through all four levels of the house. Like it was our own private theme park.
We’d run up the back stairs to the attic, then down the grand staircase to the foyer twenty feet below.
As a kid, all I could think about was trying to unearth those secrets, even if I was scared shitless at the idea of running into ghosts in the old mortuary rooms in the basement.
Yup, quite a history that house had, from a wedding gift for a rich banker’s daughter, to a funeral parlor, and then back to a home again.
Ironic that as an adult—when I hadn’t even been looking—was when the house chose to show me a few of its secrets hidden in the attic.
The attic that was now Harper’s apartment.
As I parked along the curb in front, I smiled as I glanced up and saw the lights on upstairs. Knowing Harper, she was probably on her third outfit by now, no doubt agonizing over what to wear to the game.
In the end, she’d still be unhappy with her choice and have to borrow my sweatshirt.
With a chuckle at that thought, I stepped down from the Morgan Farm Market truck and slammed the door behind me, not bothering to lock it.
I bypassed the front door and headed around back. Anyone local knew to use the kitchen door for everyday visits. As I’d guessed, Agnes was there getting dinner ready.
“Hey, Agnes.”
“Stone. Nice to see you. Another Friday already. Time just flies.”
“Yes, ma’am. It does.” I heard the clacking of hooves as Petunia came around the corner from the TV room. I bent to pet her head as she came to me. “Hello, Petunia. You ready for your mascot duties? Big game tonight. The team we’re playing was undefeated last season. You’d better be on your game.”
The pig looked up at me as if to say if I wasn’t going to feed her something, then I should just shut up and leave her alone. With one final pat on the head, I did just that as Petunia headed for the pantry, probably to check for food.
Straightening, I glanced at Agnes. “Harper get her words written today?”
Agnes moved toward the radio on the kitchen counter and turned down the volume a bit, before glancing at the door of the back staircase that led to the upper floors.
“Not quite.” She cringed. That wasn’t a good sign.
Dating a professional writer was a bit like dating a drug addict. I’d learned that from experience over the past couple of years.
When Harper met her daily writing goal she was riding high. Euphoric. Adrenaline—nature’s upper.
But when she didn’t get the planned number of words written, and when that happened a few days in a row or too close to a deadline, those could become some dark days—for everyone.
Agnes, Red, Bethany and I had a group text set up for that very reason. A kind of early warning system.
“How bad?” I asked Agnes, not elaborating. She’d know what I meant.
“On a scale of one to ten? About a six. Maybe seven.”
Seven out of ten. Okay. I could handle that. We’d been up at a ten before, a real red alert, and we’d all survived. This too would pass.
“She turned in the last book on time, thank heavens, but that means—”
“She has to start the next book,” I finished the sentence for Agnes.
“Exactly. Apparently she has no ideas and doesn’t think she’ll ever have a good idea again.”
I drew in a breath as I sat on one of the chairs at the kitchen table. “Sounds about right.”
“I told her she’d have plenty of ideas if she’d get off the internet, go outside and do something besides obsessing about the community bulletin board she suddenly can’t get off of.”
I whipped up my head at her mention of my own current obsession. “Um, what? Why is she on the bulletin board?”
Agnes stopped stirring the pot on the stove. She glanced at me and shook her head. “You’ll have to ask her. It’s a whole thing. But it’s her latest crusade to show Mudville who’s boss.”
I remembered Harper’s first crusade in this town well, when she’d taken on the village library for not shelving romance.
When my girl got a bee in her bonnet, she didn’t rest. But what could have gotten her riled about the bulletin board?
That question was quickly followed by an answer. It could be just about anything. I’d gotten pretty crazed myself over a few of those posts.
The sound of footsteps on the back staircase ended