On Tuesday night Allie hung around so long we had to ask her to stay for dinner. Afterward, she got me alone outside and asked if n.o.ble was impotent. When I asked her how she thought I would know that, I said it much more sharply than I'd meant to. It wasn't that I was jealous, but d.a.m.n it! I had two men in my life, but both of them were weird enough to be aliens. Gorgeous Russell came and went like some migrating bird, and Ford had gone into hibernation like the bear he resembled. Result? I was manless.

"I just wondered," Allie said, oblivious to my bad mood. "I thought maybe Ford had said something about n.o.ble's ability to... you know."

"That's the one subject we haven't discussed," I said, but she missed my sarcasm. It was odd, but I'd really liked Allie until she and n.o.ble had become an item. Now Allie seemed a bit frivolous to me. It wasn't that she had a man paying attention to her and I didn't. I was bigger than that. It was just that I was more observant now.

Anyway, it seemed that Allie was worried about n.o.ble's virility because he hadn't made a pa.s.s at her, not even to try to kiss her. They'd been spending many hours a day together and Allie had been l.u.s.ting over him- making a spectacle of herself, actually-but n.o.ble hadn't so much as held her hand.

I was disgusted with Allie's giggles but, to show her I was a nice person, I helped her out. Earlier, when she'd been stretching up on one foot to pick grapes, I'd seen n.o.ble look at her from across the barbeque grill with red-hot l.u.s.t in his eyes. So, obviously, he was playing some male game if he was making Allie believe he wasn't burning up for her.

I told Allie that at nine she should tell everyone she had to leave because she was expecting a call from her ex and didn't want to miss it. She protested but she agreed to do it. So Tessa had another sleepover, n.o.ble volunteered to drive Allie home, and I called Allie at nine thirty, ready to pretend to be her ex's secretary, but no one answered.

When I got up the next morning, n.o.ble was already in the kitchen, smiling and whistling, and when he saw me, he kissed my cheek. Minutes later my cell phone rang and it was Allie. She wanted to rea.s.sure me that n.o.ble was not impotent. "Not, not, not, not, not-" she said. I hung up in the middle of what had to be the twelfth "not."

When I went back to the kitchen, I had to endure Toodles, Tessa, and n.o.ble dancing around to some C-and-W tune on the radio. I stayed to one side and prepared a breakfast tray for Ford. I'd taken advantage of his continued, self-imposed isolation to fill him with nutritious food. I gave him cereal that was heavy on the fiber (oak sawdust would have been lighter) with soy milk, juice run through an extractor so it contained ma.s.ses of pulp, and dry toast with whole seeds protruding from the dark brown surface.

So, okay, maybe I was trying to agitate him enough that he'd come out of his room and liven up the place, but I didn't succeed. At noon I delivered a vegetarian sandwich (plus veggie chips with an artichoke dip on the side) and picked up his empty breakfast tray. Right. Empty.

I didn't say a word when I delivered his food and sometimes I thought he never even saw me. Actually, a couple of times I was sure he didn't know I was there. I would have made myself known, but one day he was pacing and reading something out loud, so I stayed and listened. It was about Toodles and Tessa, and it was a combination of funny and so heartwarming that I wanted to sit down and listen to every word he was writing. But I didn't. Whatever it took to allow him to write a story like that, I was going to give it to him.

I closed the door and tiptoed away. Sometimes, between his grumpiness and having to feed him every two hours, I forgot that he was Ford Newcombe, the writer whose books had captured America's heart.

And, if I were honest, there was ego in my feeding him and keeping things quiet so he could write. I knew he hadn't written anything since his wife had died. So if he was writing now, maybe I'd had something to do with removing the block. Maybe plain ol' Jackie Maxwell had done something that had enabled this man to give yet more happiness to the millions of people who'd read his beautiful books.

By the time I was to meet Russell on Wednesday, I was feeling pretty good. I was getting some good food into Ford and I was doing what he'd hired me to do: help him write.

On the other hand, I didn't think it would hurt anything if when Ford did emerge from his den he was told that I was being courted by a divinely handsome man. So that's why I invited Toodles and n.o.ble to meet Russell.

But the meeting was a disaster. Well, actually, half a disaster.

Part of me had been angry at the att.i.tude Toodles and n.o.ble had taken with Russell, but another part had been pleased by it. Did they see Ford and me as a couple so strongly that they couldn't bear to see another man near me? Is that why they'd been so rude?

Maybe I'd overdone it when, in front of them, I'd thrown my arms around Russell and kissed him with so much enthusiasm, but I'd really wanted to show them that I belonged to no one.

Just as I knew they would-okay, hoped they would-immediately after Russell left, n.o.ble and Toodles ran straight up to Ford's office. I went to the kitchen and busied myself chopping vegetables for dinner. When Ford came down, I wanted to look busy and unconcerned. I entertained myself by rehearsing acting surprised at why he was so upset just because I was seeing another man.

But the clock ticked and Ford didn't come downstairs. In fact, the three of them stayed upstairs. What now? I thought. Do I have to haul three trays upstairs?

I got enough veggies chopped for fourteen people (n.o.ble was cutting down by halves; next week he was going to try to go down to seven) and put them in the refrigerator. I went to the foot of the stairs and looked up.

No sounds were coming from upstairs.

I fiddled with the dragon for a few minutes, watching the flame shoot out of its mouth, and wondered if anyone had shown Toodles the little creature.

He'd probably really like it. Maybe I should call him. Or maybe I should go upstairs to Ford's office and ask if they were hungry.

But in the next second pain shot through my head and I collapsed on the rug at the foot of the stairs. Suddenly, I was inside Rebecca Cutshaw's head.

I don't know how I knew whose mind I was inside, but I knew. I saw the interior of a house that I knew was hers, and I felt her boozy, unclear thoughts.

But most of all, I felt her rage. She drank to deaden the anger inside her. I couldn't tell exactly what she was angry about, but her rage was such that I felt as though I'd been tied to a stake and flames were eating me up.

I've never understood alcoholism, but in that moment I did. If I were being burned alive as Rebecca was and alcohol calmed the flames, I'd drink anything I could.

I was only in her head for seconds, which was almost more than I could bear, but I saw what she wanted to do. For some reason, the town of Cole Creek seemed to be the object of her rage, and she truly believed that the only way to get rid of the anger permanently was to burn it down. The vision inside her mind was so realistic that I knew she'd been planning it for a long time. And, worse, she didn't care if she died in the flames. She just felt as though she must remove Cole Creek from the face of the earth. And there was something I couldn't understand: She thought that there were people who could not get away from the flames-and people, like firemen, who could not get to the fire to put it out.

When I came to from the vision, I staggered over to the hall chair, and moments later Ford was there-as he always was when I desperately needed him.

After carrying me into the living room, he asked me to tell him about my vision. I was so upset that I hardly noticed the other people in the room. It seemed to be just Ford and me.

Somewhere in my telling, n.o.ble got involved, then Toodles and Tessa, and they started telling me that Russell Dunne didn't exist and that I'd been talking to a ghost. Only they didn't say he was a ghost. They said he was a devil. No, sorry. The devil. The one who's nearly as powerful as G.o.d. That devil.

It was all so ridiculous. I mean, if they wanted to break Russell and me up, couldn't they have come up with something less dramatic? They could have said he was gay. Or that he had a criminal record-and wouldn't Ford's family be in a position to know that? But no, they had to go for the gold and tell me I was seeing the devil.

Right. Sure. Why in the world would someone so important waste his time on a secretary-slash-cook-slash-amateur photographer? What was in it for the devil? Didn't he have his hands full with what was going on out in the world?

The whole thing was too absurd for me to take, so I left. I don't think I meant to leave forever, but I needed some time to get away from anyone named Newcombe-and that included Tessa and her devil-hating Cole Creek story.

On the other hand, I'm sure that in the back of my mind was my deep desire to know. For weeks now Ford and I had danced around the idea that I was involved in what had happened to that woman years ago. But we had no solid proof of my involvement. By silent agreement, Ford and I had pretty much dropped the original reason for our coming to Cole Creek. And why not? He was writing again, and heaven knew I was happy since I now had my own photography studio. So why pursue something that seemed to alienate us from the residents?

The only problem seemed to be this Russell Dunne thing. And the fifty mile limit, of course. How absurd was that?

When I grabbed the car keys, I didn't consciously think of it, but I think I was determined to show them all that what Tessa had said was something the kid had made up. When I got into the car, I pushed the b.u.t.ton to start counting the miles. I drove south in Ford's fast little Bimmer, so agitated that I straightened out curves. Twice I had to make myself slow down before I met an oncoming car and caused a wreck. If I got myself killed, no doubt they'd say the devil did it.

I watched the mile counter turn forty-eight, then forty-nine. As it started to roll over to fifty, I smiled. Idiots! I thought. How could they make up a story like that? How could-?

When the counter hit fifty, the car engine stopped. No red light on the gas gauge. No warnings of any kind on the screen in that expensive little car.

Just dead. And it wouldn't start again no matter how many times I turned the key.

Coincidence, I told myself as I got out of the car. I was glad I'd had the sense to grab my cell phone along with the car keys, but the phone wouldn't work. The ID panel said I had a signal, but when I called a number I got no sound. I couldn't call the police or a tow service. I went through every phone number in my directory but got only silence.

Finally, I called Ford's cell number and he answered. He and n.o.ble got there faster than I had, which meant that they'd straightened out all the curves.

When I saw Ford I refrained from running to him and clinging. Yes, of course the fact that the car had died at exactly fifty miles was just a coincidence, but at the same time I was feeling decidedly unsafe.

Ford seemed to understand what I was feeling because he was quiet so I could think all the way back to the house. But then maybe he wanted to think, too.

When we got back, Ford pulled into the driveway, turned off the engine, and we sat there for a few moments in the truck cab.

Then, suddenly, Ford put a big hand on the back of my head and kissed me hard. "Whatever happens, Jackie Maxwell," he said, "remember that I'm on your side." With that, he got out of the truck and went into the house.

I sat in the truck and felt myself sigh-then I looked around to make sure no one had heard me. What is wrong with us women that we're such suckers for that strong, masculine c.r.a.p?

I got out of the truck, shut the door, and stood for a few moments looking up at the beautiful house. If a person were trapped-and of course I wasn't -I could think of worse places to be than in this town in this house with this man.

As I went up the front steps I felt a great deal better than I had when I left.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

Ford I don't think life prepares a person for meeting the devil. Or even for being just one person away from Old Scratch.

On the drive back to Cole Creek with Jackie, I knew that what I really wanted to do was hide in my room and disa.s.sociate myself from all of it. No one can explain how a writer feels when he/she has a great idea for a book, then the world steps in and won't let you write. I think it was Eudora Welty who said something like, "If you look outside and think, 'Oh, d.a.m.n! It's a beautiful day so now people will come visit me,' then you're a real writer."

But you know what was odd? For the first time in years, I didn't think of Pat. I didn't think of how this wouldn't have happened if she'd lived.

Yeah, I wished I'd never started the whole thing about the devil story, but I certainly didn't wish I'd never met Jackie. And I didn't wish I'd not moved to Cole Creek. Sure, the house was creaky and it needed constant work, but I didn't mind it anymore. Jackie had replaced nearly all the wallpaper so there were no more thorns looming over me. I'd even come to enjoy one or two of the little porches. What she'd done in the garden was great, and- And there was what she'd done with my family. Maybe I'd never feel about them the same way I'd felt about Pat's family, but, through Jackie, I'd been reconnected with my relatives.

All in all, I was happy with my life for the first time in years. And I figured that, maybe, eventually, Jackie and I would get around to my little fantasy with the olives. I knew she thought she was torn between me and some other man, but I didn't see it. I hadn't seen her sitting by the phone waiting for this Russell Dunne to call, and since that first meeting, she hadn't talked about the man in a way that made me think she was pining for him.

In fact, at the party when she'd sneaked outside the gate to see him, she'd returned looking more angry than anything else. She certainly hadn't looked like a woman who'd just seen the love of her life. Maybe it was my own ego, but I was beginning to come to the conclusion that her real interest in Russell Dunne was in trying to make me jealous.

Of course I deduced all this before I found out the man couldn't be seen and was the devil.

How I wanted to ask Jackie questions! I wanted her to describe his looks in detail. I wanted her to repeat every word he'd said. I racked my brain to remember what she'd told me about him. He'd had a bag so full of things she'd said it was like "magic." He'd made a printer that wasn't battery powered work while they were in the forest. Had he bought the printer?

What credit card did the devil use? Or did he pay in cash? Maybe he paid with gold. Doubloons, maybe.

I told myself to stop thinking like a writer and start thinking like... Well, think like a what? A ghost-buster? A psychic researcher? A devil hunter?

When I glanced at Jackie, I could see that she'd been pretty shaken up by all this, and I knew that there was only one thing we could do to end it all: find out the truth. We needed to find out what had happened back in 1979, so we could figure out how to break the spell. Or could we? Could the spell be broken?

And then there was Jackie's last vision, the one that showed Rebecca burning down the town. When would she strike her first match? Where?

By the time we got back to the house, I had the beginning of a plan in my head. I tried to pep Jackie up because she was looking as forlorn as an abandoned puppy, then I ran into the house to enlist n.o.ble's help. He and I had a few moments of a rather loud discussion because he was scared out of his mind by all of it. n.o.ble would have taken on twelve lumberjacks in a barroom brawl by himself, but the mention of anything supernatural made him turn coward.

I pointed out some facts of life to n.o.ble. He wanted to settle down in Cole Creek, but he couldn't with the devil running around and making people set fire to the town. When that had no effect, I wondered out loud if the devil would be kissing Allie next. The idea of any man, even the devil, touching "his" woman put steel in n.o.ble's spine.

I called Dessie and asked her if she knew where Rebecca was. Dessie said Rebecca hadn't been to work in two days, which wasn't unusual, as she usually stayed at home to do her benders. But Dessie had been to Rebecca's house twice and she wasn't there, nor was she anywhere that Dessie had searched. "This time I'm worried about her."

I remembered the photo in Dessie's studio of the two high school girls together. They'd been friends for a long time, and I hoped they lived long enough to continue being friends.

I asked Dessie who in town knew the most about the devil's spell over Cole Creek.

When there was a long pause, I told her I didn't have time to play games.

I needed to know now!

"Miss Essie Lee," came the answer, an answer I should have known.

After I hung up, I told n.o.ble to get Tessa and to sit down with Jackie to go over every second of her vision, searching for details concerning places and times.

After I got them settled, Dad and I went to see Miss Essie Lee at her home.

Her house was a perfect little English chocolate-box cottage. I don't think it had started out that way but she'd made it so. In lieu of a thatched roof- who could find thatchers in the U.S.?-she had vines growing across the roof. The walls were white plaster, with inset, mullioned windows. The acre around the house was a perfect cottage garden, with vegetables and flowers all mixed up.

As we approached the door, down a quaint little stone path heavy with moss, pink flower petals fluttered down around us. While we waited for an answer to our knock (a lady's hand in bra.s.s) I looked at my father against the backdrop of that house and garden. They suited each other perfectly.

On impulse, I kissed my dad's forehead. Instinctively, I knew that he would soon move out of my house and into this one.

Miss Essie Lee opened the door, and in the seconds while Dad and she stared at each other in frozen rapture, I looked at her. Her at-home attire was as perfect as the house. She wore a cotton dress that had to be from the forties, and on her feet were pink, high-heeled mules with marabou feathers on the open toes. Some fifties bombsh.e.l.l would have worn those.

Without a question, Miss Essie Lee opened the door wider and we went inside.

If I looked hard, I could see that the place had once been a tract house, but Miss Essie Lee had transformed it into a movie set of an English cottage.

The walls were plastered, the ceiling had beams cleverly painted to make them look ancient, and the furniture was all soft and comfortable-looking, covered with that English mixture of a dozen patterns that somehow looked good together.

Oh, yes, I thought, my father would be living here. In fact, he looked like the perfect accessory for the house. It was as though Miss Essie Lee had said, "Now all I need to complete the decor is a funny-looking little man,"

and then ordered him off the Internet.

Or conjured him. And that thought reminded me of why we were there.

But before I could speak, my father did.

"Jackie talks to the devil," he said.

When Miss Essie Lee looked at me in question, I nodded.

"I'll change," she said. "There's no time to waste."

Minutes later she returned to the living room dressed in a suit from the 1930s, and black, stout shoes. I wanted to ask her if she too couldn't go past fifty miles outside Cole Creek.

I also wanted to ask her about all the people who had been crushed in various ways following the pressing.

But we didn't have time for that. Right now Rebecca might be striking matches.

As I pulled into my driveway, I said to Miss Essie Lee, "Jackie's name is Jacque lane."

The face she turned to me was one of shock. Then the next second she was crying. I was so surprised I couldn't move.

My dad jumped out of the backseat, flung open the front door, pulled Miss Essie Lee into his arms-and proceeded to bawl me out. According to him, I had a real talent for making women cry. And if being as smart as I was meant making women miserable, then he was glad he was stupid.

My dad said more, but I didn't have time to listen. As I ran into the house to find Jackie, my father's voice followed me. I didn't have time to stop and contemplate why I or anyone else hungered for a family.

Jackie was in the kitchen eating chocolate cream pie. Out of the pan. With her fingers. And the table was littered with empty cartons, bottles, and boxes: ice cream, cookies, maraschino cherries. The word "chocolate" was everywhere.

"Hi," she said cheerfully, with a lot of energy.