As they crossed the street, they fell in behind a group of people who were obviously part of the festivities. Dressed in period clothing, they looked as if they’d just stepped out of the eighteenth century-thick, heavy skirts on the women, black pants and high boots for the men, high collars, wide-brimmed hats. At the corner they broke into two separate groups, heading in opposite directions. Miles and Sarah followed the smaller group. “You’ve always lived here, right?” Sarah asked.
“Except for the years I went to college.”
“Didn’t you ever want to move away? To experience something new?”
“Like bistros?”
She nudged him playfully with her elbow. “No, not just that. Cities have a vibrancy, a sense of excitement that you can’t find in a small town.” “I don’t doubt it. But to be honest, I’ve never been interested in things like that. I don’t need those things to make me happy. A nice quiet place to unwind at the end of the day, beautiful views, a few good friends. What else is there?” “What was it like growing up here?”
“Did you ever seeThe Andy Griffith Show? Mayberry?”
“Who hasn’t?”
“Well, it was kind of like that. New Bern wasn’t quite so small, of course, but it had that small-town feel, you know? Where things seemed safe? I remember that when I was little-seven or eight-and I used to head out with my friends to go fishing or exploring or just out to play and I’d be gone until supper. And my parents wouldn’t worry at all, because they didn’t have to. Other times, we’d camp out down by the river all night long and the thought that something bad might happen to us never entered our minds. It’s a wonderful way to grow up, and I’d like Jonah to have the chance to grow up that way, too.” “You’d let Jonah camp out by the river all night?”
“Not a chance,” he said. “Things have changed, even in little New Bern.” As they reached the corner, a car rolled to a stop beside them. Just down the street, clusters of people strolled up and down the walks of various homes. “We’re friends, right?” Miles asked.
“I’d like to think so.”
“Do you mind if I ask you a question?”
“I guess it depends on the question.”
“What was your ex-husband like?”
She glanced toward him in surprise. “My ex-husband?” “I’ve been wondering about that. You’ve never mentioned him in all the time we’ve talked.”
Sarah said nothing, suddenly intent on the sidewalk in front of her. “If you’d rather not answer, you don’t have to,” Miles offered. “I’m sure it wouldn’t change my impression of him, anyway.”
“And what impression is that?”
“I don’t like him.”
Sarah laughed. “Why do you say that?”
“Because you don’t like him.”
“You’re pretty perceptive.”
“That’s why I’m in law enforcement.” He tapped his temple and winked at her. “I can spot clues that ordinary people overlook.”
She smiled, giving his arm an extra squeeze. “All right… my ex-husband. His name was Michael King and we met right after he finished his MBA. We were married for three years. He was rich, well educated, and good-looking…” She ticked those off, one right after the other, and when she paused, Miles nodded. “Mmm… I can see why you don’t like the guy.”
“You didn’t let me finish.”
“There’s more?”
“Do you want to hear this?”
“I’m sorry. Go on.”
She hesitated before finally going on.
“Well, for the first couple of years, we were happy. At least, I was. We had a beautiful apartment, we spent all of our free time together, and I thought I knew who he was. But I didn’t. Not really, anyway. In the end, we were arguing all the time, we hardly talked at all, and… and it just didn’t work out,” she finished quickly.
“Just like that?” he asked.
“Just like that,” she said.
“Do you ever see him anymore?”
“No.”
“Do you want to?”
“No.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Worse.”
“I’m sorry I brought it up,” he said.
“Don’t be. I’m better off without him.”
“So when did you know it was over?”
“When he handed me the divorce papers.”
“You had no idea they were coming?”
“No.”
“I knew I didn’t like him.” He also knew she hadn’t told him everything. She smiled appreciatively. “Maybe that’s why we get along so well. We see eye to eye on things.”
“Except, of course, about the wonders of small-town living, right?”
“I never said I didn’t like it here.”
“But could you see yourself staying in a place like this?”
“You mean forever?”
“C’mon, you have to admit it’s nice.”
“It is. I’ve already said that.”
“But it’s not for you? In the long run, I mean?”
“I guess that depends.”
“On what?”
She smiled at him. “On what my reason for staying would be.” Staring at her, he couldn’t help but imagine that her words were either an invitation or a promise.
The moon began its slow evening arc upward, glowing yellow and then orange as it crested the weathered roofline of the Travis-Banner home, their first stop on the ghost walk. The house was an ancient two-story Victorian with wide, wraparound porches desperately in need of painting. On the porch, a small crowd had gathered as two women, dressed as witches, stood around a large pot, serving apple cider and pretending to conjure up the first owner of the house, a man who’d supposedly been beheaded in a logging accident. The front door of the home was open; from inside came faint sounds of a carnival funhouse: terrified shrieks and creaking doors, strange thumps and cackling laughter. Suddenly the two witches dropped their heads, the lights went out on the porch, and a headless ghost made a dramatic appearance in the foyer behind them-a blackened shape dressed in a cape with arms extended and bones where hands should have been. One woman yelped as she dropped her cup of cider on the porch. Sarah moved instinctively toward Miles, half turning toward him as she reached for his arm with a grip that surprised him. Up close, her hair looked soft, and though it was a different color from Missy’s, he was reminded of what it had felt like to comb through Missy’s hair with his fingers as they lay together in the evenings. A minute later, at the muttered incantations of the witches, the ghost vanished and the lights came back on. Amid nervous laughter, the audience dispersed. Over the next couple of hours, Miles and Sarah visited a number of houses. They were invited inside for a quick tour of some; in others they stood in the foyer or were entertained in the garden with stories about the history of the home. Miles had taken this tour before, and as they strolled from home to home, he suggested places of particular interest and regaled her with stories about homes that weren’t part of the ghost walk this year.
They drifted along the cracked cement sidewalks, murmuring to each other, savoring the evening. In time, the crowds began to thin and some of the homes began to close up for the night. When Sarah asked if he was ready for dinner, Miles shook his head.
“There’s one more stop,” he said.
He led her down the street, holding her hand, gently brushing his thumb against it. From one of the towering hickory trees, an owl called out as they passed, then grew silent again. Up ahead, a group of people dressed as ghosts were piling into a station wagon. At the corner, Miles pointed toward a large, two-story home, this one devoid of the crowds she’d come to expect. The windows were absolutely black, as if shuttered from the interior. Instead, the only light was provided by a dozen candles lining the porch railings and a small wooden bench near the front door. Beside the bench sat an elderly woman in a rocking chair, a blanket draped over her legs. In the eerie light, she looked almost like a mannequin; her hair was white and thinning, her body frail and brittle. Her skin looked translucent in the flickering glow of candles, and her face was lined deeply, like the cracked glaze of an old china cup. Miles and Sarah seated themselves on the porch swing as the elderly woman studied them. “Hello, Miss Harkins,” Miles said slowly, “did you have a good crowd tonight?” “Same as usual,” Miss Harkins answered. Her voice was raspy, like that of a lifetime smoker. “You know how it goes.” She squinted at Miles, as if trying to make him out from a distance. “So you’ve come to hear the story of Harris and Kathryn Presser, have you?”