Poplar Ridge Road. âYouâll have to tell me which house.â
âItâs up a way. You canât see it from the street.â
They drove in silence. His apology couldnât erase the low-level tension that hummed in the car. He wasnât sure why he felt so contriteâit wasnât just because of his kids or because heâd inquired about her marital status. He suspected it had something to do with the fact that as soon as heâd calmed down enough to look at her when sheâd first appeared in his backyard, heâd practically stripped her naked in his imagination.
In and of itself, that wouldnât be a crime. He was a man, single and unattached. He was allowed to appreciate an attractive woman, allowed even to fantasize about her. But Filomena Albright wasnât simply an attractive woman. She had an aura about her. Maybe it was her elaborate earrings, or her long, flowing hair. Maybe it was the sight of her with Gracie in her armsâlike a powerful savior whoâd rescued his fragile pajama-clad daughter from the evil shadows of the forest.
There was nothing fragile about Gracie, of course. But heâd been taken by the way Filomena had looked holding her: strong yet protective. More than a saviorâan Amazon goddess, a magical spirit, a warrior endowed with mythical powers.
Evan was not given to flights of fancy. He couldnât begin to guess why Filomena inspired him to imagine such things.
âThere,â she said, pointing toward a barely visible driveway, its entrance flanked by two short stone columns. He turned onto the gravel driveway, pebbles crunching beneath his tires. His headlights guided him up the curving drive until suddenly the house loomed before him.
It was huge. He wouldnât call it a palaceâthere was nothing elegant about itâbut the house had a ruggedgrandeur. Its walls were constructed of randomly shaped stones, its double door arched, its windows filled with light. The cast-iron lamps hanging on either side of the door illuminated not just the porch but the shaggy front lawn and untrimmed shrubs. The driveway ended in a circle near an overgrown path of slate leading to the broad front steps. Astonished, Evan shut off the engine and gawked. âThis is your house?â
âYes.â
âWow.â He craned his neck to admire the roof, whose patterned tiles sloped sharply above the third story. âI never knew there was a house hiding back here. How old is it?â
âAround a hundred years, I think.â
âWow.â No one would have built a house like this today. It would have required too much labor, and the land it sat onâa huge parcel, given the length of the drivewayâwould have been zoned into smaller lots. âI guess I can understand why my kids were curious about the place.â
âDo you think it looks haunted?â
He eyed her. Her smile had returned, warm and tantalizing. âIt looks like the sort of house that would be haunted by a woman named Filomena.â
Her eyebrows flicked upward. âOh?â
âUnusual name. Unusual house.â Unusual woman , he wanted to add, but he had no way of knowing whether she was unusual. He only sensed it. âAnd my house is really just through the woods?â he asked, scrutinizing the expanse of forest behind the house.
âThereâs a path. It wasnât too clear to me, but Billy had no trouble following it even in the dark.â
He turned his gaze back to the house. He couldnâtimagine Filomena rattling around in it by herself. Sheâd said it was her childhood home. Had she endured an odd childhood? Or an average one in an odd house?
He tried to picture her the way sheâd been before Sunday, in Manhattan. He envisioned her as an artist, living a bohemian life in SoHo or TriBeCa, or whatever Manhattan neighborhood was funky-chic these days. He envisioned her in long skirts and flamboyant