Cursed
Lynn
Ricci
Genre:
Paranormal Romance
The
story takes place over the Christmas holiday… it involves a witch .
. . and other surprises…
Book
Description-
When
Sarah Carter moves to Boston to escape her past she realizes there's
more than meets the eye with the landlord and her mysterious new best
friend.
What
happened to the owner of this Boston brownstone and what secrets lie
within its walls and continue to torment?
And
is she actually running back to her past instead of from it?
.jpg)
Excerpt
Chapter 1
Staring
out of the small dormered window, he could just see the corner of the
street. Leaves on the trees lining the sidewalk were moving past
their prime of orange and red and turning brown as autumn made its
way through Boston. The ones still clinging to the trees blocked part
of his view. Absentmindedly he pulled his pocket watch out of his
pants and checked the time although he instinctively knew it was
still early. Purposely, he had chosen this spot to watch the street
for a sign. He didn’t want to miss a thing.
Mrs.
Casey was nearly three stories below waiting on the sidewalk next to
her white BMW. He gazed down at the plump woman in her camel jacket
and brown plaid scarf. She had just arrived and was on her mobile
phone, trusty bag over her shoulder. As he watched from above, he
wondered if he might keep her for a while. She had proven to be
discreet and respectful in their dealings thus far –always keeping
her eyes conveniently averted. That was a big plus in his book.
The
sky had been bright blue and clear all morning but now the sunlight
dimmed and small gusts of wind kicked up from time to time, stirring
up the brittle leaves, scratching at the sidewalk and causing drifts
against the wrought iron fence. He would go out and clean up the two
small patches of grass in front of the building later, when it got
dark. After all these years, he was comfortable working outside after
nightfall.
A
flicker of yellow caught his eye as a taxi turned from Columbus
Avenue onto Dunhill – a small side street in Boston’s South End,
lined with fashionable brownstones. He straightened his bent frame as
best he could and intently watched the cab's approach, completely
absorbed in his surroundings and on high alert. Below, Mrs. Casey
tucked her phone away and pulled her coat closed. Is it getting
colder, he thought, touching the glass pane in front of him, the
chill spreading through his fingertips.
The
yellow checker taxi glided to a stop in front of the building and a
young woman with ash blonde hair stepped out but held the door and
leaned back in. His heart clenched as if it had been submerged in
cold water and he grasped the windowsill to steady himself. From his
vantage point, he could see the cabbie handing her some bills. She
closed the car door and turned to Mrs. Casey, shaking hands. He
wished he could hear the conversation, but knew that it would be
pleasantries and then the expected basics.
Both
women squinted up towards the window and he faded back as quickly as
possible. He was sure he was a moment too late, but what did it
really matter? He snuck another quick look and relaxed, realizing
Mrs. Casey was pointing out items on the ground level – most likely
the security system, or flower boxes. But as he continued to watch he
finally saw it: the sign he had been waiting for.
Small
gusts that had been making the crunchy, dry leaves rise and dance
with their still colorful counterparts whipped up again a few
buildings further along the street and came towards the women like a
mounting wave. The leaves blew up waist high, swirling and twirling
onto themselves until the force reached the women and spun around
them in a leaf tornado. Mrs. Casey stepped back towards her BMW
parked at the curb to get out of the maelstrom and the leaves
continued, picking up energy and speed; surrounding the flaxen-haired
woman, lifting and tossing her long hair like a Medusa at the center
of the funnel. In reaction to the onslaught, the young woman covered
her head with her arms and ran up the front walk toward the building
to get out of its path. The wind disappeared and the leaves fell to
the ground on the sidewalk as quickly as it had started. Overhead the
sky was once again blue.
She’s
here, he thought.
The
leaves settled gently on the sidewalk. Sarah laughed, removing a few
dry leaves that had snagged on her scarf and sweater.
“My
goodness! It’s getting blustery!” Mrs. Casey exclaimed as she
hurried across the brick sidewalk to the open gate that Sarah ran
through, moments before. “Are you ok, dear?”
“I’m
fine, really.” Sarah said almost to herself while smoothing her
hair. “Just a little wind.”
“Well,
dear, if it was any more wind it would have swept you away to Oz.”
Sarah heard the deep Boston accent in the woman’s voice and felt
immediately comfortable with the realtor. The cadence was almost like
she was listening to her maternal grandmother, Rose. Growing up in
Connecticut, her grandmother's Boston accent was fodder for jokes,
but she always associated the distinctive pronunciations with happy
childhood memories. Sarah waited as Mrs. Casey reached into her
oversized bag and easily pulled out a business card.
“Thank
you, Mrs. Casey,” Sarah said as she examined the card. “I’m so
glad you were able to meet me on short notice.” Sarah stood on the
bottom step and waited as Mrs. Casey dug paperwork out of her
briefcase. Glancing around the small front enclosure she wasn’t
sure was big enough to qualify as a yard, she noticed the black
wrought iron flower boxes mounted below the bay windows, full of deep
russet, red, and burnt orange mums. Mrs. Casey finished pulling out
the listing sheet and noticed where Sarah was looking.
“The
flowers are lovely, aren’t they? You should see this place in the
summer! I don’t know how he does it. No one ever sees him working
in the garden but it’s always immaculate.” She leaned over and
pointed to the side of the building indicating she actually meant
around the corner. “Over there are the rose bushes. This is
actually one of the few brownstones that has a little side yard since
the alley cuts through there.”
Sarah
looked at the old-world cobblestone alley. Mrs. Casey continued her
garden tour, “Not big enough to do much with, but he keeps pink
roses in the summer all along those wooden trellises.”
“It’s
very nice. You can tell the property is well kept; it’s wonderful
that he cares so much for the landscaping.”
“Everything
is kept well. This was a grand house in her day.” Mrs. Casey
stressed the last sentence as she looked lovingly up to the front
door. The realtor continued with a tone of letting Sarah in on a fact
already well known in certain social circles, “This is one of the
prime rental properties in the South End, dear.”
Mrs.
Casey started to climb the front steps slowly. Sarah wondered if it
was her age that slowed her down but this seemed different, almost
hesitant. As if on cue, the woman turned and looked down at Sarah,
two steps below. She put one hand on the railing to steady herself
before speaking.
“Before
we go in, I must tell you something. We will be meeting with the
owner in a few minutes. He’s very particular about his renters
since he lives on the first floor.”
Sarah
started to say she would make a good impression but the woman laid
her gloved hand on her arm to quiet her.
“There’s
more.” Mrs. Casey looked down at her feet in discomfort with what
she was about to say. “He had an accident . . . of some sort. I am
not sure exactly what happened but he is disfigured and very, very
self-conscious.” Her eyes darted back to Sarah’s and locked.
“Don’t act like you pity him. Don’t ask any questions about it.
And, whatever you do, don’t look straight at him.”
“Is
it that bad?”
“I
really don’t know the extent of it. He tries to cover as much he
can and I pretend like nothing is wrong. But it’s bad. I always
keep myself busy and interested in looking at something else.”
“I
will avoid looking at him. Promise.”
“I’ve
lost some good tenants by them being too interested in him. He’s a
proud man. He has done a lot of beautiful work; everything in this
home has been lovingly maintained. The whole building possesses a
charm you just don’t see anymore.”
Mrs.
Casey searched Sarah’s face, making sure all this had settled in.
“Ready,
dear?”
“Ready.”
About
the Author:
Lynn
Ricci was born and raised in the Greater Boston area. Her
professional background is in financial communications and she
pursues her artistic endeavors of writing and painting while enjoying
an active family life with her two children and dog, Fenway.
A
writer of several published short stories including Daydreams, The
Dating Intervention was her debut novel. More information on novels
available and underway can be found at www.lynnricci.com
No comments:
Post a Comment