by Lisa Kleypas
“Does she ever mention me?” Justine had asked Rosemary recently.
“She asks how you are,” Rosemary had said. “But she’s as stubborn as ever. Until you agree to join the coven, she says there’s nothing for you to discuss.”
“What do you think I should do?”
“I believe you should decide what’s best for yourself,” Rosemary had said, “and don’t allow anyone, even your mother, to pressure you into making a commitment you’re not ready for. I’ve said as much to Marigold. If you don’t feel called to it, you shouldn’t join.”
“What if I never feel ready?”
“Then the coven will go on as we always have. Maybe it’s fate’s way of telling us that we’re not ready for the power of thirteen.”
Sage had agreed. “No one can tell you what your path is,” she had told Justine. “But someday you’ll discover it.” She had smiled pensively. “And it won’t be at all what you expected.”
In her twenties, Sage had met and married Neil Winterson, a lighthouse keeper, and had gone to live on Cauldron Island with him. The lighthouse had been built at the turn of the century to guide shipping in the active waters of Boundary Pass, between Washington State and British Columbia. Every night Neil had climbed the curving staircase to the glass cupola, and had lit the Fresnel kerosene lamp, made with forty pieces of French crystal. Once lit, it could be seen from fourteen miles away. In heavy fog, Neil and Sage had taken turns ringing the lighthouse’s thousand-pound bell to warn approaching ships.
Sage and Neil’s marriage had been a happy one despite their disappointment over not having children. Five years after the wedding, Neil had gone out in a small wooden dory in good weather, and had never returned. His boat was found capsized, and his body was later found still wearing a life jacket. Most likely a gust of wind had knocked the dory over, and Neil hadn’t been able to right it.
The members of the coven had all helped Sage through her mourning, some of them living with her at the lighthouse for short periods of time. Sage had assumed her husband’s job as lightkeeper, and she also taught a half dozen children in the one-room schoolhouse on the island.
Approximately a year after Neil’s death, Rosemary had come to stay at the lighthouse for a week. Sage had asked her to stay another week, and another, and somehow that visit had turned into a lifetime together. “Love will break your heart,” Sage had once told Justine, “but love can also mend it. Not many things in life are both the cause and the cure.”
The phone rang twice, and someone picked up. “Hello?” came Sage’s familiar voice, sweetly frayed like antique lace and faded roses.
“Sage, it’s me.”
“I was expecting your call. What’s the trouble?”
“Why do you assume there’s trouble?”
“I was thinking about you last night. And I saw blood on the moon. Tell me what’s happened.”
Justine blinked and frowned. A red-hazed moon was a bad sign. She wanted to contradict Sage and tell her that nothing had happened, and the sign had nothing to do with her. But she was more than a little worried that it might.
“Sage,” she asked carefully, “do you know anything about a curse that someone might have cast on me? A geas?”
The silence was as thick as molten tar.
“A geas,” Sage finally repeated in a meditative tone. “What in the world would give you that idea, dear?”
“You’re not fooling me, Sage. You’re an even worse liar than I am. Tell me what you know.”
“Some conversations,” Sage observed, “aren’t meant to fly through the air between telephones. They’re meant to happen in a civilized way with people talking face-to-face.”
Justine had sometimes found Sage’s evasiveness charming. However, this was not one of those occasions. “Some conversations have to happen on the phone because some people are busy working.”
“We haven’t seen you in so long,” Sage said wistfully. “It’s been months since you visited.”
“It’s been three weeks.” Anxiety spread inside her like an ink stain. “Sage, you have to tell me about this geas. What exactly is it? And what would happen if I tried to break it?”
She heard the rush of an indrawn breath.
“Don’t do anything rash, Justine. There are things you’re not aware of.”
“Obviously.”
“You’re a novice at spell-casting. If you tried to lift a geas, you could go from the frying pan right into the fire.”
“Yeah, see, that’s what I’m pissed about. Why are my only choices ‘frying pan’ or ‘fire’? Why have you been keeping this from me? Didn’t it occur to you that I had a right to know?”
“Where did you get this idea of a geas in the first place?”
Although Justine wanted to blurt out that she’d found out the truth from the Triodecad, she managed to hold her tongue.
The silence rode out until Sage asked, “Have you spoken with Marigold?”
Justine’s eyes widened. “Does my mother know about this, too? Damn it, Sage, tell me what’s going on!”
“Wait a moment. Rosemary has just come in from the garden.”
Justine heard a muffled conference. She fidgeted and drummed her fingers on the desk. “Sage?” she asked impatiently, but there was no reply. She stood, pacing around the tiny office, the cell phone clamped to her ear.
Finally she heard Rosemary’s voice. “Hello, Justine. I hear you’re asking about a geas, of all things. What an upsetting word.”
“It’s more than a word, Rosemary. It’s a curse.”
“Not always.”
“Are you saying a geas is a good thing?”
“No. But it’s not necessarily a bad thing.”
“Just tell me yes or no: Did someone bind a geas to me?”
“I can’t confirm or deny anything until we can talk face-to-face.”
“That means yes,” Justine said bitterly. “It always means yes when someone won’t confirm or deny something.”
The revelation that Rosemary and Sage had both known about the geas hurt even more than Justine would have believed. All the times she had sat at their kitchen table and confided in them, told them how lonely she was, how much she longed to find love and was afraid it would never happen. And they had said nothing, even though they had known the truth: It was never going to happen because she’d been cursed.
“Come to the island and we’ll talk,” Rosemary said.
“Sure, I’ll just drop everything. It’s not like I have a business to run.”
Rosemary’s tone was reproachful. “Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Justine.”
“Neither does a lifelong curse.” Yanking out her ponytail elastic, Justine scrubbed her fingers through her hair and pressed her palm against her tense forehead. “I’ll come tomorrow morning after breakfast. It’s supposed to be good weather—I’ll take the kayak.”
“We’ll look forward to seeing you. We’ll have lunch.” A brittle pause. “You haven’t … tried anything, have you?”
“What, like breaking the geas?” Justine asked with careful blandness. “Is there a spell that could do that?”
“It would be a difficult feat to accomplish on one’s own. Especially for someone who hasn’t practiced magic any more than you have. However, if someone did manage such a thing, the consequences could be severe. A geas is a powerful enchantment. Creating or breaking one exacts a heavy price.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’ll talk tomorrow,” Rosemary said.
A defiant frown worked its way across Justine’s face as the call ended.
It was one thing to pay a price for a mistake that she’d made on her own, but it was unbelievably unfair to have to pay a price for something that another person had done to her.
* * *
To Zoë’s delight, Alex entered the inn’s kitchen while she and Justine were preparing trays for afternoon tea. He was dressed casually in jeans and a T-shirt, his hiking boots coated with dried mud from
having spent part of the day walking around the undeveloped Dream Lake property.
“My floor,” Justine squeaked, seeing the track of footprints across the wood planks she had mopped that morning.
“Sorry.” Alex had headed directly for Zoë, who was arranging plates of miniature fruit tarts on a silver tray. He hugged her from behind, one arm crossing high over her chest, the other around her waist. “I’ll clean it up before I leave,” he told Justine over his shoulder, flashing an apologetic grin. Ducking his head, he kissed the side of Zoë’s neck.
“Want a little tart?” Zoë asked, leaning back against him.
“Yes.” Looking over her shoulder at the tray, he added, “I’ll take one of those, too.”
Zoë laughed and tried to swat him, and he crushed his mouth over hers in an ardent kiss. When she tried to end the kiss, he sank his hand into her blond curls, anchoring her in place as he sealed their mouths more tightly.
“Jeez,” Justine said, “get a room.” But she was pleased to see both of them so happy.
Alex had been known for the quality of his work, and for his ability to get a project done on time, but he’d also had a well-deserved reputation as a cynical and dissolute loner, a borderline alcoholic. It would not have been an exaggeration to call the change in him miraculous.
When the relationship had started, Justine had been honest with Zoë about her concerns, advising her not to try to save a man like Alex, who’d already been divorced once and appeared to be heading downhill. Zoë had agreed; you couldn’t save a man like that. But you could be there for him if he was trying to save himself.
Only time would tell if Alex’s transformation would hold. It was clear, however, that he was determined to be a good man for Zoë, the kind of man he thought she deserved.
“How did it go today?” Zoë asked breathlessly, when Alex took his mouth from hers.
He smiled down at her and lifted one of the tarts from the tray. “The deal looks good. I’m cautiously optimistic.”
Justine knew that “cautiously optimistic” for Alex was the equivalent of wild enthusiasm for anyone else. “So what did you think about Jason Black and his entourage?” she asked.
“Kind of an odd group,” Alex said. “All of them wound a little tight. Fast-talking and intense, and trying like hell to impress Jason.” Alex devoured the tart in a single bite and paused to savor it, his eyes closing briefly. “God, that’s good,” he told Zoë.
Zoë smiled at him. “I’ll get you some coffee.”
“Thanks, sweetheart.”
“And try one of those chocolate scones,” Zoë added. “Usually I drizzle a glaze over them, but this time—”
“Stop feeding him,” Justine commanded. “I want to hear more about Jason Black.”
Alex picked up a chocolate scone, his gaze daring her to protest. “He’s all business,” he said. “Very smart, very direct. When he thinks an idea sucks, he lets you know. And when he makes a decision, that’s it. No consensus-building, no compromise, just make it happen. Like most guys at his level, he’s a control freak.”
“Maybe you’ll come to like him later,” Zoë said, bringing him a cup of coffee.
Alex smiled at her optimism and took a swallow of coffee. “I like his project,” he said, “and I like his money. That’s not a bad start.” He sent an amused glance to Justine, who was filling a stainless-steel samovar with water. “You may be interested to know that he wants the Dream Lake cottage.”
“Wants to buy it?” Justine asked, her brows lifting.
Alex nodded. “We had the meeting there and had sandwiches brought in for lunch, and then he asked why the cottage isn’t part of the Dream Lake parcel. So I told him it didn’t belong to me, I was just renting it.” Alex paused to finish the last bite of the chocolate scone, and washed it down with more coffee. “He asked me who owned it, at which point everyone pulled out their phones and tablets. Because whatever he wants, they all make sure he gets it.”
A wide grin broke out on Justine’s face. “What happened when you told him I’m the owner?”
“He looked at me like I’d just turned into a two-headed monkey. Your investment on that place is about to pay off big-time. Don’t sell it for the first number they give you.”
“I may not sell it at all,” Justine said. “With that location, after the institute is built, I could charge a fortune for rent.”
Alex grinned and told Zoë, “Looks like it’s time for us to move.”
Justine shook her head and laughed. “No, as long as Zoë wants to stay there, it’s yours. But I figure you’ll want to move eventually.”
Catching hold of Zoë again, Alex ducked his dark head and said close to her ear, “You want me to build you a house? A little Victorian that looks like a wedding cake?”
Zoë turned to brush her lips against his and smiled as she picked up the tray. “For the next couple of years, you’re going to be more than busy enough developing the Dream Lake property.”
“Let me carry that for you,” Alex said.
“No, just open the door. But please carry Justine’s samovar; it’s really heavy.”
Quickly Alex moved to comply. As he came to take the water-filled container from Justine, she said, “Thanks, Alex.”
He paused to rest the samovar on the counter and said, “About the cottage—don’t hold back on selling it because of Zoë and me. We’ll be happy wherever we live. And it would be a well-deserved windfall, after all you’ve done to help Zoë.”
Justine smiled at him. “I’ll think about it. I’m having dinner with Jason tonight. I’m sure he’ll bring it up.”
Surprise flickered in Alex’s eyes. “He didn’t mention that.” After a brief hesitation, he added, “Be careful, Justine.”
“Why?”
“After spending most of a day around Jason, I can guarantee you he’s the type who arranges the game so he wins every time. I’m going ahead with the business deal, but if I thought about it too much, it would give me the yips.”
“Me, too,” Justine confessed sheepishly.
Alex glanced at her with an arched brow. He hefted the samovar. “Why are you having dinner with him, then?”
“He said he liked me.”
“And?”
“The moment after he said it, I had this feeling that I sort of … almost … liked him, too.”
“Women,” Alex said feelingly, and carried the samovar from the kitchen.
Nine
Most of Jason’s romantic relationships had evolved from situations of convenient proximity … a female executive he’d met at a game-developer conference, or a journalist who’d interviewed him, or a voice actress who’d had to do two hundred hours of recording for an Inari game.
He never let anyone set him up on a blind date, having learned long ago that it was the surest way to kill a friendship. In fact, Jason disliked the very premise of a date, which amounted to making the commitment of an entire evening with someone you didn’t know and most likely wouldn’t want to see again.
His relationships tended to be short-lived. He always ended them by giving the woman a piece of jewelry as a salve for hurt feelings, and it usually worked, except for a couple of times when a woman had told him that the parting gift felt like payment for services rendered. “A fuck-off bracelet,” the last one had called it sourly, sliding the Tiffany diamond bangle onto her slender arm. But she hadn’t given it back.
Justine Hoffman was the first woman he’d met in a long time who he suspected would probably tell him where to shove it, if he gave her a fuck-off present.
Maybe it was just that he’d become so accustomed to receiving admiring attention from women, from having his way too easily and too often, that it was a novelty to encounter a woman who had no desire to become involved with him. But he couldn’t stop thinking about Justine. He kept remembering the way she laughed, throaty and natural, tapering down to a luminous grin. Irresistible.
Jason had already broken one of his personal rule
s: The woman always had to come to him. Since Justine clearly wasn’t going to do that, he would have to do the pursuing. Another rule was that when he was interested in a woman, he would learn as much as possible about her while at the same time revealing as little as possible about himself. Justine would demand mutual risk, mutual honesty. He wasn’t certain how much he could lower his guard, or to what extent he was capable of opening up to anyone. If he wanted her, however, he would have to try. He’d have to unlock doors that had been closed for so long, he would have trouble even finding the key.
It would be a hell of a lot easier just to walk away. He was good at walking away from things he wanted, ignoring temptation, letting the rational part of his brain override emotion. But once in a blue moon, he encountered something or someone he wanted too badly to deny.
Jason went to the doorstep of the cottage behind the inn at one minute before seven, and knocked.
Justine opened the door, all silk and slender curves. “Hi.” Her smiling gaze ran over him. “Come in.”
Jason obeyed, so mesmerized that he nearly tripped over the threshold. She was wearing a short halter dress made of a thin knit fabric, in a shade of peachy-beige that had given him a brief and startling impression of nudity. Her feet were bare, the toenails polished with pink sparkles. Her hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail with one lock wrapped around the fastener.
“I just need to put my shoes on,” Justine said.
Still staring, Jason responded with a wordless nod as she went into an adjoining room. A miniature hook at the top of her dress zipper had been left undone. He couldn’t help imagining pulling the zipper down, the slithering sound as the fabric opened and fell away from the smooth flesh of her back.
Trying to distract himself from erotic thoughts, he focused on his surroundings. The cottage was small and immaculate. The walls and furniture were painted in pastels, the plump sofa piled with oversized pillows covered in striped or flowered fabric, some trimmed with tassels. It was an unapologetically feminine room, but the distressed paint and touches of antique-shop finds made it comfortable and inviting.
