Evenfall

Praise for
Evenfall

“In
Evenfall
, Liz Michalski weaves magic and fate, love and history, risk and desire into a novel that is rich with human frailty and emotion. This is one of those books you will not be able to put down until its last beautiful pages.”

—Ann Hood, author of
The Red Thread

“
Evenfall
possesses the tranquil beauty implied in its title. The rural New England setting, combined with the characters’ efforts to resolve past heartbreak, yields a story full of healing calm.”

—Laura Brodie, author of
The Widow’s Season

“Graceful, gentle…an orchestra of characters I won’t soon forget, including the unexpected: a dog, a cat, a house, and the ghost of a man whose longing and affection for a woman keeps him tied to this earth.”

—Diane Meier, author of
The Season of Second Chances

“A haunting, exquisitely written novel of steadfast love and enduring regret. Like the ghosts in the story, this novel will linger in your thoughts long after you finish it.”

—Mary Alice Monroe,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Last Light Over Carolina

For my family, the listeners and the storytellers both;
and for Bill, at last and always

First and foremost, to my agent, Mitchell Waters, who somehow manages to be the personification of kindness and professionalism both; and to my editor, Jackie Cantor, a delight and a dream to work with.

To Christine Greeley, who read every word twice, to Lisa Myerson, whose honesty can always be depended upon, and to Al Padilla, who read with a critical eye. To the inhabitants of Zoetrope, specifically, Ellen Meister, who introduced me to the best women’s room on the web; Louis E. Catron, a good man and kindly scholar; Thea Atkinson, who opened her attic to me; and Terri Brown-Davidson and her office mates, who taught me the finer points of the business that is writing.

Greg Seay deserves a special shout-out. Greg, I confess, I’ve taken your name in vain more than once after you made me redo my lede for the umpteenth time, but you taught me more about writing and revising than any course could have, and I thank you on a regular basis.

To my family: Mom, for writing the notes that gave me access to the whole library; Dad, for never balking at buying
Nancy Drew books in bulk; and Maureen, my first listener. To Emma for letting me write, and Alex for making me stop. You make my life a Technicolor wonder every day.

To all the good dogs who inspired me—George, Calvin, Griffin, Phoenix, and Nina. May you catch the bunnies of your dreams. And to Harley, who is not allowed to catch any in this life.

Finally, and most important, to my fabulous husband, Bill, for his support and encouragement, for which you deserve your own page. Thank you for all that you do. I love you.

june

Frank

Andie

Gert

Frank

Andie

Gert

Frank

Andie

july

Andie

Gert

Frank

Andie

Gert

Frank

Andie

august

Gert

Frank

Gert

Andie

Gert

Frank

Andie

Frank

Andie

Gert

Andie

Gert and Frank

september

Readers Guide

june

NINA sees the man first. It’s a warm summer day, the kind where, when I was alive, you’d have found me down the creek. Fishing, I’d have said if anyone asked, though the only thing worth catching there was a long, cool breeze.

There’s no such breeze in the attic today—not even the ghost of one. A dry heat radiates from the wooden beams above me, although the floor itself is cool, squeaking slightly under the movement of my rocking chair. The wide, solid boards, the angular shape of the room, the boxes and trunks that fill the dark corners, all put me in mind of a ship, as if I’m taking some kind of voyage up here instead of just passing time.

Beside me, Nina lifts her head, and her ears prick forward.

“What is it, girl?” I ask. She looks at me mournfully. Nina
wishes she could speak. Instead, she barks once and glances at the window.

A swatch of lace curtain blocks our view. In our forty years together, Clara tatted enough lace to cover every window in the house. If she’d lived, I would have had a lace-lined coffin. But of course Clara passed before me.

Nina barks again, impatient. Through the patterns in the lace I see something moving. “All right,” I say. “Hold your horses.” I think of the breeze down the creek, and the curtain flaps sideways and stays there.

The fellow’s young. I see that right away. He parks his red truck on the side of the lawn and steps out wearing faded jeans, hiking boots, and a white T-shirt. He stands in the drive, shades his eyes, and gazes up at the house.

Even if I close my eyes, I can still see the place the way he does: the arbor to the right of the house, plump Concord grapes ripening in the sun; the fieldstone steps, laid by my grandfather and carved with his initials; the shady patio, where Clara used to bring me lemonade. And the house itself, rising out of the Connecticut ground at the edge of the woods, its white facade peeling a little but still proud after two hundred years. There’s plenty that he doesn’t see, too, and keeping it safe is what concerns me.

The boy—for that’s what he truly is—passes a hand along his jaw. He stands still, taking in the house and the valley spread below. I look at Nina.

“Doesn’t look like a thief,” I say, and she whines in agreement.

“Still, best to make sure.” Nina stands, shakes herself,
and trots toward the door, where she sits and looks back at me.

“I’m coming, I’m coming.” These days, it’s easier for me just to think of the place I’m going and find myself there, but Nina finds it disconcerting, and so, I suppose, do I. Instead I raise myself from the chair and follow along behind her, and the two of us make our way downstairs.

At the front door, she sits and barks once, a command of sorts. I stop and remember the feel of the wood, the coolness of the brass handle, and the door swings open. Not very much, but enough for Nina to wriggle through. She bounds down the steps, barking and growling, a black and tan bundle of uncontained fury.

The boy takes a step back. “Whoa. Easy, there.” He puts one hand out, slowly, then stays very still. A good idea. Nina may be a mutt, but her broad head and mouthful of white teeth are pure shepherd. Her body’s something else—maybe Rottie—but all told she’s a solid one hundred pounds of pissed-off dog, and the boy’s got the message. He doesn’t seem afraid, though; just cautious. He keeps his voice low and calm. “You’re telling me this is your place, huh? I hear you.”

He waits until the dog settles a bit, then cups his hands around his mouth and hollers toward the door. “Hello? Anybody home?” No answer comes from the empty house.

“How’d you get out? You do that by yourself?” he asks the dog. She’s still barking, random woofs of warning, but it’s halfhearted now, and at his tone she tentatively wags her bushy tail. He extends his hand again, and this time she sniffs it.

“You’re a smart one, aren’t you?” he says, and rubs behind her ears. She groans in pleasure, thumps her tail on the ground, and leans into him so that when he shifts, she topples over, pink belly exposed and legs in the air.

The boy laughs. He bends over and scratches her stomach, making her writhe with delight.

“Some watchdog,” I say from the door. Nina rolls a sheepish brown eye in my direction, but doesn’t get up.

The boy stands, giving Nina a last scratch, and she scrambles to her feet behind him. He pushes the front door so that it’s fully open and calls inside.

“Hello? Anybody there?”

He takes one step over the threshold, hesitates, and shivers. Perhaps he senses me, floating just where the door’s shadow pools into midday darkness. Perhaps it is simply that he’s been raised with better manners than to wander around a strange house when nobody’s home. Whatever the reason, he turns and heads outside.

He’s standing on the rise, looking toward the old north pasture, when I hear them coming through the woods. There’s two of them, about the same size, but it’s not until they’re almost through to the clearing that I realize one of them is Gert.

Nina is standing by the boy’s side, still a little excited from her efforts to chase him off. She hears them just after I do, and gives a low warning bark. The boy spins around just in time to see them step into the sunlight.

“Quiet, fool,” I say to the dog, and she grumbles her way into silence. Gert’s moving at a quick pace, faster than I’ve
seen in some time. A few wisps of hair have escaped her braid, and they float about her face like strands of silver, as thin and fine in the morning air as spider webbing. As she strides toward us, her energy comes in waves. Touch her and she’d shoot sparks.

“Un-oh,” I say to the boy. “You might want to leave now.” But of course he doesn’t hear me. Instead, he comes down off the rise, crossing the lawn to meet them. He’s got a hand raised in greeting, but at the look on Gert’s face, he lets it drop limply to his side. Nina, quite sensibly, is cowering behind his leg.