thirty-two years of marriage, three grown children.

Tears welled in her eyes. She couldn't believe how much it hurt, actual physical pain. Her chest ached with every breath; she could hardly swallow. He'd never laid a finger on her, but she felt bruised and beaten anyway.

She hadn't seen that final blow coming. If she had she might have taken care to avoid it. But she'd never suspected a thing.

She'd left the house at a quarter to one for her weekly shift at the Hospital Auxiliary thrift shop. Realizing she'd forgotten a couple of Roland's old suits that she'd planned to donate, she returned home. She'd hurried upstairs, thrown open the bedroom door, and was halfway across the room before she even saw them.

Roland and Krissy, her aerobics instructor. Her aerobics instructor, for God's sake! And in her own bed--their marriage bed.

"How could he do that?" she asked herself. He was such a bastard. Why hadn't she realized it sooner? She'd just gotten used to it. She gave and he took. That's the way it was. Her job was to please him. She cooked for him. She cleaned for him. She washed and ironed for him. She entertained for him, and decorated the house for him. She dressed for him, and dieted, and even took aerobics for him.

She'd been a fool. She'd thought their marriage was as important to him as it was to her. Him. The doctor. The head honcho. The chief of staff.

Angry now, she impatiently brushed the tears from her cheeks. She'd show him, she decided. She'd hit him where it hurt. He wasn't going to get off scot free. He'd have to pay. She began making a mental list as she flew along the turnpike, empty on this weekday night now that the tourist season was over.

First of all, she wanted the house in Tinker's Cove, and all the furniture. She'd need her car, of course, and money. A nice little nest egg, plus a big fat alimony check every month. It was her due. She'd earned it. She wasn't going to settle for less.

Was that her exit already? Braking hard she careened off the highway, almost losing control of the car on the tight curve of the exit ramp. Shaken, she pulled to a stop at the intersection and paused, taking a few deep breaths. Then she proceeded, carefully turning onto Route One and was soon driving down Main Street, surprised to find it empty. Of course, she reminded herself. Until now, she had only been here in the summer, when the town was full of tourists and summer residents. Now it was fall. Dark came much earlier, and the only signs of life were the lighted windows of the houses.

She stopped at the blinker and turned left, then left again onto Hopkins Homestead Road. The road was named for her house. Hopkins Homestead, the oldest house in Tinkers Cove.

She took one last turn onto the familiar dirt driveway and parked the car neatly in the vine covered carport behind the woodshed.

Her key turned easily in the lock and the heavy pine door swung open. She eagerly inhaled the spicy, old wood smell of the house.

Ignoring her reflection in the spotted glass of the hall mirror she stepped into the tiny parlor and switched on a lamp.

It was just as she remembered. Bare, wide plank floors, a camelback sofa, a scarred old sea chest serving as a coffee table. There were no curtains on the windows; Monica loved the way the garden became an Impressionist landscape when viewed through the wavy old glass. Anyone passing the house could have looked in and seen her, but no one did.

She went into the next room, the dining room. A collection of Currier and Ives lithographs hung on the wall, and a pine drop leaf table stood in the center of the room, surrounded by six yellow painted chairs. The chairs were the first purchase she'd made for the old house, hesitantly raising her hand at a country auction. "Sold," announced the auctioneer, bringing down his gavel The bidding was over almost before it had begun. Soon she'd become a regular, rescuing fine antiques from the greedy dealers who stripped off the original finishes and slapped on high prices, taking advantage of ignorant buyers.

Passing through the kitchen, she stepped up into the borning room. Here, close to the warm kitchen hearth, was where the first inhabitants of the house had given birth, nursed the sick, and died. This was where she had put her most prized possession, the curly maple sleigh bed.

Monica pulled back the blue and white hand-woven coverlet and found crisp, white sheets. So, she had left the bed made after all. She paid a quick visit to the bathroom, grateful she'd decided to put off closing the house and draining the pipes. Why had she done that? Had she known on some subconscious level that she would need the house? Shivering, she checked the thermostat and raised it to sixty-eight.

Then she pulled off her shoes, slipped off her slacks, and climbed into the bed, pulling the covers around her shoulders. Involuntarily, she let out a long, shuddering sigh.

She was so tired. Here was where she would rest, lick her wounds, and gather her strength. The house was old; it had endured centuries of nor'east storms, winter blizzards, summer heat waves, and decades of neglect. She had restored it and brought it back to life. Now, it was the old homestead's turn to shelter and protect her. She felt safe here. She reached up and turned off the light. She slept.