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showed the show’s logo, Samantha on a broomstick in front of a crescent moon. Sarah walked close enough to touch the smooth bronze.
    “I should have brought my camera. I didn’t know I was going sightseeing tonight.”
    “We can come back another night,” James said. “What else would you like to see?”
    Sarah felt herself blush hot along her jaw. He was already thinking about taking her walking another night, and she was embarrassed at how happy she was to hear it. She chided herself, repeating every reason she had about why she needed to be alone right now. It was too soon after her divorce. She didn’t choose the right men—her marriage was proof enough of that. And this man, James, was beautiful, intelligent, a professor of her favorite subject (studying John Keats, her favorite poet, no less), and yet, as they walked in the cool Salem night, comforted by the sea breeze, he stood a distance away, as if he loved her company but didn’t care much for anything else about her.
    She saw him watching her, that curious expression again, so she pulled herself from her reverie and considered what else she wanted to see around town. They were close to her house at Lappin Park—she lived a few blocks down Washington Street, near Essex Street and the Salem Inn—but she wasn’t ready to go home. 
    “I’ve been wanting to see the Salem Witch Museum,” she said.
    James stared at the half-moon in the sky. “The Salem Witch Museum,” he said, as if he had never heard the name before. He stepped closer to her, inspecting her again the way he had in front of his house. She began to think she made a mistake walking home with him after all. She looked around, but there were plenty of people out that autumn night, dining at the restaurants and bars that populated the town. He must have realized he was making her nervous, she thought, because he took a step back, giving her space.
    “They close at five,” he said, “but I’d be happy to show you where it is.”
    They continued down Church Street, passing the Lyceum Bar and Grill with its brick walls and whitewashed Romanesque arches hanging over the windows, the white-potted topiaries in front. He stopped so she could get a better look.
    “There are many people like your landlady who believe ghosts from the witch trials haunt Salem,” he said. “Some believe that Bridget Bishop, one of the first women executed in 1692, haunts this very building.”
    Sarah stepped close to the brick wall and touched her hands to the rough exterior. A couple leaving the Lyceum smiled at her as they walked by, and she felt silly, as if they thought she was trying to sense any ghosts in the building. When she felt a spark of static—the same energy she felt when she touched her landlady—she pulled her hands away. She turned to James and he seemed somber, as he had in front of his house. She tried to lighten the mood. 
    “Do you believe ghosts from the witch trials haunt Salem?” she asked. 
    She meant to be light, friendly, even a little flirty with the handsome, blond, strong-looking professor. Her resolution to wait had slipped away into the static electricity in her hands. Even though she had said to Jennifer, less than an hour before, that she didn’t want any man asking her out right now. Even though she had reasons not to flirt with any man. But suddenly here was James and all she could think about was how he was looking at her, as if he wanted to know her, or as if he already knew her, she couldn’t tell. She had to admit, though she didn’t want to, that she enjoyed his attention. She enjoyed sightseeing around Salem with him. Something, somewhere deep inside that was not logical, felt as if there were an invisible line reeling from him to her and back again, catching her and holding her to him. It wasn’t a frightening sensation. This was a light, fluttery line, like silk thread.
    As he watched her, his expression softened and he relaxed into an easy smile. Taking this