making lists of what was hers and what was Adam’s. Too busy sorting out the books into his and hers piles, wondering what on earth to do with the Duxiana bed, and all the extra furniture that Adam didn’t want, the furniture that wouldn’t fit into a new, smaller house.
Too busy running, so she wouldn’t have to stop and deal with the anxiety, the fear. Could she do this by herself? Was she really that strong?
But once she bought this house, she knew she would have to find something, and Edie’s suggestion was a blessing in disguise.
Robert McClore is probably the most famous person to live in Highfield. Neighboring towns have their share of movie stars and rock gods, but Highfield has one of the biggest names in literature today.
He is talked of in the same breath as Clancy, Patterson or Grisham. He is one of the giants in men’s commercial fiction, and the airports stack his small, meaty paperbacks high every summer.
He is read by all the men who profess not to enjoy fiction. The men who read the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal, who, if they read books at all, read biographies, history books, business tomes, and who only ever pick up a blockbuster when they’re flying to sandy destinations with their wives and families.
His books have been turned into movies, each one more successful than the last, and the script for The Last Landing is still studied by film students all over the country, lauded as an example, as the example, in fact, of the perfect thriller.
He moved to Highfield thirty-five years previously with his wife, Penelope, a model. They were part of the beautiful crowd, the artists and writers who summered in Highfield, who drove down on Friday nights with the backseats of their sporty little convertibles stuffed with cases of champagne.
They were the golden couple, until Penelope disappeared from their yacht while they were sailing, with friends, in the Greek islands during the summer of 1978. It was the biggest story of the year, and to this day there are people who believe Penelope was murdered, that there was far more to the story than met the eye.
Their friends, it was true, were there. Plum Apostoles, who had made a fortune in shipping, was rumored to have been having an affair with Penelope. Plum’s wife, Ileana, was thought to have been having an affair with Robert. Plum had, it later came out, served time in prison for assault. There was talk of huge rows, drunken parties, but Robert never spoke about it again.
Nor did he remarry. The parties and the high life stopped as soon as Penelope disappeared, and he became something of a recluse.
Hillpoint, the grand old house perched at the top of Dune Road, overlooks the calm waters of Long Island Sound. The house itself is approached by a long, gravel driveway. As the electric gates swing noiselessly open, and you round the corner, you catch a glimpse of the large white columns of the house before it comes into view in its entirety.
Gracious, regal, impressive, it is a house that is often whispered about, for few have actually seen it, few have ventured beyond those intimidating electric gates. Some of the mothers that Kit knows, women who have grown up in Highfield, say they went trick or treating there as children, that Robert and Penelope left the gates open every Halloween, when they threw huge parties for all their New York friends, and they let anyone come, lavishing delicious gourmet candy on all the neighborhood children.
The house was designed by Cameron Clark in 1929, but it is a house that hasn’t been seen for years. Aside from the people who take care of Robert McClore, few are allowed beyond the gates.
Robert McClore spends his time writing a book a year, consulting on the movies, and occasionally, very occasionally, appearing at an event in town to benefit one of the local charities. His name appears far more often than he does, as a generous donor to everything charitable, including being one of the giant supporters behind the rebuilding of Highfield Library.
Kit sat in her kitchen and looked at her new neighbor.
“Of course I know how to type,” she said, despite not having typed for many, many years. Still, nothing that a spot of practice wouldn’t cure.
“Know how to read?” Edie peered at Kit with a twinkle in her eye, while Tory burst out laughing.
“Is Robert McClore really looking for an