Clouds shifted and moonbeams spilled across the Ezekiel mansion like theatrical spotlights.
The boxy brick three-story mansion with a mansard roof trimmed in decorative ironwork was a Victorian masterpiece built in the late 1850s by wealthy landowner Captain Simeon Ezekiel for his French bride, Fleur, who’d brought the home’s building plans to America with her. It was the earliest example of Second Empire design in Alabama, which had landed it a spot on the national register of historic houses and made it worthy of saving by the Harpies, at least according to the brochure they’d sent me when they received the donation Daddy made in my name to the restoration cause.
A grand center tower of the home consisted of beautiful double-decker circular porches, and a third floor balcony led into the ballroom where the party was being held. The east and west wings were perfectly symmetrical with tall skinny windows that had arched eyebrow-shaped molding above them. There was a lot of fuss and muss in the architecture—thick brackets, fish-scale slate shingles, loads of intricate trim. When it was all said and done, the mansion had taken nearly five years and endless hours to restore.
Despite its beautiful refurbishment, in my opinion the house was inherently spooky-looking, thanks to architecture similar to the houses belonging to the Addams family or Psycho’s Norman Bates.
It was the perfect place for a ghost or two to hang out, which made me want to stay exactly where I was, right here on this swing.
Dylan stood and pulled me to my feet. “Come on, Care Bear. Here comes Ainsley and Carter. Power in numbers, yes?”
Not in my case. Not ever.
Still, I supposed I couldn’t stay out here all night. My mama might disown me, and I was rather fond of being part of the Fowl-Hartwell clan, as dysfunctional as we may be.
“All right. Here,” I said, fishing his gold mask from my small clutch. I tied my own mask, a beautiful creation of lacy gold filigree, behind my head with its silk ties. “Let’s get this over and done with.”
“That’s the kind of enthusiasm out of you that I love.”
“Don’t make me trip you.”
Smiling, he offered me his arm.
I fisted a handful of silk so I wouldn’t stumble on my hem, grasped Dylan’s arm with my other hand, and slowly made my way across the lawn, trying to keep my heels from poking into the ground.
“As I live and breathe, Carly Bell Hartwell, you clean up good!” Ainsley Debbs said as Dylan and I caught up to her and her husband, Carter. She made a twirly motion with her finger, and I dutifully spun.
“You’re one to talk, you Southern belle, you.” I mimicked the twirly motion, and she spun, her boisterous laugh ringing out.
“Oh, this old thing?” she said. “Just ripped the curtains off the rectory windows and whipped it up.”
Her dress was absolutely gorgeous. The deep purple one-shoulder gown matched her amethyst eyes, skimmed her curves, and showed off her cleavage. It nipped in at the waist with a wide sash, then flared out in layers of ruffles and sparkles. Her mask-on-a-stick was made of purple satin and embellished with rhinestones.
Carter, a pastor, didn’t seem to mind one little bit that his wife was showing so much skin. He wore a black Zorro mask that didn’t jibe with his personality in the least—what I knew of it, anyhow.
Carter and I had a complicated relationship, him being a man of cloth and me being, well, a witch, but we put all differences aside for our love of Ainsley. He bent and kissed my cheek, and then he and Dylan shook hands and fell into a discussion about the latest ’Bama game. It was a popular topic of conversation around town during football season.
Ainsley and I linked arms and headed up the wide bluestone pathway ahead of them.
“Any ghosties yet?” she asked, looking around surreptitiously as though Casper might pop out from behind a neatly trimmed hedge.
“It’s a bit early yet.” Wanting—needing—to change the subject, I said, “Who has the Clingons tonight?”
Ainsley and Carter had three kids, collectively known as the Clingons.
They were a bit needy.
Twin four-year-old boys Toby and Tuck looked and behaved a lot like their daddy, and three-year-old Olive was a hellion just like her mama had once been.
“Charlotte. She needed financial help buying her wedding dress . . . so we made a babysitting deal.” She smiled. “The best money I ever spent.”
Charlotte Judson, Ainsley’s little sister, was due to be married this Valentine’s Day.