In the Vanishing Hour

By Sarah Beth Martin

Massachusetts, Summer, 1951: When a boy drowns in the Charles River, a family is devastated, and the town of Norumbega is changed forever. Eight years later, Frances Adams lives in the shadow of her dead brother, Mac. At her window dresser job, she befriends model Gwen, whose resemblance to Frances inspires her to reinvent herself. When Gwen vanishes into the river, Frances becomes obsessed with her memory—and transforms herself into Gwen's likeness. An investigation begins, and the police question three men. Frances and friend Iris follow them to Riverside Park, where one of the men—the suspicious Harris—mistakes Frances for Gwen. Intrigued by the idea of haunting him, she continues her secret pursuit, immersing herself in the case. As the mystery unravels, shocking revelations about its connection to a long-past family tragedy come to the surface. Set in the haunting atmosphere of 1950s and 1970s New England, In the Vanishing Hour weaves suspense and mystery into a story about loss, identity, and secrets best left untold.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Encircle Publications
• Release date: Dec 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781645993940

Book preview

PART ONE: The Haunted

Chapter 1

Norumbega, 1951

The body was found a few yards from the boathouse, under the bridge, where the Charles River took one of its wide, evasive turns. The boathouse caretaker discovered it when his paddle cut through the dark water and thumped against a heavy mass. In the moonlight, the man saw fleshy blue-white, gleaming like alabaster through a tangle of black, glistening weeds. What else could it be? he wondered about the huge, buoyant thing in the water. It clung to his paddle, and as he pushed it away, it sprang back. Then it huddled close to the canoe and stuck.

He tensed up. His heart pulsed in his hot ears. The chirp of peepers changed to a motor-like hum, and the carnival in the distance faded to a sour, undulating ring. It was as if all noise blended to a single, abstract sound, like the far-off buzz of a swarm of bees.

This was all he could remember on the night he spoke to the boathouse police. There were no details about the river current or the cars on the bridge nearby. He could only articulate the terror he felt as his canoe moved into the boathouse light, as he waited for the body to turn over. How he dreaded seeing the blue lips and glassy eyes, and that he would know the face.

Days later, the boy’s photograph appeared on the front page of the local tab. The man saw the curve of dark hair, the gentle brown eyes. A smile more innocent than he had imagined. He recalled the boy’s dead face, with the blurred colors of a Ferris wheel in the distance, swirling behind the tall black trees. He thought of all the souls lost to the river, and to its wooded bends and secret caves. And the boy whose memory would forever haunt Norumbega.

As late summer turned to a sudden, brittle autumn, a ghostly cloud moved in over the town, and all were haunted by Mac Adams. Most could only envision his boyhood portrait in the newspaper; it was the only face they knew. Others, who dared to wonder, imagined this face beneath a mesh of olive weeds in murky water. For the man who found him, this lifeless image was real, and he couldn’t get it out of his head. He longed to see the boy’s living face, if only in his dreams.

The boathouse caretaker’s name would never make the headlines. He would not be rewarded for his nightmare on the water. Eyes that met him on the street would never understand that Norumbega, the river, and his entire life had changed forever.

Chapter 2

Frances, 1959

When Frances was twelve years old, she saw a ghost. It wasn’t how she expected a ghost to look—like those milky spheres or streaks of light she’d read about. It was a three-dimensional, full color person standing next to her in the mirror. The vision lasted not a second, not even half a second. It was brief enough for her to question what she saw, and long enough to know it was her brother Mac in the mirror.

She never saw him again, not in the mirror or anywhere else. And she had no reason to believe ghosts existed, or that her own eyes and mind hadn’t fooled her. But after that night, her own reflection changed, as if Mac had taken something from her. When she saw her own plain, watery reflection, she imagined a twinkle of someone else behind it. Someone with more confidence, more sparkle—a Frances that could have been.

If Frances were a leaf, she would be a late-autumn oak, crumbly and crooked, speckled with disease. She could never be one of those colorful maple leaves that got plucked up and admired. She thought of this as she walked down the sidewalk, past the dried leaves clustered to curbs and lamp posts. They reminded her of herself—weakened by the elements, and too worn out to move out of the way.

But how could she be worn out, at twenty?

It was a question she could only answer to herself, with a long list of excuses. Eight years of sorrow and confusion, of emptiness inside. She could never explain to anyone how losing her brother had drained her, how she no longer felt an identity of her own.

The wind wailed against the brick and glass storefronts and through the courtyard trees. It gusted at her back and up her legs beneath her skirt. She loved its haunting caress, and how she could get lost in the sound of it, even talk to herself without others noticing. During such moments, another voice would emerge. It was a better version of Frances, who spoke clearly and without delay, and with a soft, feminine curve. But this voice was her creation, she reminded herself. Why couldn’t she speak this way when others were around?

It wasn’t just the voice. She could have a different look, too—prettier, with a sparkle to her eyes and a swing to her step. Even her hair, now plastered to her head with wide barrettes, could be a soft, sexy wave of auburn over her shoulders. Think of it—ready to swing, to catch an eye as she passed. She lifted her chin and envisioned it—hair flowing, face luminous. And instead of her enormous sweater and baggy skirt, a fitted navy-blue suit showing off a sleek figure. She passed the front of Mahoney’s hardware store, and caught her reflection: the real Frances—slouched and plain, and hiding behind her straggly elementary school hair.

She continued along, past City Hall and the Library, then Salucci’s Deli with its tomato sauce and garlic bread aroma. The leaves sounded like water as they brushed the pavement and tickled her ankles. At the corner of McDougall’s Drug, the clock read five minutes to four; five minutes to get to the store. As she rounded the corner, a tall, block shape of a man stood in her way. His mouth tightened, and his eyes held a repulsed, admonishing squint. She looked away, down at his polished black oxfords next to her worn loafers. Her apology came out as a whisper, so pathetic it sounded insincere.

The man sighed and darted around her, and the deliberate clap of his shoes trailed away. She would try harder next time—to look into his eyes, to stay calm, even to smile back.

She moved on and passed the polished granite-front bank, the diner with daily specials painted on glass, the antique shop with china dolls on cigar boxes in the windows. Then across the river bridge, where the Charles crashed at the dam and smelled like mud and rust. Many years before, Mom would walk her and Mac over this bridge, their little hands gripping hers from both sides. Strangers would pass by and smile—How cute, they would say, just look at them. Frances was eager to greet them back, so much that Mom had to excuse her, and stop her from asking strangers questions. Frances, her more outgoing child. How could she be that same person?

Losing Mac had changed her. A piece of her was missing now, the one that allowed her to live and connect and feel normal in the world. Only in an imaginary world could she feel right from now on. Only in her head was she at ease. She could never explain to her parents or anyone else that a better version of herself lived in her head. Only Mac could understand such things—that there were two worlds in which one could live.

She continued, the wind gusting at her side, pulling her hair across her face. Partially obscured, she thought, mysterious. She could be anyone under there. Up ahead, the boxy structure of Carmen’s department store stood, waiting for her. It was time to bring out that better version of Frances and get to work.

Chapter 3

Frances, 1959

Frances loved the smell of the store. Wool and leather, the freshly polished wood display cases, a hint of spice. Masculine smells, as Iris called them, not her taste. Iris preferred the feminine florals of the cosmetic department—lilac and rose, so pungent. Like a funeral parlor, Frances would joke.

You’re such a guy, Iris would joke back.

Iris would say such a thing about any woman who lacked overtly feminine qualities, or who didn’t talk girl-talk about men. In Iris’s world, women should be flowery and flirtatious, and she demonstrated this whenever a man was in the room. Her performance was both conspicuous and impressive, something Frances could never pull off.

Today Iris looked poised and perfect in her fitted dress and pearls, the heels that made her six feet tall. From the polished glass jewelry counter she waved to Frances, then trotted over, swinging her hips to the twinkly orchestra sound that played throughout the store. She caught up with Frances and followed along.

Mr. Wonderful came by tonight, she said.

Frances felt obliged to ask. Which Mr. Wonderful?

The one who likes to look down my blouse.

That narrows it down.

Frances could joke in such a way with Iris, the way she couldn’t with other women at the store. With Iris, she didn’t have to be serious or literal, or to explain everything she said. The other women only asked straight questions and expected straight answers. The other women made Frances nervous.

They reached the Misses’ department, where mannequins stood guard next to thick limestone columns. A blonde mannequin the girls called Kim Novak looked pale and unfinished. Frances snatched a lipstick from the register desk and rubbed it onto the plastic cheekbone. Iris observed with one hand curled against her chin.

You should try it on yourself sometime, Iris said.

Frances sighed. I wear makeup.

Iris leaned into Frances’s space. Let me get my magnifying glass.

Stop. Frances waved her away.

What Iris wanted was for Frances to apply makeup like war paint, to spray her hair into a flashy do. To wear high heels and skin-tight dresses. Iris could pull it off, but Frances would only look silly.

Iris rested against the column. You want to go to the park tonight?

So I can watch men drool over you? Frances said.

It was a wonder Iris still bothered to ask. Frances grabbed a scarf from a rack and moved over to the next mannequin—Sheila, an older model left over from the twenties. Sheila wasn’t as versatile as the others, with her cartoonish features and high, pointy breasts.

Oh, come on, Iris said. It would be fun. You know, fun?

A male voice sounded from behind them, serenading Iris’s name. Rick from the stock room carried a stack of shoe boxes in his arms, his greased hair glistening in the overhead lights. He leaned in on Iris, batting his eyelashes.

Anything exciting going on? he said.

Iris slouched forward, her low-cut neckline exposing her cleavage. Not until you came along.

He showed her a smarmy smile and scanned her up and down, then snapped his head to Frances. His smile switched off to a deadpan glare.

Hi.

It was a contemptuous greeting, the kind the bullies in high school gave to the shy, unpopular kids. Deliberately cold, she remembered. She didn’t respond, and he didn’t seem to care. He turned back to Iris and winked, then slithered away.

Iris looked at Frances. You can have the same thing, you know.

"I don’t want that, Frances said. Besides, he’s not my type."

How would I even know what your type is?

Frances shook her head. A crackling sounded from the store speakers, followed by a metallic voice. Testing, testing.

The show, Iris said. Saved again. Where are you today?

Children’s. Frances gave a quick pout. Tagging bibs and jumpers.

Try being stuck behind a counter. Iris let out a sigh. I suppose I can flirt with those men who come in to buy things for their wives. She nodded toward the counter across the sales floor. There’s one now.

Iris smoothed her dress and shimmied back to Jewelry, heels clicking against the marble floor. She rounded the corner of the glass casework in a snaky turn and leaned in to greet the man. Her voice changed to a lower, creamier version than before, almost unrecognizable.

Frances and Iris would have their usual view of the fashion show from the makeup counter. A small crowd had gathered around the runway, a plywood contraption that held stacks of sale sweaters on most days, now unfolded and transformed by a velvet skirt and spotlights. The runway extended from a stage-like recess in the wall that displayed plastic reindeer at Christmas and life-sized bunnies at Easter. A royal blue curtain hung at the opening, and Frances saw lumps of movement behind it as the models waited to come out.

I heard there was a new girl on tonight, Iris said. Her name is Gwen Mann.

Aren’t we the little encyclopedia, Frances said.

Iris shrugged her shoulders and smiled.

The amplifier emitted a piercing note as department manager Joy Matthews broke through the curtain, microphone in hand. She gave her usual introduction—the thanks to customers, the sale announcements, the Please enjoy the show. Then the lights dimmed, and music began—woolly oboes and a soft swing rhythm, warm and romantic as it echoed throughout the marble and glass to the high ceiling. Frances felt soothing waves in her stomach.

From behind the curtain, the first model appeared. She was a tawny, slender blonde with pale features, dressed in a gray tweed suit. Amy, Frances remembered, one of the newer girls that came on last summer. Her tiny hands fluttered as she glided down the runway, as if conducting music. Frances tried to picture herself on the stage, awkward and without grace, unable to look into admiring eyes.

She leaned close to Iris. Imagine being up there, in front of everyone.

Iris chuckled. I can’t imagine having to squeeze my ass into a size six every damn week.

Next out was Katherine, a tall brunette who once gave Frances dirty looks backstage, then another blonde whose name escaped her, then Celia, with her clown face and extra-long fingernails. Then came a new girl, and a nudge from Iris.

That’s her.

Compared to the taller models, Gwen seemed petite—about average height, with long arms and a neck like a ballerina. Her auburn hair glistened with red highlights, falling in shoulder-length waves from beneath a brimmed hat. Her eyes were shadowy and deep, like a doll’s. She floated down the runway in a silky emerald green dress, her chin up and eyes focused ahead. At the end of the runway, she stopped and posed solid, like a statue, and time stopped.

The crowd fell silent and melted away, and Frances was in a different world. In this world, she was the girl in the green dress, all eyes upon her. Gwen turned, and her eyes met Frances’s, as if she had planned the glance for just the right moment. Her eyes didn’t stay for long—just long enough for Frances to realize something.

It was her own face up there, only better. Her own body, only with sleeker curves and more delicate limbs, none of the lumpy middle and thick wrists. The hair was Frances’s, too—the same color and length, except with glossy waves, a curve of shine against velvet skin. Even the shape of her face was similar—the delicate chin and broad forehead, only her brows were trim and curved, not straight and untidy like Frances’s. Her gaze was confident and direct, and did not have to look away.

Gwen swept into an elegant turn, with one hand guiding the edge of the silky dress. Around the stage, the people watched her—men, women, children, all enchanted. Even Iris seemed taken; perhaps she also saw a better version of Frances. A Frances that could have been.

How did it feel to be up there? Frances wondered. Perhaps it was easy, even comforting, to play dress-up and engage a room full of strangers. To be exceptional, if only for a moment. And being on a stage, among the dreamy light and music, surrounded by glamour and the air of romance, was like wearing a mask. Frances liked that.

PART TWO: Enchantment

Chapter 4

Harris, 1974

Harris parked the car and stepped out. A bulldozer sat in the middle of the dirt lot, next to the marked foundation. It was the site they described, where Norumbega and Westfield met, along the Charles.

The rest of the crew had yet to arrive. It was eight-twenty, and there was time to poke around. The drive from Connecticut had drained him, and the traffic around his hotel was chaotic. The new streets confused him, and the old ones seemed out of place. He didn’t trust his memory after fifteen years.

He walked across the parking lot, the crushed gravel squeaking beneath his shoes. He measured the site with his eyes, back to a line of flowering trees and the river behind them. The building foundation area appeared smaller than it did on the site plan, certainly not big enough for a grand hotel. Trees had been shaved from the edge of the lot, their wide stumps still in the ground. Tall evergreens, he remembered, which once obscured the view of the river from the Ferris wheel. Only a few straggly pines remained where the slope of riverbank began.

Riverside Park had suffered a slow death over the years. As people lost interest and the area grew, the rides rusted, and amusements crumbled. But Harris had lost interest even before then. As a teen, he didn’t appreciate having such a novelty in his hometown. His most vivid memories were of loitering by the fun house with Rudy and Cliff, trying a cigarette for the first time. They looked tough, impenetrable, like someone you wouldn’t want to mess with. They were thirteen years old.

He wondered if Rudy and Cliff still lived here. What would they say if they ran into each other? That he was better than they were—more educated, an improved man. They’d accuse him of calling Norumbega a stinking town and leaving them behind.

Beyond the lot, the ground sloped into a steep embankment of tufts embedded with rocks. He eased his way down the hill, around broken beer bottles and scraps of metal in the grass. To his right, a band of birch trees leaned out along a rocky ledge. The profile of it was familiar: he used to perch on that ledge, to hide from his friends. Below the trees, the river seeped into a recess of tall reeds. His eyes followed the curve of land to his left, where the bridge crossed the river. A brown shingle-style building stood at the shore, the front portion on pylons in the water, a dock surrounding it. The boathouse remained.

A lump rose in his throat. The last time he was here had been a long night—for fact-gathering, the police called it, but it felt like interrogation. A few more questions, they kept saying. Just how well did you know this woman?

A canoe appeared from under the bridge. A young couple paddled toward the boathouse, where several empty canoes floated in an array around the dock. Rentals, twenty dollars, the sign out front read. A car door slammed from the hill behind him, then another. The crew had arrived, and it was time to go back.

He started back up the hill, the cool spring air nipping the back of his neck. The wind rustled through the trees and ruffled the water behind him. He turned back for another look, farther down the river this time, to the tiny island a quarter mile away. It stood in the center of the river, a tuft of land with its own forest, attached only by a thread of peninsula on the opposite bank. It looked so different in the daylight, lush with evergreens, welcoming. But at dusk, when the shadows of trees stretched over the island, darkness settled in. Like the amusement park that once stood here, the island had changed for him—from a refuge of adolescence to a prison, holding within it too many secrets.

Chapter 5

Frances, 1959

At Riverside Park, giant tarps covered two sleeping amusement rides. They were massive and ominous, and glowed silvery blue in the moonlight. The old fun house building looked sad and dilapidated, with its saggy roof and cracked entry ramps. The air was chilly and smelled of dried leaves. Frances wrapped her sweater tight around her, looking for Iris.

The music from the arcade was metallic and whimsical, and clashed with a jazz rhythm from The Mirage Club in the distance. Frances saw the supper club ahead through the alleyway, its curved, sinuous columns around the front portico, the lanterns along the pathway to the entrance. It looked elegant and romantic, out of place beyond the neon lights of the arcade.

Iris tugged at Frances’s sweater from behind. She wore a tight dress and a short fur jacket, and smelled of strong perfume. She studied Frances up and down.

I told you to wear your best, she said. Not your Sunday best.

Frances looked down at her baggy skirt, her clunky loafers. What’s wrong with this?

I was hoping we could go to The Mirage, Iris said.

Frances sighed. You never said anything about going there.

Didn’t I?

Iris was full of surprises. Frances had always wanted to go inside the supper club, but it had been couples only until last year, and she missed any opportunity after that. Just ten years before, it had been a glamorous ballroom where big bands played, and couples danced under twinkling lights. Since then, The Mirage had been renovated many times, and some of its charm had worn off. It was another reminder of what the park used to be.

Never mind, you’ll be fine, Iris said. Something far off caught her attention, and she waved a hand in the air. Two young men on the other side of the parking lot jogged toward them.

What’s this? Frances said.

"This is nothing," Iris said, shrugging.

Iris always managed to take control in some wily way, changing their plans to suit her needs. She had plenty of other friends with whom she could socialize—women more extroverted, more fun. Why did she choose Frances? Perhaps because, next to Frances, Iris shone brighter.

I’m not going in there with them, Frances said.

Oh, come on, Iris said. The men approached, and she turned to them. "Frances,