bathed in sunlight, a hundred shades of green. Cattails rustled, and red-winged blackbirds darted in and out. Long Island Sound sparkled beyond. The Robbinses had the last house on Gull Point, ten blocks and a world away from Amy’s.
“You know these people?” Amy asked, standing beside him with wide eyes.
“I do.”
“They’re witches,” she said. “All the kids say so.”
“What kids?”
“In my neighborhood.”
“What do they say?”
“That the ladies cast spells and turn kids into monsters and trolls. Then they keep them prisoner.” Amy was staring at the house. It was a tidy Cape, its white cedar shingles weathered to silver. The blue shutters had cut-out sea horses; the white window trim gleamed. Window boxes were filled with purple and yellow pansies.
“Well …” Alan said.
“Is it true?” Amy asked, standing so close, her shoulder bumped his jacket.
“You’re going to have to decide for yourself,” he said, feeling a shiver under his skin as he saw Dianne standing in the doorway.
Amy had never doubted Dr. McIntosh before, but she couldn’t imagine why he was bringing her to the witch-ladies’ house. She had been so happy about spending the day with him, she had prepared by taking a bath in Rain Magic bath salts, then putting on fresh jeans and the cleanest shirt she could find. But now, standing in the clamshell driveway on Gull Point, she felt afraid.
Tall privet hedges lined the yard, blocking any view from the street. Although Amy lived just a few blocks away, she had never seen the house before and was surprised that it looked so cute. Would witches live in a Cape with sea horse shutters? Instead of walking up the front path, Dr. McIntosh headed around the side yard. It was a meadow of sea grass, bristly and greenish-brown, but there were gardens of daffodils, pink azaleas, and tiny blue scillas.
Set back at the edge of the marsh was a small white cottage. Most unwitch-like! Amy thought. And standing in the doorway was the golden-haired lady Amy had seen once before, at Dr. McIntosh’s office.
“Oh!” Amy said.
“I should have called,” the doctor said to the lady.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, sounding scared.
“Nothing. Nothing at all,” he said quickly. “I happened to be in the neighborhood, picking up my friend Amy Brooks, and I wanted to introduce her to you.”
The lady bowed her head, looking relieved. She wore a white shirt tucked into blue jeans. The sleeves were rolled up; she wore old sneakers. Her hair was pulled back in a loose braid, and she’d tied the end with a thin piece of marsh grass. Her eye color reminded Amy of periwinkles, just as they had the other time she had seen her.
“I know who you are,” the lady said, smiling slowly.
Amy stood slightly behind the doctor.
“You were in the playhouse,” the lady said.
“Dr. McIntosh lets me,” Amy blurted out, thinking maybe the lady was going to give her a hard time about it.
“It makes me happy you like it,” the lady said.
Amy frowned, unsure of why the lady should care one way or the other. Confused, she looked at the doctor, and he placed his hand on Amy’s shoulder.
“Miss Robbins made that playhouse,” he said. “I bought it from her to put in my waiting room. And my brother delivered it in his truck. That’s how we all met.”
“That’s a very old story,” the lady said. “I’d like Amy to call me Dianne. Come on in.”
Once Dianne got past that first lurch, seeing Alan’s car and thinking bad news, she felt herself relax. Their eyes met and held for a moment. She took in his open expression, the smile lines every mother in Hawthorne loved, and she was so aware of the distance she wanted to keep between them, she forgot to open the screen door.
“How are you?” he asked, entering her studio.
“Fine, thanks. Is everything okay?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said, looking around as if her studio were new to him. He made frequent emergency visits, but they were mainly up at the house.
“You’ve been in here, haven’t you?” she asked.
“You usually have it pretty well barricaded,” he said.
She glanced up, saw him smiling wryly.
“You’re related,” Amy said. “He told me.”
“Distantly,” Dianne said.
“I’m her daughter’s uncle,” Alan explained with kindness in his voice that even Dianne couldn’t miss. He was nice to all kids – no one could mistake the fact that he had a gift for talking to them.
How could someone so different from Tim remind Dianne so much of him? Alan was brainy, Tim was cocky. Alan wore the most faded blue shirts Dianne had ever seen, old blue jeans, and hiking boots. His glasses were slipping down his nose, and Dianne had to fight the urge to push them back up. Tim was the family bad boy, and Alan was the scientist. But they were both tall, lean, with an easy, graceful style of movement. Seeing Alan, Dianne always pulled back, as if from Tim himself.
“Deeee,” Julia said, coming to life. “Deeeee!”
“Oh!” Amy said, shocked, stepping back at the sight of Julia.
Dianne’s stomach flipped. Whenever someone saw Julia for the first time, all Dianne’s mother-lion instincts kicked into gear. If the people seemed upset, unfriendly, or disgusted, Dianne found a way to get them out fast. She might have expected Alan to warn the girl, but it seemed obvious that he hadn’t.
“Is that –” Amy began.
“My daughter,” Dianne said steadily.
“Her name is Julia,” Alan said. “You were asking about her the other day.”
“I saw her chart!” Amy said. Her eyes wide, she took a step toward Julia.
Dianne’s shoulders tightened. She clutched herself with folded arms. The young girl had sounded so scared, and now she had a look of morbid fascination on her face. Anger welled up in Dianne, and she started forward to get between Amy and Julia.
“You showed her Julia’s chart?” Dianne asked, furious.
Alan just shook his head as if it didn’t merit an explanation.
“This is Dianne’s workshop,” Alan said.
“Where you make the playhouses?” Amy asked.
“Yes.”
“Hmm,” Amy said. She cast a low glance at Julia, then looked quickly away. She was curious about the little girl. She wanted to stare, but she was polite enough not to. While Alan visited with Julia, Dianne pointed at the half-finished house, directing Amy’s attention away.
“I’m wallpapering this section,” Dianne said, feeling like a protective bird, leading the girl away from her nest. On the other hand, the child seemed so vulnerable. She had flyaway brown hair, bitten-down fingernails, a deep worry line between her eyebrows.
“Ooh, pretty,” Amy said, touching the white flowers.
“I do one wall at a time,” Dianne said. “Then put them together.”
“Oh,” Amy said, looking back at Julia.
“Once the house is assembled, I add the trim. These wooden curlicues are called gingerbread. I’ll attach that to the eaves, then add this little dovecote, these shutters. Then I’ll paint it.…”
“Does she have one in her room?”