Prologue

Kerrigan Falls, Virginia

October 9, 1974

The Buick was both half-on and half-off the road, its shiny body blending seamlessly with the pitch-black night. He slammed on his brakes, nearly hitting the car’s back quarter panel. Jesus. Who the hell would have left a car here of all places?

The vehicle was familiar. He racked his brain trying to remember where he’d seen it before.

Worried that someone might have been hurt, he stepped out onto the road, careful to leave his own car’s right turn signal blinking to catch the attention of anyone else traveling on this desolate road. Despite the full moon, the dense forest made the stretch of road appear to be nestled under a tent even in fall as the leaves began to thin; the clusters of birch trees with their straight white trunks resembling sticks of chalk. The moon shining through them reassured him for a moment.

He peered inside the car’s open window revealing the empty front seat. An RC Cola can was turned over, dumping its contents on the leather seats as though the driver had been holding it when he’d come to a stop. The radio blared. Poor bastard was probably just relieving himself in the woods.

“Hello?” His voiced carried, more than he thought it would, making him realize just how lonely this road was.

The stillness puzzled him. On an evening like this, the woods should be buzzing with nocturnal activity, yet the night was eerily calm. He turned to go back to his car. He’d call old Sheriff Archer as soon as he got home and tell him about the abandoned car.

“Hello? Anyone out here?”

He spied something moving at the edge of the tree line.

His pulse quickened and he hurried back to the safety of his own car, relieved when he placed his right foot on the floorboard with the intent of getting in his car and driving away. Instead he focused on something moving slowly, catlike, weaving in and out of the trees. He knew there were cats in these parts, small, but nuisance enough to vex the farmers. His eye followed the movement of what appeared to be a shadow—until it stopped.

Where the thing had halted there was now a heap of something by the roadside. Gingerly, he took a step around the trunk. The car still protecting him from what was over there. What was it? A pile of leaves? Dear Lord, not a body?

Inching, inching closer.

The air left him as he realized too late what was in front of him. The thing was swift and for a moment—his last moment—it had been oddly familiar.

When it was over, the forest seemed to reassemble itself and there was nothing, except the sound of the two car radios playing “The Air that I Breathe” in unison.

PART ONE

THE WEDDING THAT WASN’T

ONE

Kerrigan Falls, Virginia

October 8, 200

It was the wrong dress; Lara realized that now.

It was the color of old bones. The intricate platinum beading dripped down the dress’s fitted bodice in a scrolled pattern. Midthigh, the long chiffon skirt emerged, sweeping the floor with a dramatic, five-foot train. Tugging at the garment, she looked in the mirror and frowned. Yes, she was definitely disappointed with this dress.

It was the first time she’d actually been alone with the gown. No mother standing behind her pulling at the fabric with a hopeful tone in her voice. No “bridal consultants” or seamstresses fussing at her with their encouraging platitudes of just how wonderful she would look.

She did not look wonderful in this dress.

Cocking her head from side to side, hoping for an angle she’d like, Lara recalled the small stack of photographs she’d clipped from bridal magazines as a little girl. She and her friends would grab last year’s dog-eared copies of Modern Bride from the waiting areas of the hair salons while their mothers got their perms and double processes. When no one was looking, they’d slide the old magazines into bookbags, poring over them later in their bedrooms, each girl tearing out the pages of silk, taffeta, and tulle creations that they liked best. Lara had actually kept a few of the pages over the years and pruned them down to this one dress style, now reflecting back at her in the mirror. She sighed. No dress could possibly shoulder such expectation. But this one was too mature and vintage, more like a costume than a wedding gown.

Turning around, Lara strained to hear if her mother was on her way back upstairs. The hall was silent. She smiled. Studying her reflection, Lara began wishing the dress was fuller in the train, less formfitting through the thighs. Tugging on the dress, she concentrated hard, and the fabric gave way and blossomed, like a time-elapsed video of flowers blooming, folds of fabric bursting then tumbling down and arranging themselves before her.

“There,” she said, and the fabric obeyed. “A little less.” The fabric swirled as though it were alive, rustling and shifting to please her. “Perfect.” She turned, watching it retract until she said, “Stop.”

Lara spun in front of the mirror, admiring the way the fabric moved. Next, she focused on the color. “A little lighter, more ivory, less platinum.” Like a TV screen adjusting its brightness, the silver tones of the dress warmed to a pure ivory hue. “Much better.” She considered the sleeveless bodice for October. “Maybe sleeves?” She could feel the dress hesitate, like it was bubbling, unsure of her direction. “Lace sleeves,” she clarified. Instantly, the dress obeyed like a courteous bellman, creating ornate lace patterns along her arm as though the seams were being stitched together by the singing birds in Disney cartoons.

“Lara Barnes, what are you doing?” Her mother stood behind her with one hand on her hip and the other holding an elaborate twenty-strand pearl choker. In the center of the choker was a large Victorian diamond brooch.

“I didn’t like it.” Her voice was defensive. She smoothed the new skirt like an obedient pet, letting the dress know that she was done with alterations.

“Then you go to a store and buy another one. You can’t simply enchant a dress, Lara.”

“Apparently I can.” Lara spun to face her mother; her eyebrow cocked. “We really didn’t need to alter it. I do a better job.”

“The sleeves are all wrong.” Audrey Barnes frowned and ran her hand through her butter-colored bob. “Turn around,” she said, gesturing with her hand. “You’ll get nervous at the ceremony and the enchantment will wane. You mark my words. This is dangerous business.”

“If the spell wears off then you can keep the dress together for me.”

“As if I don’t have enough to worry about.”

Her mother was the superior spell caster, even if she hated using her magic. She handed the choker to Lara and turned her attention to the enchanted wedding gown. Audrey ran her hands over the lace sleeves and they softened to a flowing chiffon under her touch. Unlike Lara, her mother didn’t have to tell the dress what to do; it read her mind. Audrey returned the platinum beading to its original color, but then seemed to change her mind, and it shifted to softer embroidery pattern. “There,” she said. “You need texture to contrast with the sleeves.” The finished effect was an ivory dress with platinum detailing at the bodice with ivory sleeves and a matching full skirt. “It’s much more romantic.”

Lara studied the changes in the mirror, pleased. “You should enchant dresses more often, Mother.”

Audrey scowled. Taking the necklace from Lara, she fastened it around her daughter’s neck.

Lara touched the choker, admiring it. “Where have you been keeping this bauble?”

“It was Cecile’s,” said Audrey, referring to Lara’s great-grandmother.

Lara thought it looked familiar. “Have you worn this before?”

“No,” said her mother, admiring her alterations to the dress, tugging here and there and shifting the hue and fit under her hands. “You’ve seen it though. She’s wearing it in the painting.”

A painting of her great-grandmother, Cecile Cabot, hung in the hallway. She’d passed it hundreds of times and never really stopped to study it. Lara tried to recall the choker.

“It belonged to her mother.”

“I didn’t know that,” Lara touched the delicate strands, wondering how she’d never found this in her childhood raids of her mother’s jewelry box.

“They say she was quite famous.” Audrey smiled, spinning Lara around. “You look beautiful in it. And I do like the changes to the dress, but you can’t risk getting caught.”

“I’m in my room. Who is going to catch me, but you?”

“You can’t take risks with magic, Lara. People don’t understand. What would happen if that dress began to unwind in the middle of your vows?”

“What you mean is that Todd won’t understand.” She folded her arms.

“Listen to me,” said Audrey. “There are some secrets that you must keep—even from Todd. This is one of them.”

Lara knew that her mother had always wanted them to be “normal.” Instead, they were the Cabots—the famous and strange circus family—former owners of Le Cirque Margot. Circus families were rarely normal. As a kid, Audrey had worked the horses in the summers, becoming an expert trick rider, but she’d hated performing for crowds and made it clear that she wanted no part of her family legacy. Instead, the young girl had taken the Lippitt Morgan horses from the act and had begun breeding them, turning Cabot Farms into one of the most successful horse breeders in the South. Unable to compete with television, Le Cirque Margot came upon hard times and low attendance, closing in the early seventies.

Then, there were the strange powers—the “simple “corrections” that both mother and daughter could perform. So incensed was Audrey when her precocious daughter cast a spell in school in front of other kids, that she enchanted the doors and windows as punishment, leaving Lara grounded in the house for a weekend.

Lara turned her back to Audrey. “Can you unzip me? I have to go to Todd’s.”

“Now?” Audrey put her hands on her hips. “It’s ten. Don’t stay too long. It’s bad luck.”

Lara rolled her eyes and gathered the dress, now changed back to its original version and placed it on a hanger. She and Todd had given into another one of Audrey’s old wives tales when they’d agreed to spend the night before the wedding apart. Lara would come back to Cabot Farms tonight with her mother while Todd spent the night at their apartment.

Audrey Barnes possessed all the coolness of a Hitchcock blonde, yet she subscribed to all the myths and romance of a Victorian heroine. She’d named Lara for the character in Doctor Zhivago—a film they watched together faithfully each year, a box of tissues between them. Tomorrow, Lara’s first dance with her father was going to be the Al Martino version of Somewhere My Love, and she knew her mother would be weeping near the wedding cake.

As she drove her Jeep down the winding road from Cabot Farms to the highway, she recalled the disappointed look on her mother’s face when she and Todd announced they were getting married. Audrey didn’t care for Todd Sutton. She’d tried to talk them out of getting married, encouraging them to wait until spring. Lara knew that her mother had hoped that given enough time, something would change, but Todd had been Lara’s first love, her first everything. They’d known each other since they were fifteen years old.

Audrey had encouraged them to attend separate colleges, paid for Lara’s semester in Rome, and even tolerated her year on the road with her father’s band, anything to allow the relationship to cool. Todd had also left for college, finishing his sophomore year, then returning home and building a vintage car restoration business.

When they were apart on a break, other boys were only ever interesting to Lara for their likenesses to Todd. From the bevy of Lara-lookalikes that Todd dated during their splits, she knew he felt the same way. Whether chemistry or magic, there was some inexplicable pull always guiding them back together.

Had Audrey been younger, Lara was sure that Todd would have been exactly the bad-boy romantic figure that her mother would have swooned over. In fact, her mother had chosen her own version of Todd back in 1974 when she’d married Lara’s father, Jason Barnes.

Lara pulled into Todd’s driveway. The house was abuzz with activity and anticipation, lanterns lit the sidewalk to the front door that was now ajar. Relatives from places like Odessa and Toledo, perched themselves on sofa arms and decorative side chairs. Plates clanged, and people caught up with each other over decafs and dirty dishes. She wondered why her house wasn’t stuffed full of relatives, like this one.

Through the foyer, she spotted Todd going out the back door, bags of ice in his arms. As he went past, he spied Lara and smiled, his wavy, chin-length dark hair had begun to curl as the evening went on.

“Lara, why didn’t you make him get a haircut?” asked his aunt Tilda, a hairdresser from somewhere in Ohio. Lara rolled her eyes conspiratorially. As if anyone could make Todd do something he didn’t want to do.

Back from delivering ice, Todd kissed his aunt on the cheek. “Ah, you don’t like my hair?” As Todd fixed his gaze on her, Lara could see the old woman straightening herself.

The aunt pulled at a lock, inspecting it. His hair was shiny and brown. Lara noticed a few gray hairs shimmering under the light like tinsel. Had Todd been a vain man, he’d have dyed it before the ceremony. There was an audible exhale from the woman as she smoothed at an errant strand, seemingly agreeing that Todd’s hair suited him. “Well…”

Todd wasn’t just handsome, he was beautiful. There was a tragic sexiness to him, like a burgeoning James Dean, that was so intoxicating to women—all women. From the looks of it, even the ones who were related to him.

“I have to go soon.” Lara touched his forearm as he went by. These days he wore long-sleeved T-shirts because, even though he was nearly twenty-nine, he still cared that his mother hated the sight of the rococo scrolled tattoos that now decorated both of his forearms.

“Wait. I’ll walk you out.” He disappeared with the ice chest and came back breathless.

“Let her go, Todd,” another pair of aunts teased. It’s almost midnight. Bad luck to see the bride on the wedding day.” The overhead fans in the screen porch were rhythmically cycling above them, sending out waves of cool air that made Lara shiver.

“I’ll make sure to send her out by 11:59 then.” He pushed through the door. “How many times has your mother called you?”

“Twice in the last ten minutes.” Lara slow walked across the yard toward her Jeep. She looked up at the sky and thought that she should remember to look up more often—the stars seemed low, like they were glowing brighter for her.

“Before you go, I have something to show you.”

Lara spun to see Todd had begun to walk backwards leading her toward his stepfather’s garage. That he never looked down as he walked and never doubted the sureness of his steps fascinated her. She’d have stumbled over an uneven paver or tree root, spraining an ankle, but not Todd. He was one of the most confident men she’d ever known, comfortable in his own skin to a fault, and it made him generous to others. He had nothing to prove.

“I thought I’d have this finished before the wedding, but I didn’t get it done fast enough.” He opened the door and turned on the light that hummed from a faulty bulb. In front of her was a pickup truck up on a lift, angled like it was taking off in flight. The truck was painted with a smooth, dull gray primer, as though it had been sculpted out of clay. She gasped.

Lara had a thing for vintage pickup trucks—the kind they make into Christmas ornaments, embroidered into winter pillows or put in front of businesses to make them old timey. When she was a kid, they’d had an old truck just like this among the battered old circus equipment. One day it had been hauled away for scrap in one of Audrey’s reorganizations, the dead-grass outline of it remaining for several years like a scar. “It’s a 1948 Chevy.”

“A 1948 Chevy 3100 five-window,” he said. “Straight-six manual. I know you like that.”

He walked around the truck and pointed past the body. About ten feet from the car she spied a brown, dusty pile of metal that looked like mechanical guts that he’d tossed out. “Wait till you see what’s in store for her. Come with me.” Todd led her around the truck to a wooden workspace, rolling up his sleeves and pushing his hair back, completely focused on the plans and notes he’d drawn that were sprawled across the workspace. He placed his hands down on the bench and scanned the photos and sketches.

After he’d left college, failing out of the engineering program at Virginia Tech, Todd had returned to Kerrigan Falls and, on a whim, started a classic car restoration business with a man named Paul Sherman who’d owned an old garage. Over the past two years, Sherman & Sutton Classic Cars had become one of the most sought-after vintage car restoration specialists in the entire East Coast, mostly due to Todd’s reputation as a muscle car restoration expert—Corvettes, Camaros, GTOs, Chevelles, and Mustangs. Lara would never have thought that an obsession with ripping apart car engines in his teens would turn into a livelihood he loved, let alone one that was so lucrative.

“You see here,” Todd pointed to a photo of the very same Chevy with missing headlights and mismatched paint that resembled patches. “The fenders had rust all over.” Lara saw from the photo that the entire truck had been a dull weathered brown when he’d found it. So engrossed in shaping this metal puzzle into a work of art and seemingly unhappy about some detail, he appeared to be lost in his own world, his arms folded and the line of his square jaw pulsing.

While Lara should have been looking at the posted pictures of the truck in various stages of ruin, she studied his face instead. Todd’s long nose could have been a hair too feminine if not for the elegant bump at the top. When he walked into a room, people stopped their conversations and looked up, wondering if he was someone famous, perhaps a film star returning to his hometown for a holiday. That he didn’t care, that he stood here agonizing over a sketch of a 1948 Chevy truck as a gift for her, was what truly made Todd Sutton beautiful to Lara. He never noticed the effect he had on people, or if he did, it never mattered to him.

“Where did you find this?”

“Oh, that’s the special thing.” He smiled devilishly, his hazel eyes shining, and pulled down a photo of the truck with faded livery painted on the side and pulled out a photo from a file folder. “Recognize it?”

Lara took the photo from his hand. It was an old black and white image, the familiar logo painted on it almost overexposed in the sunlight—she felt a jolt of melancholy. It was her old truck. “Le Cirque Margot.” Lara inhaled sharply.

Decorated in its circus livery, the old truck had once hauled a two-person crew to eighteen towns with the purpose of sticking posters up on every telephone pool, side of a barn, and local business that would post it—the markets and pharmacies being the most likely prospects. This Chevy had sat among the rusted and abandoned circus props and trailers at Lara’s house for years. Grass and vines growing up through the floorboards as though the ground was reclaiming it.

“So, I was driving by an old amusement park supply in Culpeper and I saw it from the road. It was hidden behind some old rollercoaster cars. I didn’t know it was the old truck that sat out in your field until I was scrubbing it and saw the faded sign. Something about the lettering looked familiar, so I went to the Historical Society to see if there were any old photos of it in Le Cirque Margot memorabilia. And sure enough, I found plenty.”

A blonde was posed leaning against the front bumper. She wore shorts and had legs that would have made Betty Grable envious. Turning back to look at the truck, Lara smoothed its rounded fender. This truck had belonged to the Margot.

“I had hoped to give it to you as a wedding present, but it’s frankly been a bitch to find parts for, so it won’t be ready in time, I’m afraid.” He laughed a little too loudly, and she tilted her head and glanced up at him. Was he jittery? Todd was never nervous. He was searching her face, trying to read her, hoping this offering had meant something to her.

She pulled him toward her and kissed him, hard, then whispered in his ear. “This is the most thoughtful thing that anyone has ever done for me. I love it.”

He looked down and his forehead touched hers. “Lara, we both know that I haven’t always been so thoughtful.”

It was true. Throughout their history, there had been many transgressions, many girls, then—as they got older—women. While she chalked it up to youth, Lara had slammed doors on him, thrown beautiful bunches of roses at him, ripped up apology notes and his poor attempts at poetry. She’d had revenge dates and surprisingly fallen in love with one of them for a short time, but always returned to this man.

“You aren’t getting cold feet, are you?” Lara tilted her head, only slightly joking.

He didn’t touch her, and for some reason it felt sobering and honest that he didn’t. He wasn’t trying to charm her. “I’m sorry that I had to grow up—that you didn’t meet me now instead of then.”

Lara laughed this comment off, but he didn’t. She realized as she looked around the room—the photos, the thoughtful gift suspended above her—that the change that had come over him in the last few years had been so gradual that it had escaped her notice. He leaned his tall frame against the workbench and faced her, folding his arms. “I was someone who had to grow into love. Not that I had to grow to love you. I always loved you, but I didn’t know how to love you, so what you got was the equivalent of an attempt at work of art from someone who didn’t know how to draw. I said the words, but we both know often they were hollow. At times it was the very absence of you that shaped me. But that’s what it is, isn’t it? Both the presence and the absence of a person. The sum of it all. As a result, I feel it more deeply, now. Love. My love for you.”

The silence between them was thick. She could tell he didn’t expect a response from her. There was so much shared history—both good and bad. Yet it was the things that were unsaid that charged the room. Lara met his eyes. She saw this wedding gift for what it was—an offering—more a piece of himself than even marrying her could ever be. Every inch of that truck had been shaped and sanded by his hands—it was created by him for her.

He took her hand. Her lips met his. Todd was a great kisser—slow, deliberate. She knew exactly where to press against him to fill the spaces between them. He put his hands on her face and the kisses became deeper, harder. As they pulled apart, he caught a strand of her hair, twirling it around his finger and studying it.

“It’s nearly midnight.” She didn’t want to go.

“Ah, shit, not midnight,” he teased. He turned back to the perfectly sanded truck in front of them. “Here is the color she’ll be when she’s all done.” Taking her hand, he led her around and showed her a sample—the original Le Cirque Margot deep red color that resembled a ripe Red Delicious apple.

She could easily imagine a lifetime of this. Smiling, she wished they could just go back to their apartment and their bed tonight. When they got back from their honeymoon to Greece, there was even a house, a stately Victorian with a turret and wraparound porch, that they were looking at buying. “I really do have to go.”

Lara looked back at the truck before he turned out the light. “Will I see you tomorrow?” It was a joke, and she said it lightly as she opened the door and walked out onto the sidewalk.

“Nothing could keep me away.”

TWO
Kerrigan Falls, Virginia

October 9, 2004 (Fifteen hours later)

The church bells began to clang as the forecasted thunderstorm let out its initial boom, sending a torrent of rain over the valley. For weeks, the weather had called for clear and sunny skies today, but in the last hour, an inflamed purple sky had fixed itself unnaturally over the town of Kerrigan Falls.

Was this bad luck? An omen, perhaps? That was crazy. Lara wiped the thought from her mind. From her vantage point in an upstairs classroom, she watched a classic white convertible Mercedes idling just beyond the steps. Rain was soaking the lavender tissue paper streamers taped to the car’s trunk, sending a stream of cheap ink down over the bumper and into the mud puddle below. She bit at a stray hangnail on an otherwise perfect manicure and watched as guests teetered across the gravel, then hopscotch over newly formed puddles and up the stairs in their good Sunday shoes, scrambling to get out of the downpour.

The dress—the enchanted version—complete with pearl choker looked perfect. Her long wild blonde hair was now secured in an elaborate low twist. She’d taken off her new shoes, cursing herself for not breaking them in when she decided to enchant them as well, the leather giving way under command.

It was nearly four-thirty. Her wedding was about to start, yet no one had come to get her. Odd. She looked around the room. Where had everyone gone? She strained her neck to see. Her mother? Her bridesmaids, Caren and Betsy?

At the Chamberlain Winery five miles away in the heart of the Piedmont wine country, there was another group of workers preparing the reception. Long tables adorned with damask lines, mercury glass votives and elaborate hydrangea centerpieces awaited the one-hundred-and-fifty guests now seated in the pews and flipping through hymnals, below her. Within hours, those guests would dance to a full Irish band overlooking the vineyard while dining on stations of cheeses from around the world—manchegos, smoked goudas and bleus—then moving to short ribs, shrimp with garlic sauce, and finally a plated combination of a filet minion with an herb crusted salmon and patatas bravas. Around eight, they’d cut the wedding cake—a whimsical aqua and gold confection, consisting of three layers of white almond cake topped with a cream cheese and buttercream frosting evoking just a hint of almond extract. Their friends and family would drink the wines that thrived during the humid Virginia summers— the peppery Cabernet Francs, tannic Nebbiolos and the creamy Viogniers all poured into heavy crystal Saskai goblets with orbed stems.

Lara had designed every detail. In her mind, she was already worrying about the reception details, needing to get started, get moving. Minutes ago, the activity that had swarmed around her had all but disappeared and an eerie quiet had set in, the rattling boom from the storm providing a welcome reprieve from the stillness. She’d been dressed and ready for an hour now, the photographer capturing every moment of preparation from her hair, to the makeup and, finally, the dress.

She lifted the bulk of her skirt and like an extra from Gone with the Wind, rustled toward the hall. When she didn’t see anyone, she went back to the window, but then heard faint whispering and turned back to the hallway to see that Fred Sutton, the town’s undertaker and Todd’s stepfather was talking with her mother in hushed tones.

Finally. It was starting.

Their voices rose and fell. Lara turned her attention back to the window, sure whatever details the two of them were tackling didn’t concern her.

Fred was heading back down the stairs, when, out of the corner of her eye, Lara saw him stop, then marched down the hall toward her, the floor pulsing with every heavy footstep and placed his thick hands on her forearms with such force that he nearly lifted her up off the floorboards. His sudden movement shocked her so much that she stepped back, almost toppling over a half-moon kindergarten table behind her. Fred leaned in and whispered in her ear, his lips touching her borrowed diamond earring. “Don’t worry. We’ll find him.”

Had she misheard? Lara spoke her next words carefully. “He’s not here?”

Fred looked down at his black, mirror-shiny, rental shoes. “Not exactly.”

What did not exactly mean? She looked over at her mother for clarification. Audrey seemed to be taking in this information as she would news of a car wreck.

Fred’s voice sounded more like a plea. “He went to clean his car and he wasn’t back when we left for the church. We didn’t think anything was wrong.”

It was the word wrong that struck her. Something here was terribly wrong, wasn’t it? She could feel it. “When did you see him last?”

“Around noon.” Fred consulted his watch as though it somehow held the answer.

Things like this didn’t happen. Lara searched her mind trying to remember the last bad thing that had happened in Kerrigan Falls. Old people died, although usually quite peacefully in their beds. There hadn’t been a car accident or a house fire in her lifetime. And certainly, people weren’t just plucked from the streets. They showed up for their weddings.

“Where is his tuxedo?” Lara’s face flared hot and her throat began to tighten. She could imagine the rented tuxedo still draped across Todd’s childhood twin bed.

“It was still on the bed when we left.” Fred met her eyes. “We brought it…just in case—”

“Just in case…?” Lara cut him off. This was all the answer she needed. A sudden hot pressure of tears welled up inside her. Looking down at the bouquet of tightly packed calla lilies in her hand, she felt as though she were holding a ridiculous prop. She lowered her arm and quietly dropped the bouquet onto the floor. If he’d left the tuxedo on his bed, Todd Sutton wasn’t planning on coming to their wedding, that much she was sure of. But why? When she’d seen him last night, he’d been so different. She never been surer of him. Grabbing her stomach, she felt sick. Had she been a fool? He’d let her down before, but never, never like this.

“Have you checked the bars?” Audrey snorted.

This was unfair, but Lara knew Audrey was protecting her. At some point, if Todd really failed to show, her mother would need to begin a detailed accounting of his faults.

But he would show up. Todd would not leave her here like this.

Fred lowered his head. “Yes,” he croaked. “We’ve checked everywhere. We also asked Ben Archer to inquire about any accidents, but there haven’t been any. He even called the hospitals in Madison and Orange counties. Nothing.”

Ben Archer? If Fred felt desperate enough to involve the chief of police, then Lara understood that things were more serious than he was letting on. Fred looked smaller, shaken, remorseful.

“He’s probably just late.” Lara smiled, hopeful. That was it, Todd was just late. But late from where? Todd had many faults, but tardiness was never one of them. In fact, she thought back to their years together. She couldn’t recall ever having waited on him.

Until now.

“That’s probably it,” Fred’s smile was wooden and the flap of hair doing its best to hide his bald patch that was drooping down over his forehead now glistening with sweat. He held up his finger. “Let me check downstairs one more time.” He walked to the top of the stairs and turned like a dutiful waiter. “I just thought you should know.”

Oh no. Lara had seen this look before. Fred was taking on the rehearsed demeanor he displayed when managing funerals and organizing grief—other people’s grief. It was his business—reducing the messiness of loss into a tidy, well-executed ritual. Now it was her turn. With his carefully chosen words, he’d begun preparing her for the worst.

“What time is it?” asked Audrey.

“Four-forty,” said Fred without gazing at a timepiece.

“If he isn’t here yet, I need you to tell everyone the wedding has been postponed,” Audrey commanded. “Postponed,” she emphasized. “Until we can figure this out.”

Lara’s father, Jason Barnes had been standing in the doorway waiting for us cue to walk Lara down the aisle. Now he was taking the conversation in and begun tugging free of his bowtie, finally ripping it off. A musician, Jason didn’t wear ties or tuxedos. “Let’s just wait little longer for him. He’ll show.” He met Lara’s eyes and smiled.

That was Jason, the eternal optimist, Candide with a Fender.

As was the norm, Audrey ignored her ex-husband with an eyeroll, turning her attention back to Todd’s stepfather. “You have ten minutes, Fred. That’s all. I will not have my daughter waiting up here for him any longer than that.”

Lara walked over to her mother. Audrey had intuitions about things, her abilities weren’t limited to enchanting gowns and turning on lights. Her mother could sense the hearts of people—what was in the them— really in them, not just the pretend exterior sheen. If anyone would know whether Todd Sutton was on his way to the church or in the next state by now, it was Audrey. “Do you see anything?”

Her mother simply shook her head. “Nothing.”

Yet, Lara knew that her mother was lying. Why? “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothing,” said her mother, nearly snapping at her. “Lara, I see nothing.”

“Nothing?” Lara dramatically looked down at her dress. “Really, mother?”

“I don’t see him, Lara.” Audrey looked stricken. “I’m sorry.”

That was impossible. Her mother could see everything. Each transgression Todd had ever made, Audrey smelled it on him, like a dog.

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” her mother’s voice was low now.

In hearing those words—"I don’t know”—something in Lara shifted. The whole place began to sour. She tried to breathe, but the corset in the damned dress stopped her lungs from expanding. She grabbed at the bodice, but it wouldn’t move. Lara concentrated and began to enchant the zipper, feeling her ribs relax as the fabric released. Looking up, she spied Caren Jackson, her maid of honor, standing in the doorway dressed in her lavender taffeta dress, her mouth agape, as she watched her friend’s wedding dress appear to unzip itself with invisible hands.

Lara’s knees buckled and she stumbled into the Baby Jesus doll in his cradle shoved against the wall. Caren pulled her back up, placing her in the regular sized teacher’s chair. Lara began to pluck the baby’s breath sprigs from Caren’s updo, first just the strand that was too close to Caren’s dark brown eyes, but then, another cluster near her ear.

“Fuck the baby’s breath,” said Caren, who began tugging at the other sprigs, pulling them out.

Somehow, this absurd gesture made Lara laugh. This situation was ridiculous, really it was. She needed to get herself together. She put her head down almost between her knees to avoid fainting. “What should I do, Caren?”

Caren had been her best friend since their morning kindergarten class. They’d sat together in the tiny chairs in this room as children. Caren crouched down and met her eyes. “I honestly don’t know, but we’ll figure this out.”

“How could he—?”

Caren simply shook her head.

A few minutes later, Fred crept upstairs and whispered to her mother, just loud enough for her to hear. “I don’t think he’s coming.”

“We need to get her out of here,” Audrey grabbed her hand. “Now.”

Lara and her mother managed the stairs down to the foyer one step at a time, her father two steps behind them. For the first time in her life, Lara used the handrail. The church door opened. her heart leapt, hoping it was Todd. Instead, Chet Ludlow, Todd’s best man, muscled through the doors, his face red. The first thing Lara thought was that he’d gotten a terrible haircut for this ceremony and that the pictures would look terrible. And then she remembered, and her stomach lurched. The wedding pictures. There would be many more moments like this in her future, cruel reminders of what didn’t happen today. Her world was about to change to “before” and “after.”

He seemed surprised to find a clump of people standing in the foyer. He turned to Lara. “I’ve been out looking for him for the last half hour. I swear I have.”

“And?” It was Caren, her voice firm.

Chet furiously shook his head. “I can’t find him anywhere.”

Satisfied he was telling the truth, Lara nodded and pushed through the gothic wooden double doors with a strength she didn’t know she had. As she stepped outside, through a cruel twist, the sun was now peeking around a soft cloud.

Hearing steps on the pavement below, Lara looked down to see Ben Archer, Kerrigan Falls’ Chief of Police. He was out of breath, his uniform rising and falling, like he’d been out for a hard run.

In this humiliating and intimate moment, she’d hoped to avoid seeing anyone, let alone a perfect stranger, but their eyes met and she could see that he, too, had nothing to report.

There would be no wedding today.

DIARY OF CECILE CABOT—Book One

April 3, 1925

Had our mother lived, I know things would have been different.

A photo of her sits in the circus’ wardrobe office. It’s a side profile of her, a stage still, but, I can tell from it that she has blue eyes like Esmé and I. Her coiled platinum hair resembles mine—a mixture of snow and silver. I cannot tell you how much I cling to this small detail that I resemble our precious mother more than Esmé does. Other than Father, Madame Plutard, mother’s former costumer, is the only person at the circus who knew her when she was alive. Yet, despite her knowledge, Madame Plutard is silent.

The story is that our mother died giving birth to us. Everyone who was there is quite sober about the circumstances, so I fear we were a gruesome birth. Whenever I ask, Madam Plutard looks down at the floor or changes the subject and begins furiously ripping seams from costumes, her wrist flicking as her lips draw line so firm that words dare not escape. Esmé has never asked. That we are twins shocks most people since there is such a sharp contrast between us. I’m the quiet one. The pensive one. Madame Plutard calls me the shadow twin.

I think she means that I am quiet, always following Esmé, like a silhouette.

Yesterday after the performance, Esmé and I sat side-by-side at our matching ivory vanities. She was putting on and taking off make-up, “Who is older?,” I asked. “You or me?”

It’s one of those things I’ve always wondered, but never asked. There is no doubt in my mind that she knows the answer.

Esmé turned to me with a coy smile then sharply inhaled, like she was honing her reply. “I am. Why on earth would you ever think that you would be older?” Through her mirror she glared at me, a measure of disbelief at my apparent stupidity. Immediately, she began busying herself, opening gold tops on ornate crystal bottles, dabbing things at her neck and face with a fury before finally emerging from this frenzy to steadily apply her lipstick—a garnet shade, nearly black to her small, full lips. She smacked them and ground them together, then cocked her head and ran a nail along her upper lip to correct the errant border.

“I don’t know why you’re always so mean,” I said, sighing and pulling my long hair from its pins, pulling it forward and picking at it before brushing the long, silver strands.

She turned her body toward me, the nude bodysuit with black web piping she wore doing little to hide what was underneath. “No one wants to tell you, so I will. You shouldn’t even exist, you know. You are like an extra arm. Unnecessary.” She reached over to her vanity and handed me a tube of lipstick. “Here,” she said, holding the exquisite piped metal case out in her hand. “You need it.” Turning back to her own mirror, she dabbed at the lines of her lipstick with lace handkerchief. “I don’t even know why you have a vanity in my dressing room. It’s not like you have an act.”

Stung by her comment, I realized that I had no retort, so I leaned into my own mirror, busying my hands and studying my own pale face. She wasn’t wrong. I was the only person in the circus without something to do, other than being “his” daughter. All of my life—well all of my life that I can remember—my sister has been tossing these barbs at me, hinting she knows more. In my heart, I have come to believe what she says: I am nothing. No wonder I lurk in the shadows.

“You still don’t remember, do you?” She brushed her silky hair, making the dark bob line up with her chin.

I didn’t answer her, which was answer enough. The great shame of my life is that I’ve retained no memories of my childhood. It had never occurred to me that everyone didn’t suffer from this form of amnesia. A few years ago I learned that even the performers serving out their sentences here, recalled their childhoods quite fondly, even when it was obvious those memories were washed over and revised in their minds. I’d love to have this type of nostalgia, but it is as though I emerged from a clamshell at the age of eleven. The first memory etched in my consciousness was of a birthday cake, a pink tiered monstrosity with the words “onze ans” written between layers. I was bewildered that day, not recognizing the celebrants around the table. Like a muscle memory, I knew to blow the candles out after the verse of “Joyeux Anniversaire,” was sung, but I did not immediately answer to the name Cecile as though it were foreign to me. Worse yet, I had no memory of the girl with the chin-length black hair who sat beside me.

The same girl sat beside me now. Her words had a way of twisting around me and cutting off the circulation around my neck, causing me to feel breathless. In my head, I’ve kept a ledger of each insult. Without memories to anchor me, her accusations have defined me. She was beautiful, confident, and talented, yet I was nothing—a creature with no past and no purpose. I swallowed hard, having nothing to lose. “Quit hinting like a coward. Just tell me, for once. Why do you remember, but I don’t?.” I faced her, ready for the confrontation. Or at least, I thought I was, but her knowing smile struck fear in me.

The smile didn’t last long and her face twisted. I could tell calling her a coward had emboldened her just as I knew it would. “He didn’t think you were strong enough, so he took your memories.”

I felt the world tilt. This comment was pure madness and yet it made all the sense in the world. Illness or injury were not the cause of my emptiness. My memories—my life—had been taken from me. That they’d been stolen was the only answer that made sense. And, I had little doubt that the “he” was most definitely our Father. Gripping the vanity, I processed knowledge for a moment. “Why?”

She was about to speak when we were interrupted by the sound of a loud yawn coming from the velvet chaise, a fat tabby named Hercules watched Esmé’s movements intently. As though I were an afterthought, she focused on the cat and began to pet him. No one would have guessed that Hercules, himself, was resting after his own performance. Along with his feline partner, Dante, a sleek black shorthair they were the entertainers in Esmé’s cat act. Instead of a majestic lion and hungry black panther they saw bounding around in the center ring, the audience never suspected that what they were actually witnessing were these two fat, pathetic house cats. On Esmé’s command, the two pounced and roared about the stage, dangerously close their tamer. But like a magician sliding a card into a jacket sleeve, she conjured this illusion entirely. Each night, the audience held their breath as she maneuvered around the ring, never realizing that the thing that she manipulated, was them.

And now, the thing she manipulated was me. “Esmé? Answer me”

She frowned, like it pained her to speak. “Because he felt the truth was too horrible for you to bear.”

“What truth?”

There was a knock Sylvie, our trick rider and Madame Plutard’s daughter stood in the doorway, clutching her purse. Since she’d been a child, Sylvie had tagged around with us, acting as the glue between us as well as an occasional buffer. An expert at reading us, Sylvie knew that she’d stepped into another spat. With Sylvie standing there, I knew that Esmé would never finish the story. While we were all friends, she considered the costumers daughter “the help” and never discussed family matters in front of outsiders.

“We’re going to be late. I don’t want to miss Le Dôme tonight,” said Sylvie tapping her foot. Normally, she preferred the Ritz, but this week the circus had moved to Bois du Boulogne, so Montparnasse was now closer.

Esmé’s words rang in my head, I stood up from my chair wearily and began to change into a soft aqua-colored silk, drop-waisted dress with platinum piping and beading at the hem that I’d draped across the chair. I spied my t-strap heels under Hercules.

“What about you?” Sylvie turned to Esmé who was making no move toward getting dressed.

“What about me?” My sister’s voice had a raised tone. She was irritated; the coward remark had stung her. I smiled at the thought that my words could affect her as well. How could a shadow hurt anyone?

Sylvie and I exchanged looks, but we knew that despite her petulance, Esmé wouldn’t miss a night out in Montparnasse. This was all an act. She would make us wait for her, but she would be at the gate when the door opened. “Are you coming?” Sylvie folded her arms

Esmé stood and pulled on her stockings and then slid on a black lace dress with a bow at the shoulder. She frowned and pulled the entire thing off, rolling it into a ball on the chair and grabbed a blush dress with an aqua bow at the hip. Turning, she frowned and slid the dress off, kicking it under the chair. Next, she grabbed a plain beige and black lace dress. Sylvie and I held our breath, hoping this one would stay, but soon it was discarded for an elaborate tulle and gold beaded dress with a small train that brushed the back of her calves. It was a new creation that Madame Plutard had made especially for Esmé, her muse.

Madame Plutard loved contrast and texture and often our performers resembled desserts. Last night, Esmé was dressed in her newest costume—a gold military jacket with tails. Her wardrobe features bold shades of gold and red. As Esmé rushed around the room she passed her dressmaker’s form that had been fitted with her newest costume: a blood red brocade jacket with gold and black shoulder epaulettes made of peacock feathers. I have no costumes because, as my sister rightly pointed out, I am the only person in this circus without an act.

All of our performers in our circus were once famous. They’ve chosen to be here for their punishment. While, this circus is a prison for them, from the looks on their faces, they are still grateful, so some prisons must be better than others.

As we approached the door, I spotted Doro, the clown. It was always heartbreaking when he stood so near the entrance, so I hung back to wave to him. It wasn’t a chance meeting because he always seemed to know when we were about to leave for the evening and positioned himself near the door for one glimpse at the world beyond these walls. None of the performers can leave. It is a peculiarity of our circus. As we are full or part mortal, Esmé, Sylvie and I can come and go, freely. Oddly though, Madame Plutard, although living, shows no interest in leaving.

As the entrance opened—its shape resembling the large mouth of the Devil, Sylvie and Esmé started through, but I stood at the mouth. Despite the fact that I could see that Esmé had her hands folded in disgust on the other side, I held the door open just a beat longer.

“Come on, Cecile.” That she made Sylvie and I wait while she dressed, then undressed into four outfits was now a distant memory to my sister.

Sylvie’s face looked tense, always concerned that someone would see us deposited out of thin air into the Bois de Boulogne. From the mist outside, her blonde bob had begun to curl. “Cecile,” she called, motioning. “Dépêche-toi!”

I turned back at door to see Doro, straining for one last peek at the world beyond the gate. Before I emerged on the other side, I saw Sylvie’s breath and knew the April night in Paris would be cold even before I’d stepped onto the grass. I always felt the entrance close, before I heard it. And always I’m amazed when I turn to find the door—and the circus—gone, replaced with stillness of night.