She knew exactly what her sister was getting at. “I pay my own way, Maggie. You know that.”
“It’s not as if Dylan offered to pay off your mortgage for you. The tickets are his donation to a worthy cause. It looks good if the ball is well attended. It’s great publicity for the neonatal ICU and what it does, and it gets other people thinking about giving. Everyone wins.” Maggie sighed at her older sister. “We can’t be grinds all the time.”
“I’m not a grind,” Phoebe said. “I love what I do. I have fun—”
“And you live within your means and never take a false step,” Maggie finished for her, then winced. “Sorry. That came out wrong.”
“It’s okay. It’s just…” Phoebe stared at the tiny tart in her hand, suddenly wishing she had left it on the table. “It’s a slippery slope, wanting more than you can have, but I take lots of false steps. We all do. I’m not being morally superior.”
“Oh, Phoebe, I know. You’re the kindest person in Knights Bridge. Probably in all of New England.” Maggie’s rich turquoise eyes shone with emotion. “I just don’t want you to miss out on a good time.”
“Dressing you and Olivia for a masquerade will be a great time,” Phoebe said, smiling at her sister. “I have to go. Those boys of yours will be tearing up the library.”
Maggie groaned. “They’ll be full of energy after spending the day with Mom. She lets them do whatever they want. When I picked them up yesterday, they were helping her muck out the goat barn. Knee-deep in you-know-what. I wouldn’t care except they didn’t have a change of clothes. I’ll never get the smell out of my van.”
“It’ll wear off in time but you probably don’t want catering clients to get a whiff.”
“No kidding.”
Phoebe commiserated even as she was amused at the image of her mother and her young nephews. “I’ll see you in a little while. I hope I wasn’t rude to Olivia—”
“You weren’t, and she’d understand if you were. Don’t worry. She’s trying to figure out things herself. This is new territory for her. For Dylan, too. He never pictured himself living in a little town like Knights Bridge until he met Olivia. He obviously still loves San Diego, too.” Maggie stepped back from Phoebe’s car and waved a hand. “They’ll figure it out. I should have such problems.”
“What would you do with a fortune like Dylan has?”
Her eyes flashed with humor. “Get someone to paint my house. I hate ladders.”
Phoebe laughed as she climbed into her car, but she also felt a pang of uncertainty about what was next for Dylan and his millions, and what it would mean for quiet, picturesque Knights Bridge.
She left her car windows open and drove back toward town. She could smell the clean, cool water of a stream that ran along the edge of the narrow road. Carriage Hill was the last house on the dead-end road, two miles from the Knights Bridge village center. The road hadn’t always been a dead end. Once it had wound into the heart of the picturesque Swift River Valley. That was before four small valley towns were depopulated in the 1930s and deliberately flooded to create Quabbin Reservoir. The reservoir now provided pure drinking water for metropolitan Boston.
Boston must have seemed so far away back then.
It seemed far enough away now. Barely two hours, but so different from her life in Knights Bridge. She’d never lived anywhere else. Olivia and Maggie had both lived in Boston for a few years before returning to their hometown, Olivia in March, Maggie last fall. Phoebe’s biggest move had been from her mother’s house—or madhouse, as she and her sisters would say fondly—to her own place on Thistle Lane. It was a cottage, really. Perfect for just her. She could even walk to her job at the library.
Phoebe appreciated the peaceful back road as she pulled her thoughts together. Story hours were a favorite part of her job, but her visit with Maggie and Olivia had left her feeling edgy and frayed.
Questioning, wanting…dreaming.
I like my life, she reminded herself as she came into Knights Bridge center, known as one of the prettiest villages in New England with its shaded town common surrounded by classic houses, a town hall, library, church and country store.
Phoebe parked in front of the library, a solid, rambling brick building filled with endless nooks and crannies. Persistent stories said the library was haunted, to the point that the producers of a television series about ghosts had considered it for a show before choosing another supposedly haunted New England library. Phoebe often heard creaks, groans, moans, whistles and—once—what she would have sworn were whispers. But she’d never considered she might encounter an actual ghost.