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CHAPTER ONE 

Penelope

People assumed July would be the hottest month in Ivy Ridge, Georgia—probably because it fell slapdab in the middle of the scorching summer months. But they were wrong. August blazed in behind a sweltering July when people were already melting. Pushing through the humidity was second nature to most Southerners, but everyone had their limit. There was only so much sticky heat a kindhearted person could handle before she turned into a cantankerous old woman with a venomous tongue.

Penelope Russell still had a few more degrees of heat she could stand before her compassion and manners evaporated, but the same couldn't be said of a mother who had flames burning in her eyes as she tried to wrangle two crying toddlers into their car seats in the grocery store parking lot. She'd shouted colorful words to the heavens and startled a flock of geese. The frightened birds had changed directions, pointing their V away from town. Then there was the man who had literally stripped down to his checkerboard boxers on the edge of Highwater Creek right before he waded in. Steam had risen off his body like a lobster in a pot of boiling water.

Indoor fan blades spun fast enough to lift houses a few inches off their foundations. The Pixie Dixie Creamery had a line that stretched around the block from nine in the morning until nine at night. Children begged their parents to let them run through lawn sprinklers all day long, and their laughter filled the streets of the town, offering sounds of joy that helped to alleviate the growing agitation over rising temperatures.

Penelope had felt restless all day, and not just because of the August heat wave. Two air-conditioning units had been installed in the historic Russell home in the 1950s when AC first came into fashion. While many townsfolk had been wary of modern advancements, the Russell family didn't see any reason to suffer through Southern summers another day if they didn't have to. Three years ago when the original units started sputtering and groaning like old copper pipes, they replaced them. Now the more energy-efficient units were blasting cold air, and Penelope stood beneath a ceiling vent in her sewing room, letting the coolness wash over her upturned face. She thought of Sophia and Robert, her retired godparents who shared the house with her. They'd taken a jaunt to Savannah for a long weekend, and she wondered if a cooler breeze blew off the Savannah River, offering temporary relief, or if the whole state of Georgia was dissolving into sweaty goo.

A noise downstairs pulled her focus and she listened, hearing music. Penelope followed the sound of it until she stood in the downstairs parlor. The tabletop radio, bought by her great-grandmother in the 1920s, was on and playing "Best of My Love," which was one of her younger sister, Lilith's, favorite songs when they were kids. Penelope smiled thinking of the time Lilith had danced through the backyard, hands reaching toward the sky, singing the lyrics in her mesmerizing bluesy voice. An ache attached itself to the memory, and Penelope rubbed her fingers across her collarbone.

In most houses it might be unusual, spooky even, for a radio to turn on by itself, but not in the Russell house. There was nothing 'usual' about the century-old Victorian. Whether it was true or not, Penelope had grown up being told the house was built from enchanted trees grown in the Appalachian Mountains that were felled during a full moon, and this was why the house was never treated as a thing but rather as another member of the quirky, slightly eccentric Russell family. The house was very much alive, and when it had something to say, it found interesting ways of letting you know.

Penelope crossed the room and turned off the radio. Enid, her eleven-year-old gray cat, curled on the parlor sofa, blinking shiny amber eyes at her. Penelope scratched between Enid's ears and murmured, "Did you turn on the radio? I thought you were more of a classical music lover." Enid meowed. "No? Oh, I see. Celtic music fan." Enid meowed louder. "That fits you."

A strong wind buffeted the front of the house, then whipped around the sides toward the backyard. Wind whistled through the eaves and the house protested in response. Penelope walked through the foyer and opened the front door. A gust of wind pushed her backward. Enid meowed again behind her.

A cluster of black-eyed Susans in the front flower bed knocked their blooms together as though sending a frenzied message. In another strong gust, a stalk uprooted and dropped itself onto the front porch, scattering dirt and yellow petals all over the boards. The unexpected wind continued for a few minutes while Penelope returned the battered flower to its spot in the front garden. Then, just as quickly as it had arrived, the wind disappeared, leaving behind temperatures that had dropped a few degrees and an unsettling feeling expanding in Penelope's stomach.