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He was an older man with gray hair and he didn’t smile back. Instead, he looked her up and down as though trying to figure her out.
Amy’s face turned red and her body rigid. She was sure that he knew she was a guest of a therapist, a person who dealt with disturbed people. What would she say when he asked her what she’d been sent there for? If she told him that she’d never even met the therapist, would he believe her? Of course not!
As they went past the ticket counter, Amy thought about running toward it and getting on a plane home. The thought of seeing her father-in-law’s smirk and her husband’s disappointment held her back.
I can do this, she told herself. She was a grown woman, thirty-two years old, and she could handle this. She would be able to get through it.
“Jeanne said I was to give you this,” the man said as she got into the backseat of his black Town Car.
Amy took the envelope and opened it as he shut the door. It was a single sheet, with a photo of a very cute little house at the top, then a few paragraphs about its history. She scanned the text. The house was built by a ship’s carpenter in 1820 and lived in by only two families before Jeanne Hightower and her husband bought it in 1962. Using old photos, they had restored the house to look as original as possible.
At the bottom was what Amy was interested in. In the year 2000 Jeanne had lent the house to a patient of hers to use for her fortieth-birthday celebration, and the woman had invited two friends to join her. The extraordinary success of that weekend on the lives of all three women had encouraged Jeanne to extend the invitation to other people. She added that two years ago the house had been remodeled so there were now three bedrooms instead of two.
“More room for other insane people,” Amy muttered.
“Yah?” the driver asked as he looked at her in the rearview mirror. It was that sound that only someone who has lived in Maine all his life could make. “You all right?”
“Yes, fine, thank you,” Amy said. “Tell me, do you pick up all the women who visit Mrs. Hightower’s house?”
“Mostly, I do. Some of them drive.”
“So she lends the house out a lot, does she?”
“No more than needs to be, I guess,” he said.
Amy wanted to ask if the people were screaming lunatics, but didn’t know how to say that politely. She looked back down at the paper in her hand. It didn’t tell much else, just that there would be some food in the house, but the guests were encouraged to walk or drive around town and find things for themselves.
Amy looked out the window but she was too nervous to really see anything around her. The little town looked old and she was sure that if she were there with her family, she’d think it was adorable. They passed several little shops where she thought she could buy souvenirs for the boys. She’d look for something educational.
Or bloodthirsty, she thought. That’s what they’d really like. She wondered if they sold pirate gear in the stores. Didn’t Stephen say something about a sword? Maybe she’d get one for him. And maybe she’d go to a bookstore and buy herself half a dozen novels, stay in her room, and read them. When enough time had passed, she could go home—and rave about all she’d seen and learned.
The man stopped the car in front of a lovely little house that dripped gingerbread. Amy itched to get her camera out and take photos to show the boys. Behind her the driver put her bag in front of the door and Amy gave him a five-dollar tip. He nodded toward her, still no smile, and said, “Keys under the mat,” then left.
She stood there for a moment, hesitating before she entered. If the key was under the mat, that meant she was the first one there. If she was going to leave, this was the time. She could pull her bag behind her, call a taxi, and go right back to the airport. Then she’d—
Thinking what she’d do next was the hangup. Go back to Stephen and admit she’d chickened out?
Bending, she pulled the corner of the mat up and looked under it. No key. She lifted the whole thing and was looking all around the tiny porch when the door opened.
“Are you the other one?” said a young woman, early twenties, who had on lots of eye makeup, black nail polish, and glossy black hair. “I thought I heard a car but when no one knocked…” She trailed off and stood there looking at Amy, who was still holding the mat in her hand.
“I assume you’re also one of Jeanne’s Crazies,” the girl said slowly, as though she had to enunciate every word.
It was all Amy’s fears put into one sentence. “I…I’ve never met her,” was all she could mumble.
“Really? Come on in and I’ll tell you all about her.”
Amy hesitated. Did the entire tiny town think of them as “Jeanne’s Crazies”?
“Come on,” she said again as she held the door open wide. “We don’t bite. We might give you electric shock treatments, but no biting.”
“You’re scaring her,” said another voice, and Amy looked past the first woman to see an older one, probably in her early fifties, coming from inside the house.
“Please come in,” the woman said, moving to stand in front of the first one. “I’m Faith and this is Zoë. I’ve only been here a few hours, but I’ve already seen that she has a sense of humor that is an acquired taste.”
“Me?” Zoë said, grinning.
Faith took the handle of Amy’s suitcase and started wheeling it toward the back of the house. “I hope you don’t mind that we decided on rooms before you got here.”
