Into the Mist
Hollywood screenwriter Mariette Hoskins reached a lull in her career. Her various screenplays had received rave reviews at both the Cannes and Sundance film festivals, and she won a Golden Globe award and garnered an Oscar nomination. After ten years of creative genius, however, she now suffered a severe loss of inspiration.
As she stared out the window of her Malibu beach house at the glistening blue water of the Pacific, she saw several attractive young women wearing string bikinis, lying on beach towels, trying to get tan. A rather plump, elderly woman with brassy blond hair and weighed down with gaudy jewelry, walked her toy French poodle as two muscle-bound bodybuilders jogged past her. There would be few, if any, people on the beach back home in Harborview since it was the middle of October, and the temperatures would not be conducive to sunbathing.
A pang of homesickness suddenly struck her. Mariette had not been back east since last Christmas. Suddenly, she longed to see the colorful fall foliage; to sit in front of the fireplace on a chilly autumn night and drink hot apple cider; to see the pumpkins, dried cornstalks, Indian corn and scarecrows that decorated the porches and lampposts of the village's old colonial homes.
"Why shouldn't I go for a visit? I have nothing pressing to do now," she told herself. "I could fly home next week and stay there until after the holidays. Perhaps by the time I return to the West Coast, I'll have rediscovered my muse."
The following Saturday afternoon, Mariette left Boston's Logan Airport and drove her rental car to Harborview. She pulled into her mother's driveway, turned off the engine and smiled wistfully. As she had expected, the windows were decorated with Halloween cutouts, and a large carved jack-o-lantern was facing out the parlor's bay window. A warm feeling came over Mariette. She felt like Dorothy returning to black-and-white Kansas and not caring that the Technicolor world of Oz was a thing of the past. For despite the chilly New England weather, there really was no place like home.
"Mariette!" Mother cried as she greeted her daughter at the front door. "Let me look at you. Good heavens! You're nothing but skin and bones! Don't they have food in California?"
"Of course, they do, Mom. Where's Aunt Wil?"
Gertrude Hoskins, a widow, lived with her older sister, Wilhelmina Marsh. Although Aunt Wil was a former librarian who had never married, there was nothing spinsterish about her.
"You know your aunt," Gertrude laughed. "She rarely sits in one place for long. She's got a class tonight over at the college."
"Really? What's she studying?"
"The occult sciences."
"I take it she's still working part-time at the New Age shop?"
"Naturally. For such a well-read woman, my sister has no idea what the word retirement means."
"God bless her!" Mariette declared. "I hope I have as much energy when I'm seventy-four."
"You won't if you don't put a little meat on those bones."
Mariette hugged her mother. It was good to be home.
When Wilhelmina returned from her class, she brought with her three large mocha lattes and a box of freshly baked cranberry nut muffins. The three women sat before a roaring fire, ate their snack and enjoyed one another's company.
"So what did you learn tonight?" Gertrude asked. "How to turn George W. into a newt?"
"I doubt anyone would notice if I did!"
Aunt Wil, a die-hard liberal, had practically gone into mourning when John Kerry lost his bid for the presidency. Gertrude had been unmercifully teasing her ever since.
"All kidding aside, what do you learn in those classes?" Mariette inquired.
"We study, from a strictly academic point of view, the tarot, astrology, palmistry, spell-casting and other arcane subjects."
"My sister, the oldest student at Hogwarts!" Gertrude laughed.
Mariette enjoyed the good-natured banter that went on between the two elderly women. It was just what she needed to raise her spirits.
* * *
The following morning when Mariette went downstairs for breakfast, she saw her aunt, still in her flannel nightgown and chenille bathrobe, drinking tea and staring out the window.
"Good morning, Aunt Wil," she said cheerfully and headed toward the coffeepot.
Her greeting elicited no immediate response, so she repeated it.
"I'm sorry, dear," the older woman apologized. "I was deep in thought."
Mariette poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table.
"Why are you still in your nightgown at eight in the morning? You're usually dressed and ready to go somewhere by now."
"I thought I'd take it easy today and get some rest."
Aunt Wil had been a vibrant, active woman for so long that her niece often forgot she was getting on in years.
"You're not sick, are you?"
"Don't worry about me, dear. I'm as healthy as an ox."
"Then why don't you come shopping with me?" Mariette suggested.
"Ah, shopping: the great American cure-all. You know I don't enjoy bargain-hunting. I'm not one for spending my money on shoes, handbags and new clothes."
"Actually, I was planning on going to the Barnes & Noble in Copperwell, the one with the cafe that sells Starbucks coffee."
Books, latte and decadently rich pastry were things Wilhelmina Marsh could not resist.
"They even sell Godiva chocolate there," the screenwriter added, tempting her aunt even further.
"Say no more! I'll go get dressed!"
The elderly woman was once again full of energy and raring to go.
Later that morning, when Mariette and her aunt entered the Barnes & Noble store, they learned that Doty Carlisle, a local author, was holding a book signing that day.
"I think I know her," Wilhelmina said as she led her niece toward the author's table.
Doty recognized Mariette's aunt.
"I go into the Weird Sisters Shop quite often. I've seen you working there."
"I thought you looked familiar. So, you've written a book. What's it about?"
"Our local witch. After all, we can't let Salem get all the fame when it comes to Puritan intolerance."
"Really?" Mariette asked with surprise. "I never heard of any witch from this area."
"I'm not surprised. Unlike the witches of Salem, her name is barely a footnote in our history."
The author, noticing there were not many customers in the bookstore, suggested they have a cup of coffee.
"So tell us about this witch," Mariette said before biting into a chocolate-filled croissant.
"Her name was Verity Seymour; she was an emancipated woman with radical ideas about religion, sex and women's rights."
"Sounds like my kind of girl!" Wilhelmina exclaimed with a wink toward her niece.
"No wonder they accused her of being a witch," Mariette joked.
"The trouble started," the author continued, "when Verity married the wealthiest man in Harborview shortly after his wife died under what many claimed were mysterious circumstances. Then six months after they were wed, the old man died, and Verity inherited his house, his lands and his fortune. As you know, there's nothing as threatening to a male-dominated theocracy as a woman with money and a mind of her own."
"That's something that hasn't changed in over three hundred years," Mariette declared.
"With her husband's fortune, Verity became an even greater thorn in the side of the church and the town fathers. Not long after the witchcraft hysteria started in Salem, Verity was brought before our town's magistrates for questioning. Naturally, the matter of her husband's sudden death and that of his first wife was brought up."
"Was there any proof that Verity was involved in either case?"
"It was 1692. There was no such thing as DNA, fingerprints or forensics."
"Ayeh," Wilhelmina added, "their idea of a fair trial was often to throw the suspected witch into a lake or river. If she sank, she was innocent; if she floated, she was guilty. Either way, it didn't have a happy ending."
"That's right. And even though the Puritans never gave the accused witch the water test, her trial was hardly a fair one. The magistrates relied on hearsay and spectral evidence. Not surprisingly, the poor woman was found guilty and sentenced to death. She was taken to the lake near Goodman's Hill where she was to be hanged. It is now known as Gallows Lake for that reason. On the day of the execution, Verity was led to a tall tree. As the rope was placed around her neck, the sheriff read the charges against her before carrying out the decree of the court."
Doty paused to take a sip of her coffee before continuing.
"Those were the facts, but here's where legend becomes mixed with history. According to the diary of one Goodman Pythias Bromley, who was present that day, just before the sentence could be carried out, a thick morning mist suddenly moved in from the lake. It was so dense people couldn't see their hands in front of their faces. Moments later, the strange mist cleared, and Verity Seymour was nowhere to be found."
"She escaped?" Mariette asked.
"It appears so. Some accounts claim she fled to New York."
"That's what Philip English did when he and his wife were charged in Salem," said Wilhelmina, somewhat of an expert on the events that occurred during the infamous seventeenth-century witch-hunt.
As Mariette finished her coffee, she was struck with a bolt of inspiration.
"What a great subject that would be for a movie!" she exclaimed.
"What's that, dear?" her aunt asked, debating whether or not she should order another latte and a second pastry.
"The life of Verity Seymour," Mariette replied. "A fictionalized account of a liberated woman who was persecuted by the Puritan church, the established government of the day and a male-dominated society. If the studio could get an actress like Charlize Theron or Angelina Jolie to play her, we could be talking an Oscar contender here."
* * *
When she got back from her shopping trip, Mariette immediately began reading Doty Carlisle's book on Harborview's resident witch. For the next few weeks, she took copious notes and jotted down hundreds of ideas on a pad of foolscap. After she finished the book, she made an outline of various scenes she wanted to include in her script. Then she went to the Harborview Library and took out several volumes on local history.
Finally, Mariette was ready to begin writing. For several hours every day, she shut herself up in her old bedroom with her laptop, conjuring up images and characters from the late seventeenth century. (Only at that point, she envisioned Cate Blanchett in the lead role.)
Meanwhile, with help from town historian Eunice Weyman, Wilhelmina began a painstaking search through early public records, hoping to discover what had become of Verity Seymour after her narrow escape from execution. The only information Eunice could find in Harborview were church records of the unfortunate woman's birth and her ill-fated marriage to Obadiah Churchill. There were no documents to support Doty Carlisle's contention that Verity had been tried for or even accused of witchcraft. This was not too surprising since, after the fiasco in Salem, people preferred to forget about their behavior during the witchcraft hysteria. It is likely that the official records, if any ever existed, were expunged to save the town from further embarrassment.
Still, Wilhelmina was not one to give up easily. One afternoon in early November, she strolled through the old burial grounds where Harborview's founding fathers and earliest settlers had been laid to rest. There was no grave for Verity Seymour. This was not an unexpected development either since condemned witches were not buried in hallowed ground. In Salem, the victims' remains had been unceremoniously taken down and thrown into one makeshift grave with no monument to mark the spot.
"Any luck on your own personal witch-hunt?" Mariette asked her aunt when Wilhelmina returned home from the library.
"There is no record of either a Verity Seymour or a Verity Churchill in New York, New Jersey, New Hampshire, Pennsylvania or Connecticut."
"Perhaps she bought passage on a ship and left the Colonies. She was a wealthy woman, after all. Or maybe she changed her name and began a new life right here in Massachusetts."
"I suppose anything is possible," Wilhelmina admitted.
* * *
On Thanksgiving Day, Mariette put aside her laptop and spent the time with her mother and aunt. The three women watched the televised parades in the morning while the turkey was roasting. Mariette ate so much that she had to loosen the snap on her jeans, which pleased her mother to no end. Finally, after the dishes were done and the kitchen cleaned, the family retired to the living room. Over coffee and pumpkin pie, Wilhelmina challenged her niece and sister to a game of Yahtzee.
While the older women took their turns rolling the dice, Mariette's thoughts strayed to her script. She was more interested in completing the scenes between Verity and her husband than she was in rolling a large straight. However, she had to keep things in perspective: it was a holiday, and holidays should be spent with family members.
The following morning, however, while most people across the country flocked to malls and department stores to take advantage of the Black Friday sales and get a jump on their Christmas shopping, Mariette sat at her laptop and worked.
The screenwriter spent the following month in Harborview, enjoying the festive season and polishing her script. On January 3, with the holidays behind her, she bade a tearful farewell to her mother and aunt and returned to California in much better spirits than when she had left.
* * *
"Miss Hoskins?" a voice called out to her as Mariette was crossing the parking lot of her neighborhood 7-Eleven.
"Yes?"
"Forgive my impertinence, but my name is Charisse VanWyck. I wanted to talk to you about your new screenplay."
Mariette was surprised that the woman knew about the project since no press release had been issued.
"How did you hear about it?"
"Harborview is a small town. News travels fast."
"You're from Harborview?" the screenwriter asked with surprise.
"I'm from there originally, but, like you, I live in California now."
"What was it you wanted to know about my screenplay?"
"I was wondering if the role of Verity Seymour has been cast."
"We haven't even discussed casting yet, but, personally, I'm leaning toward Kate Winslet."
"I don't suppose the casting director would consider using an unknown actress in the role."
"No, I'm afraid the studio brass would want someone with box office draw. Of course, if you're interested in auditioning for one of the supporting roles, you can answer the casting call when the studio issues one."
Mariette took out her keys, unlocked her door and was about to get behind the wheel of her car when she suddenly turned and looked more closely at the young woman. There was no doubt the aspiring actress from New England was stunning, but there was something else that Mariette saw in her face that went beyond physical beauty.
"What experience have you had?" she asked quite unexpectedly.
"I don't have any film credits, but I have acted in a few theater productions—back east, that is."
"I'll tell you what," Mariette said after several moments of indecision. "Stop by my office tomorrow afternoon, and I'll listen to you read through some lines. If I think you're right for the part, I'll put in a good word for you with the casting director."
The casting director was so mesmerized by Charisse's reading of the role that he did not notice the actress had ad-libbed most of the dialogue. The film's producer understood what David O. Selznick must have felt when, after hundreds of actresses auditioned for the role of Scarlett O'Hara, he saw Vivien Leigh bring the Southern belle to life. As far as they were both concerned, if the studio wanted a star with box office draw, they could cast Anthony Hopkins or Sean Connery to play Verity's husband. Charisse VanWyck, although unknown in Hollywood, would be perfect in the starring role.
* * *
What The Godfather did for Al Pacino, Cry Witch did for Charisse VanWyck. After her stellar performance, offers from all the major studios poured in, and Charisse became the hottest property in Hollywood. An unknown actress with no formal training, she shocked the film industry when she won the Oscar for Best Actress that year. Mariette Hoskins also won the coveted award for her brilliant screenplay. The movie, rather than being presented as a thriller or horror movie, was hailed as a historical drama championing the cause of feminism.
The following November, Mariette returned to Harborview to spend the holidays with her family. While she was there, she found in the drawer of her bedroom night table a computer printout of her original screenplay for Cry Witch. As she scanned the pages of the script, she was astonished to see how little resemblance it bore to the finished film. Whole scenes had apparently been deleted and new ones added.
"When did all these edits take place?" she asked herself. "And why didn't I notice when the movie was being shot that my screenplay was getting lost along the way?"
At the beginning of January, with the Christmas holidays behind her, Mariette flew back to the West Coast. This time she did not go alone; Gertrude and Wilhelmina went with her. For them, it was a two-week vacation, a Christmas present from Mariette.
"It will be nice to have two weeks of sunshine and clear blue skies!" Gertrude exclaimed, glad for a temporary respite from the cold New England winter weather.
"Don't get your hopes up on seeing sunshine and blue skies," Mariette apologized. "We have a smog problem in L.A., remember?"
"I'd forgotten all about that. Oh well! At least we won't have to worry about freezing temperatures, snow and icy roads."
Unlike her sister, Wilhelmina was not at all concerned with the weather. She wanted to see the famed Southern California sights—with or without sun and blue skies.
"I've made a list of a few of the places I'd like to visit while I'm here," she said, taking a sheet of paper out of her purse. "Mann's Chinese Theatre, the Hollywood Boulevard Walk of Fame, Rodeo Drive, Universal Studios ...."
"I'd just as soon sit on the beach with a good book," her sister said with a weary sigh, knowing that Wilhelmina would run them all ragged during the following two weeks.
"You can read in Massachusetts. This might be our one chance to visit Hollywood."
"I have a surprise for both of you," Mariette announced. "I wasn't going to tell you yet, but it's hard to keep it to myself. We're going to have dinner with Charisse VanWyck at her house in Beverly Hills."
The announcement brought a mixed reaction from the two elderly sisters: Wilhelmina was delighted at the prospect of hobnobbing with Hollywood's brightest new star whereas Gertrude was daunted by the burden of having to decide what she should wear and how she should behave.
The dinner at Charisse's house was held on Friday night. After much thought, Gertrude had decided on a basic black dress (thank you, Coco Chanel). As it turned out, she had a delightful time. She thought Charisse was elegant, gracious and stunningly beautiful. Wilhelmina, on the other hand, was not as impressed by the actress. There was something about the young woman that sent out bad vibes, as they used to say in the Sixties.
Naturally, during the conversation at dinner, the subject of Harborview came up.
"Just when did you live there?" Wilhelmina asked her hostess. "I worked at the library for forty years, and I met just about everyone in town at some time or another."
The question was innocent enough. Wilhelmina had not meant to shed doubt on the actress' claim of having lived in their town. However, Charisse cast a malevolent look at the former librarian, a look that she quickly masked with a false smile.
"I only lived there a short time when I was much younger," the actress replied. "I didn't even have the chance to get a library card, which is probably why you don't remember me."
Wilhelmina would have asked the actress for more details, but Charisse deftly changed the subject.
"What are you two ladies planning on doing while you're in California?" she asked politely.
Previously, sightseeing had been Wilhelmina's favorite topic of conversation, but that evening she was deep in thought, trying to remember the many families who had lived in Harborview, however brief their stay. She just could not recall anyone named VanWyck.
* * *
The following morning at breakfast, Mariette asked, "How about taking a tour of the stars' homes today?"
She had expected her aunt to readily agree; instead, Wilhelmina answered, "I'm feeling a bit tired, probably jetlag. I'd like to stay here and relax. You two go ahead without me."
"We can save the stars' homes for another day," Gertrude quickly offered. "I know how much you'd hate to miss them. Mariette and I can go down to the beach and get some sun, or smog, if that's the case."
Before her sister could change her mind, Gertrude Hoskins ran to the bedroom and grabbed her swimsuit, a towel and the Danielle Steel romance she was currently reading.
"Mariette," Wilhelmina asked, "would you mind very much if I used your computer or made a few phone calls while you two are at the beach?"
The screenwriter eyed her aunt suspiciously.
"You're not tired; you're up to something. What is it?"
Not bothering to deny her niece's accusation, she replied, "I'm not sure. I just have a strange feeling, a hunch. Trust me. If I find out anything, you'll be the first person I'll tell."
* * *
The following week Mariette and her mother went to the beach every day while Wilhemina stayed at home searching for answers.
"How was your day?" Wil asked her sister and niece one evening before dinner.
"Very nice," Gertrude replied. "But I still can't get over feeling that the ocean is on the wrong side of the beach!"
Her aunt was quite cheerful, but Mariette sensed the elderly woman's jovial behavior was only for her mother's benefit. When Gertrude went into the bathroom to take a shower, Mariette questioned her aunt.
"Well, have you made any progress with this mysterious hunch of yours?"
"You're not going to believe what I've learned. In fact, I have difficulty believing it myself."
Mariette waited patiently for her aunt to explain.
"I may be over seventy, but I have a damned good memory. I know the name of nearly everyone who ever lived in Harborview, and VanWyck didn't ring any bells. So I checked. There was no one by that name in the Board of Education records or tax records going back as far as 1920. At the risk of sounding like Stanley Kowalski, I have this lawyer acquaintance. I phoned him, and he had his investigator run a quick check. There was only one Charisse VanWyck on record—a marriage license that dated back to 1911."
"That was a hundred years ago. It's obviously not the same woman," Mariette laughed.
"Hear me out. In 1911, a Charisse VanWyck married a Burgess Eagleton from one of the richest families in New York. He was an old man whose wife had died under mysterious circumstances. Sound familiar?"
"Yes. It sounds a lot like Verity Seymour's story."
"There's more. Charisse VanWyck and Burgess Eagleton went to Europe for a lengthy honeymoon. They came back in April 1912, and as very wealthy people do, they wanted to travel first class, so Eagleton booked passage on the Titanic."
"What happened to them when the Titanic sank?"
"Eagleton went down with the ship, but his wife managed to get to a lifeboat. Once she was back in New York, the widow learned that her husband had an even earlier marriage, one that produced two children, and those children were the heirs to Eagleton's estate."
"I bet that surprised the hell out of the widow!" Mariette laughed.
"The dead man's lawyer wrote an account of his meeting with Charisse Eagleton in his diary. When the widow learned that she wouldn't receive a single penny of her late husband's money, she laughed hysterically. Then she walked away, and—according to the lawyer—disappeared into a fog, never to be seen again."
"Wow! Talk about a strange coincidence."
"It gets even weirder. It had been a bright, sunny day. There was no fog. The mist, as best the lawyer could tell, seemed to spring up at the widow's feet and envelop her."
"You don't really believe that nonsense, do you?"
"Just consider this: Verity Seymour married a rich old man after his wife mysteriously died. She was accused of witchcraft, and on the day she was to be hanged, she disappeared into the morning mist. It was assumed she fled to New York. Two hundred years later in New York, Charisse VanWyck married an older man under similar circumstances, and she, too, later disappeared into a mist. Fast forward, a woman calling herself Charisse VanWyck shows up in California, wanting to play the role of Verity Seymour. She claims to be from Harborview, although there is no record of anyone by that name ever having lived there."
"Just what is it you're suggesting?"
"That Charisse VanWyck is actually Verity Seymour, who was no innocent young woman falsely accused by the early Puritans. I believe she really was and still is a witch."
Mariette did not want to offend her aunt, but she couldn't help laughing at the preposterous notion.
"I'm glad you think your aunt's theory is so amusing."
The voice came from the living room doorway.
"How did you get in here?" Mariette asked the beautiful actress. "The front door was locked."
"Witches don't have to use a door," Wilhelmina sneered.
"Your niece was right," Charisse declared. "You are a smart old woman, much like your Puritan ancestors. I didn't fool them either."
"You admit to being Verity Seymour then?" Mariette asked with amazement.
"Yes. Your aunt discovered much of my story. Of course, she didn't learn of my other marriages, such as the one to Lord Gainsford, the wealthy Tory merchant who fled New York when the American Colonists revolted. That bastard left me penniless when he took his fortune with him back to England."
"What a shame!" Wilhelmina said sarcastically.
"Don't judge me, old woman!" Verity spat. "You exist in an enlightened age that allows women to live much like men, but I was born in a time when women had no more value than cattle. Less, actually, since it was cheaper to replace a wife than it was a cow or horse. For over three hundred years I've married a succession of men, seeking only some small measure of security. And time and time again I've had great fortunes slip through my fingers. Now, for the first time, the fortune is my own. I needn't fear a man gambling my future away on some foolhardy venture or willing it to someone else after his death."
"What about my screenplay?" Mariette asked, suddenly remembering the substantial changes that had been made to her original script. "Did you put a spell on it or something?"
"You must admit my version of events was far more interesting than yours. And it won you an Oscar, as I recall."
Mariette felt cheated. She hated to believe that her most acclaimed work to date had not been her own.
"At last I have what I've always wanted," the witch continued. "Unfortunately, you two know my secret."
"We can't harm you," Mariette protested. "No one would believe us if we announced that you were really Verity Seymour. People would think we were either certifiably insane or pathetic publicity hounds."
"I know that, but you might arouse someone's curiosity. I can't risk any threat, no matter how minimal. You must both disappear so that I'll be safe."
Verity reached into her blazer pocket and brought out a small elder branch. She raised it above her head and spoke a cryptic incantation in ancient Gaelic. A strange, orphic mist appeared, like a wisp of smoke, at the tip of the witch's wand.
"I call forth the mists of time to transport these two women to another year and day where they cannot hurt me."
The mist moved at Verity's command. It encircled Mariette's and Wilhelmina's feet and slowly began to rise and thicken.
"Oh, no, you don't!" Gertrude screamed from behind the actress as she brought a vase down on Verity's head.
When the witch fell to the floor, she dropped her wand, and the mist disappeared.
"Thank you, Mom," Mariette said, throwing her arms around her mother.
"That might take care of the witch temporarily," Wilhelmina said, "but what do we do when she comes to?"
"We should phone the police," Gertrude suggested foolishly.
"And tell them what?" her sister asked. "Even if we claim she broke in here and threatened us, she'll be out on bail before you can say Hocus Pocus."
"You're the smart one in the family. How do people neutralize a witch?"
"Well, in Europe witches were burned at the stake. In England and America, they were hanged. I wouldn't suggest we try either of those methods. I don't want to wind up serving a life sentence for murder, do you?"
"What's that bell, book and candle ceremony all about? Doesn't that break the power of a witch?"
"This isn't the movies, Mariette."
"We better think of something soon," Gertrude announced. "Our guest is waking up."
The three women scampered off to find a means of protection. When Verity came to, she saw them standing around her holding a carving knife, a fire extinguisher and a cast iron frying pan.
"Do you think you can stop me with such crude weapons? I could have destroyed you with a simple spell, but I was merciful. I wanted only to send you through time."
"You can't do either now," Wilhelmina told her. "I've got your wand."
With that said, the older woman snapped the elder branch in two.
"The magic is in me, not in a piece of wood. The wand simply helped to channel my power. Still, it's too much effort to fight you. It will be much easier to simply leave here and go somewhere to start again." Verity stood up, tall and proud, raised her hands and cried, "I call forth the mists of time to transport me hence to a time of safety."
The fog rose and thickened, but before it encompassed the witch, she vanished in time and the three women from Harborview heard Verity's laughter echo through the room.
* * *
Forty years later, Mariette, a mother of two and grandmother of five, was retired and living in her late mother's home in Harborview. She and her husband were hosting the family for Christmas dinner and expected their guests to begin arriving shortly. Her daughter's family was flying in from the West Coast, her son's was driving up from New York and one granddaughter was travelling all the way from London.
"How was your flight?" Mariette asked the fashion model from across the pond.
"Not too bad. I was able to sleep most of the way."
"And how's your career going?"
"Fantastic!" Sierra, her youngest granddaughter, replied enthusiastically. "I've been working with this new designer. She's incredibly talented."
Although Mariette, nearly eighty years old, had little interest in current fashion trends, she paid close attention to her granddaughter's career.
"Just look at some of the dresses she's designed," Sierra said, handing her grandmother an envelope containing photographs of the model posing in front of the Royal Pavilion in Brighton.
"Oh, they're beautiful!" Mariette exclaimed, fascinated by the glamorous, romantic evening gowns.
"She's definitely got a future in the fashion industry!"
The last photograph was one not meant for publication. It was a candid shot of Sierra deep in conversation with a beautiful young woman. Although she had not seen that face in four decades, Mariette had no difficulty recognizing it.
"Charisse VanWyck!" she said to herself.
"That's Beatrix, the designer."
Mariette suddenly understood why Beatrix's clothing line was so appealing: it was bewitched just as her screenplay had been. A spell had been cast upon it so that Verity Seymour could finally have the fortune she had been seeking for centuries.
Is Salem about to disappear into the mists of time? (One can only hope!)
