The Darkness Within, the Darkness Without

By Lin Harbertson

The Darkness Within, the Darkness Without continues the story of Roystone, a small seaside town in the North of England and its struggle for survival.

After the death of her husband, Maggie Granger, a young lawyer, is rejected by her family because of her suddenly acquired psychic ability and finds herself completely alone in the world. She moves to Roystone looking for employment. On an impulse, she attends an exhibition of three John Trentham paintings at the town museum. To everyones surprise, a ghostly shimmering apparition of John Trentham appears. But only Maggie hears his warningBeware the darkness without.

Months later, now established as a reputable lawyer in the town, Maggie believes all is well. She loves this Yorkshire country life and has made new friends. Then out of the blue, she has a nightmare. She sees a woman being horribly murdered and hears her saying, Forgive me, my child. I have betrayed you.

She consults a gypsy psychic. Sirisa informs Maggie that, at her birth, to keep her safe, her true identity was deliberately concealed. She tells Maggie she can see the darkness surrounding her and that someone wants to kill her.

Who was murdered? Who has betrayed her? Who is Maggie Granger? And will the gypsy Rafael, a jockey who rides the fast steeplechasers and with whom she has fallen madly in love, be able to save her? Will his dog, the Maji, a black Russian wolfhound, be able to help him?

The Darkness Within, the Darkness Without is a page-turner. This is the second in a series of stories by Lin Harbertson about Roystone, England. The first is Doorway Through Time. And the third will be? Do Not Go Restless into Death..

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 13, 2018
• ISBN: 9781546259046

Lin Harbertson

Lin Harbertson lives in Virginia. She enjoys travelling; meeting people; and driving her two ponies, Patric and Menehune. And she is always writing stories. She has previously published seven Patric the Pony stories under the name Lin Edmonds. Her first novel, Doorway through Time, is a tale about a small town, Roystone, in the North of England.

Book preview

1

T he motorway stopped at the edge of the town and turned into a busy two-lane road. As she followed it toward Roystone, a small town in North Yorkshire, England, Maggie tried to ignore the voice in her head. Over and over, it chanted, Blood will out. Blood will out. It was her dad’s voice, and she struggled to understand what he meant. Why could she no longer work for him? He had always been her hero. His anger had broken her heart, and she desperately swallowed the lump that kept coming up into her throat. If only, if only I hadn’t gone with him that afternoon , she thought.

To her left, Maggie could see large signs with directions to the Roystone Racecourse. On the right, there were advertisements for the recent opening of the Roystone conference centre. She caught a glimpse of the sea and inhaled deeply. It was all going to be so different from anything she had known.

There were enormous heaps of rubble on both sides of the road, and the noise of jackhammers pierced the tightly rolled up windows of her car. She could see a crane with the words Stokes Construction emblazoned on its side. There was even a sign that said, Welcome to Roystone, population, 24,500. Once past these, she found herself on a busy street crowded with cars and people, and to her delight the two- and three-storey buildings were painted in bright colours.

Following the instructions of her GPS, she turned onto several side streets until she came to one that paralleled an inlet of water. She parked the car in front of a white two-storey building and heaved a sigh of relief. She had arrived. Out of the blue, after Steven’s death, his parents had given her this new blue Mini Cooper. A new car was something she hadn’t thought about, probably because, after months of taking care of Steven, her bank account was severely depleted. Her own car, like herself, was hovering on the brink of exhaustion.

We want you to be safe, Maggie. We heard you have a job interview in the north of Yorkshire of all places, they had said, regarding her with two pairs of troubled eyes. It’s the least we can do. He loved you so, my dear.

The north of Yorkshire was somewhere she had never visited. She had heard it was a cold, wild, empty place, and the calm voice of the GPS system giving her directions in the new little car had given her a feeling of security on the long drive.

Oh, Mom, when will I see you again? Her heart wept. Those last few days at home had been so difficult, with her father striding around ignoring her and her mother tight-lipped, her eyes refusing to meet hers. She couldn’t understand why her parents were treating her so cruelly when she needed their support. In the past, they had always been there for her, always, always.

Now she had no one—not even Steven’s parents, who had departed on a round-the-world trip.

Come with us, my dear? they had offered. But she had refused, wanting only solitude with time and space to grieve.

Maggie turned the mirror towards herself and examined her appearance. She looked the same as she had three and a half hours earlier—dark curly hair, longer than usual; pale skin; and blue eyes. You’re looking a little thin, my girl, she told her reflection. But under the circumstances, she supposed it was to be expected. As she opened the door of the car, she could hear the shrill cries of the seagulls. She felt the sharpness of the wind reaching under her short black skirt until it found its way to the top of her black tights. She shivered, feeling all the hairs on her arms stand on end, thankful she was wearing a jacket.

To pass the time before her appointment, she crossed the road and stood, leaning on the railing that separated the pavement from a steep embankment that led down to an inlet of water and noticed her wedding ring was still on her left hand. With a sudden movement, she twisted it off and pushed it into the pocket of her jacket. Her fingers played with it, unwilling to let it go. But the ring belonged to her past. Now she must concentrate on her future.

The tide was in, and she admired the reflections of light on the ripples of water, remembering the last months of Steven’s illness that had put an end to their dream of going into business together. All through law school, they had been lovers and best friends, but somehow she had always been aware that their time together would be short. How she had adored him. Perhaps he reminded her of her father, with his steadiness and absolute integrity. Perhaps it was his sense of humour and his lopsided smile. Whatever it was, they had loved each other totally and completely. After the devastating prognosis that he had only months to live, she had walked with him to the edge of eternity, holding onto his hand and his soul, drawing back only at the very end.

She was far from home now, in a part of the country with which she was not familiar, and an image flashed through her mind of her father, his face distorted with fear. Again she heard his words. There’s no place in this firm for you, Maggie.

While she’d looked for a job and an apartment after Steven’s death, she had put her furniture into storage and moved back into her room at home. She was a lawyer, a solicitor like her father, James Dawkins, determined to follow in his footsteps as closely as she could. She admired his logic, the way he could calmly find his way through any problem and solve it. She had patterned her way of thinking on his. And as she had hoped and predicted, he’d offered her a position with his firm, Dawkins and Smythe. Everything was working perfectly for her, as it always had, all of her life, until that afternoon.

Would you like to go with me, Maggie? I have an appointment with an old school friend, John Bailey. He’s been a client of mine for many years. It’ll be worth the trip for you just to see the house and the gardens. He called me yesterday wanting to change his will, something to do with disinheriting his son. I’d have introduced you to him a long time ago. He cleared his throat. But Steven was so ill. It’s a ways away from here, and I’d be glad of your company on the drive.

She was flattered to be asked. It had been a long drive north, but he was right; the property was worth seeing. The two-storey Tudor house set well back from the road was surrounded by several acres of immaculately tended landscaping. What surprised them both was to find an ambulance at the front door and a uniformed policeman who wanted to know their business. They were shown into a room that looked to be an office of some kind and introduced to a Detective Inspector Shawn Oliver.

Mr Dawkins? We’ve been expecting you, he said. There’s an appointment with your name and a note in Mr Bailey’s daybook. It states his intention to change his will and why. Did you bring a copy of the current will? Good. But first, sir, I’m wondering if you could help us identify a body? We haven’t been able to locate any members of the family as yet. Miss, could you take a seat and wait out here?

Maggie, hold this for me. Her dad gave her the large brown envelope he was carrying.

Come this way, Mr Dawkins. We’re waiting for the coroner now. The inspector looked troubled, and he sounded very down to earth. He was older too, about the same age as her father. There were lines beginning on his forehead. She could see a deep crease between his brown eyes, and his dark hair was beginning to grey. She wrinkled her nose. There was the odour of cigarettes about him. He was definitely not one of those fancy detectives that she had seen on the television.

A large package was delivered early this morning, she heard him say. The delivery man couldn’t get anyone to answer the door. He knew they were expecting him, happened to look through the front window, and called us.

They left the room together, and Maggie, without really thinking what she was doing, opened the envelope and took out the will. She sat turning it over and over in her hands, thinking what a sad business this was.

It was then she felt a strange tingling in her stomach, and all the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She saw a man standing by a fireplace, saw him as he turned to watch someone enter the room, and heard his thoughts. Angie, what are you doing here? Now she was seeing the room through his eyes. She felt the sharp blow to his head, felt the pain, tasted the blood in his mouth, and heard his words. Angie, why are you doing this? It’s for his own good.

It was all so vivid. She grew dizzy. I see him, she cried out, her voice shaking. I see him. John Bailey was murdered.

The next thing she knew, her dad was shaking her. She opened her eyes to see his face, very close to hers, looking at her with an expression of, could it be, fear? Maggie. What is going on? What on earth happened to you? he asked her, his voice trembling.

After her explanation, he stood transfixed, staring at her as if he might be the next one to faint.

It had been Detective Inspector Oliver who had been kindness itself. You are not to worry, my dear. His brown eyes were sharp with excitement. You are most interesting. Would you stop by the police station tomorrow? Could you look at some photos to see if you can recognize who it was you saw? It’s nothing official, Miss. We can get an artist to draw a sketch if need be.

All the way home, there had been a strained silence. But she was not prepared for what happened next. After the car pulled into the driveway, her dad grabbed his briefcase, opened the car door, and bolted. She sat watching him in dismay as he slammed the front door of the house behind him shouting, Blood will out. Blood will out. I knew it would. Nothing good could ever come of this. I can’t work with her. She has to leave.

Following him. Feeling bewildered, Maggie kept asking, What on earth is wrong?

But her mother, her mouth in a tight line, would say nothing, nothing in answer to her frantic questions.

The next morning, Maggie drove to the police station, and from her description, an artist drew a sketch of the woman she had seen. Afterward, DI Oliver showed her a photograph. The resemblance to the sketch was uncanny. Was this the woman? he asked her.

Maggie broke down sobbing. He was screaming ‘Angie’ when she struck him over the head with a golf club.

Nothing like this had ever happened to her. My husband died of cancer a month ago. My dad’s throwing me out of the house. He won’t let me work with him. You won’t tell anyone of this—what I saw, will you, Inspector?

No, of course not. Not a word, he replied, crossing his fingers behind his back. Although I do reserve the right to call on you again should I need your help. He smiled cheerfully and brought her tea and a chocolate biscuit. You’re a lawyer? I know of a little town that needs a solicitor. It’s a nice little place, with a racecourse of all things. Do you like horse racing? It’s not too far from here, and Mr Stokes has a position available. He and I used to go to school together. Here’s his number, and you can use this phone.

He patted her on the shoulder and walked out of the room, leaving her to make the call. Did you bring the wife in yet? she heard him ask.

She’s waiting for you in one of the interrogation rooms, sir.

Good. Oliver was rubbing his hands together, and in his excitement, he allowed his Yorkshire accent to get the better of him. Let’s get to it, lad. According to Mr Dawkins, her husband was going to cut her son out of the will. We’ll tell her we have a witness. She has a motive for murder.

2

T he large nameplate on the wall in front of her read Stokes and Stokes, Solicitors. The smaller sign below it read, Dr Hoskins, by appointment only. She hoped Stokes and Stokes would find her references sufficiently impeccable because she really needed this job. Maggie owned up to a feeling of desperation. This was her one chance for success. She had been out of work for six months, and the bills kept pouring in. She had sent her résumé to at least a half dozen firms, but this was to be her only interview.

She pushed open the heavy wooden door and walked into a small courtyard. She could see a black wrought iron railing and a number of steep stone steps leading upward. She hoped Dr Hoskins’s office was the one at the top and not Stokes and Stokes. Could I walk up such a steep stairway if I were ill? she asked herself. What sort of people live in this town?

There was no more time for her imaginings because the door in front of her abruptly opened.

Ah, you found us. Thank you for being on time, Ms Granger, the elder Stokes greeted her briskly. Judith’s off today. Do come in.

He led the way along a narrow corridor with doors that opened on both sides to his private office. She took the chair he indicated on the far side of the desk from him and waited.

They regarded each other in silence, lawyer to lawyer. What kind of solicitor are you? Maggie wondered. He had gone to school with DI Oliver, and there was something similar about both of them. John Stokes looked to be around fifty-five years old. He was of middling height, with brown slightly receding hair and a determined jaw. The ash ray was full, so he was someone who smoked heavily. He was someone who was very busy judging from all the files that littered the desk and the floor. And he was someone who was very astute, judging from the clarity of the brown eyes that were regarding her with sharp appraisal. His scrutiny of her was identical to that of Oliver’s. But while Oliver had looked tired and his face lined, John Stokes looked well, pampered even, his cheeks pink and smooth.

So, tell me, Ms Granger, what brings you to Roystone?

Maggie looked around the room and hesitated. She looked at the wood-panelled walls that were covered with photographs of racehorses, some crossing the finish line, some in the winner’s circle, winners all, and wondered how much she should reveal. She took a deep breath and explained that she felt she needed a challenge, that she had always wanted to work in the north of England, and that working in this office had come highly recommended.

His raised eyebrows told her of his scepticism.

My father is a solicitor. I was going to work with him, she elaborated. But … I changed my mind. He once told me the most interesting thing about being a solicitor is the people one meets. He said they will all have one thing in common, a problem that needs to be solved, and if you apply the law, you will be able to help them solve it.

Ah, he said quietly. At last something believable, And I see you have double degrees, business and law?

Yes, statistics have always been a fascination of mine.

She felt his interest in her quicken. She wouldn’t have been the first person after this job. He wanted more information, but what kind?

Her gaze flickered over the room, and a small frown line appeared between her eyes as she concentrated. The photographs, the books, something about the desk … I was finishing a degree in business when I met my husband. He was studying law, and I stayed on and took a law degree with him.

Where is he now?

He passed away a month ago. In spite of herself, her lower lip trembled, and she bit down hard.

John Stokes regarded her for a long moment in silence, before he said slowly, My condolences to you, Ms Granger. This room belonged to my father. He always wanted me to work in the business with him. Those are photographs of some of his horses. How he loved winning, he mused aloud. My son does too. He followed me into the business, and I consider myself most blessed that he did. It was my father’s death that has made us look for someone to bring into the firm. Even with the economic downturn, we have plenty of work—too much for Robert and me to handle on our own. The town is growing the way my dad always wanted it to, albeit in fits and starts. I only wish he could have lived long enough to see his dream come true, he finished regretfully.

Now it was his turn to hesitate. I suppose you’ve heard what happened to him? I’d better tell you before you hear from someone else. Mrs Alison Simons, a local author and celebrity, was his favourite client. He was handling her divorce, and when he heard she’d been murdered, he was so upset he had a heart attack. He kept saying, It’s all my fault. You see he was going to see her that very morning. He wanted to tell her something he had remembered about her paintings—that there was some kind of terrible danger to her from them—but we were never able to find out what exactly. My dad was right though, he said slowly. There was a terrible danger. You see, her husband murdered her.

Maggie controlled her exhilaration. If she were reading him correctly, the job was hers. I didn’t realize it had happened here. It had been splashed across the newspapers and television for weeks, and she had followed the story avidly.

A sad business. We had hoped to be able to manage. But we are so busy we need someone right away. Ms Granger, would you be interested? he enquired.

What are you offering me? she countered.

Probate, a lot of property sales with all the new homes going in, conveyancing, divorces, the usual contracts, wills, and sometimes mediation. Have you ever done any mediation?

Some, she replied with determination. What kind of a salary? she was still regarding him steadily.

Not a lot to start. He was avoiding the gaze of her blue eyes. I could have offered you the job sight unseen based on your qualifications and references. They’re excellent. We’re honoured that you want to work with us. He quoted her a monthly salary. With your experience, I only hope you won’t be bored with what we have to offer you. But it is different here, and I need to find out how you will fit in. If you’re interested, I’ll have the paperwork ready for you to sign on Monday.

By her standards, the salary was barely enough for her to live on, but she decided that she would accept it for now.

Well, it is just to start you know, he said encouragingly. We’ll see how you are doing in six months. If you like it here and you want to stay, we’ll negotiate a contract then. What do you say?

Maggie agreed to this, and they shook hands. She knew he must be curious as to the real reason she wanted to work in Roystone and was grateful that the detective inspector had kept his word to her. Had being a woman given her an edge? Or was it her double degree, business and law—two for the price of one? She had heard that John Stokes was a man who kept his hands in his pockets and who drove a hard bargain. However, she had to agree with him; in six months, they would both know if the people would accept her and if they could work together.

In six months, she would have her feet on the ground. And besides, there was something about this little town that intrigued her. For the first time in a long time, she relaxed. The weight lying on her chest lifted. She felt she could breathe deeply again. And on a practical note, now that she was employed, she needed a place to stay and something to eat.

You’ll be needing a place to stay? Perhaps the Dog and Duck Inn would satisfy your requirement temporarily, Stokes remarked as he observed the tension leaving her face. It’s the best place around. Come to think of it, it’s the only place around. And, here’s the name of an estate agent and his address. Give him my card and tell Allan McGregor you’re working with me. I’m sure he’ll be able to find you a suitable place at a reasonable price. There are plenty to choose from right now. When can you start?

Monday would work for me, Maggie was replying when a young man walked in the door. He was tall, with thick brown hair, and again those almost golden eyes.

So glad you could stop by finally, Robert, said his father. This is Ms Maggie Granger, the newest member of our firm. Ms Granger, my son.

Robert, ignoring the irony, looked her over and thoroughly approved. The horse racing starts two weeks on Saturday. May I call you Maggie? I have my grandfather’s favourite mare entered. Would you care to join us in the paddock? I’ll make sure you get a ticket. We usually have lunch beforehand and a small party afterward in the bar. Is that your Mini Cooper parked outside?

Yes, it’s my Mini Cooper, she replied. I’ve never been to the races, but it sounds fun. Thank you for the invitation.

She shook hands with her employer, and his son showed her to the door.

You’re starting on Monday? asked Robert. See you then.

As the door closed, Maggie heard him say, Dad, I’m meeting the town council this afternoon about the gypsy camp. I need to talk over the details with you before I go.

3

T he Dog and Duck Inn lay on the outskirts of the town at a junction where the road divided into two. A drunken-looking signpost, one arm pointing vaguely to the heavens informed travellers that, if they turned left, they were heading south to the Roystone Racecourse. If they turned right and crossed the bridge, in ten miles they would find themselves in the village of Burnham.

Maggie was impressed with the Tudor frontage and pointed gables of the inn. I’ll need a room until I can find a place to live, she informed Mr Pollock, the landlord, who after listening to her accent was regarding her with deep suspicion. I’m going to be working with Stokes and Stokes.

Stokes and Stokes? his face broke into a big smile. Welcome to Roystone, Ms Granger. He was a big man, red faced, and broad in the girth, a man who obviously enjoyed the home-made food advertised on the menu outside the front door. Anything we can do, you let us know. We all think the world of Stokes and Stokes around here, and a lady solicitor is just what this town needs. We have a room with a new feather bed you can have. You stay as long as you need, and I’d be glad to carry your suitcases up for you.

The room was clean, the white walls decorated with hunting prints, and it even had its own small bathroom, for which she was most grateful. It wouldn’t have been the first time she’d had to scurry along a draughty corridor looking for a bathroom and a metre. She tried out the enormous feather bed, choking down the sobs that rose into her throat. Now, Maggie, she said to herself, that’s enough. You have a job. What you need is something to eat.

Feeling hungry for the first time in a long time and grateful that lunch was being served already, she headed for the dining room. There was a booth close to the large wood fire that was sending sparks flying up the chimney, and she sat, warming her legs, admiring the hunting prints, and trying to decide what to order. Should she try the steak and kidney pudding or the roast beef?

The bar in the next room sounded as if it were already filled with people. Over the buzz of conversation, she could hear the clicking of the bar billiards and, occasionally, the thud of the darts, and she could hear everyone’s good-natured greetings. It’s a bit parky today, and I’ll have a pint of bitter, Mr Pollock. People were putting their heads around the door of the dining room taking a surreptitious look at her. She could even hear their comments. She a solicitor? With Stokes and Stokes? He’s never hired a woman, has he? Well, I’ll be. He must be getting desperate.

As she finished her apple pie and custard and two cups of coffee, she managed to hide her giggles in her napkin.

After the substantial lunch, she had chosen the roast beef. She roused herself with difficulty from the warmth of the fire and went in search of Allan McGregor’s estate office. She discovered it in the middle of the high street, well located for foot traffic, with ample space to park her car. Next door was Vintens, a shop that sold tins of beans, treacle puddings, and yummy-looking chocolates. Two doors down, Madam Hermione’s Dress Shop had a spring sale, and across the street was a shop selling antiques with a sign in the window that said, Sirisa the psychic here today.

Spring came late in these northern climes. The back seat of her Mini held her thick woollen winter coat, and she dragged it out and put it on. It was a gift from Steven’s parents. You’re going to need this, going all the way up there, they had said, and they were right. The wind was so bitterly cold it cut through her clothing as if she were standing there stark naked. She buttoned the coat up to her neck, rubbed her arms, and stamped her feet, peering through the lead-paned windows of Allan McGregor’s office at the photographs of properties for sale or rent.

There were a great many to choose from, but there was one that immediately caught her eye—an absolute darling of a cottage. A cosy, rural property unexpectedly re-available, much reduced, said the advertisement. It was a cottage set on rising ground with a view over green fields—from the blurred photograph, she could make out a lake of some kind—with enough room for a few sheep and chickens.

With an effort, she pushed open the door, listening to the ringing of a bell, and saw a figure that had to be Mr. McGregor rising to his feet, list in hand.

T-take care of the p-p-p-place, Sonya, he called out to his assistant, a young woman with a resentful expression sitting in the back of the room peering at a computer. I’m going to be busy all a-a-afternoon. He was a tall thin man with a narrow face and big brown bushy eyebrows.

It’s my day today for new clients, Mr McGregor, Sonya complained, but he ignored her.

You must be Ms G-granger, he said, shaking Maggie’s hand. Please call me Allan. I’ve made a list of suitable properties for you to see.

I’ve seen one I like, she told him. The one in the window. The cottage set on rising ground with the lake nearby. I’d like to see that one.

That one? said Mr McGregor frowning. It’s much too far out of town. Besides, it’s not the kind of place I would choose for a young lady like yourself, and it’s m-my mission in life to find the r-right place for all of my clients. Off we go, he said.

But Mr McGregor, was his assistant’s despairing wail.

Before Maggie could get in another word edgeways, she found herself out the door and into Mr McGregor’s car, listening to him tell her the kind of property she ought to rent, while he pointed out buildings of interest and told her his life story.

I’m a r-r-retired school teacher, he explained, When my wife died, G-G-God bless her, she left me a nest egg, and I found my true calling as an estate agent. You see that b-b-b-building, Ms Granger? It used to be the b-b-b-bus station. Now it’s a market. Teaching was wonderful at first, but over the years, the children changed. They l-laughed at me. Mr McGregor’s face and voice grew strained at the memory. They l-laughed at me. I had to leave off teaching and it b-b-b-broke my heart. It’s a cruel world, Ms Granger. That’s the Three Brother’s Café across the street. See the l-line of people outside? It’s very popular for l-lunches.

The car swept around the next corner onto a side street and, after several hundred yards, stopped on the forecourt of a plain three-storey brick building. Now, isn’t this the most p-p-perfect location for you? he inquired of her. All the p-p-p-parking is underneath the building. You see the ch-ch-ch-ch-cherry trees? You could see them and the g-g-g-g-grass from your flat, ground floor you know. Across the street, there used to be a private house, but now it’s the hospital. It’s close to the sh-shops. You could walk to work. There’s a c-c-club with an exercise room, a swimming pool, and everything you could p-p-possibly need r-r-r-r-right around the corner.

Maggie found herself more interested in his speech impediment than she was in the flat. It was a very small flat in a building of fourteen other small flats, and as she looked out of the windows, Maggie’s soul rebelled at the thought of spending so much of her money to live there. True, the unit was on the ground floor, and although it was also true she would be able to see the cherry trees, the only other views were of some iron railings and the road. The building was handsome enough on the outside, but she felt unable to breathe in the small rooms. She could hear the loud footsteps of people walking up and down the stone stairs outside the windows, and she could hear the sound of other tenants walking on the ceiling above her. Even if it were close to the shops and convenient for work, this flat wouldn’t bring her the peace and privacy she was looking for.

I want to look at the cottage I saw advertised in your shop window, she told him. You know the one I told you about on a small amount of acreage with room for a few chickens.

Mr McGregor was upset, shocked even, but he drove her up the winding road toward Burnham, reiterating more than once. It’s really not suitable, Ms Granger.

Even she had to admit it was farther out of town than she had anticipated. But as soon as they rounded the corner, and it came into view, she knew that the cottage was the one she was looking for.

It’s been renovated several times, said Mr McGregor as he unlocked the front door for her. And it’s been on the market for a while, probably because it’s a little ways out of town. There are no street lights, no pavement to walk on, and they do get snow in the winter out here.

To Maggie, none of that mattered. In the distance, in one direction was a farm, and in the other, she could see water and trees.

As soon as he had opened the front door, she could see herself living there. There was a delightful living room with a fireplace in one corner and a large window that looked out over the garden. The kitchen had a stove and a small refrigerator with yet another window that faced west, and she thought there was just enough space for her dining table and chairs. The two bedrooms were small, but she didn’t think she’d be spending much time in either one of them, and considering the small size of the cottage, the bathroom was large with a shower, a separate tub, and a washbasin. The adjoining garage had an entrance into the cottage, and it was plenty big enough for the Mini Cooper. Plus, there were hook-ups for her washer and dryer.

She opened the kitchen’s back door and stepped outside and took a deep breath. Here was the peace and tranquillity she was looking for. A stone wall encircled the back of the property. But beyond the wall, the ground fell away toward what appeared to be a lake. And beyond the lake was a house, half hidden by trees.

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