by Kristy Tate
Cordie had been frustrated with both her daughter and mother—her daughter for planning a destination wedding that she must have known would preclude her mother—and her mother for...well, for quite a lot, actually. Too much to list or even think about, especially when she had so many other things on her mind.
Lexi wiped away the tears on her cheek with the back of her hand. “I guess it’s a good thing Blaine called it off before most of the guests had arrived.”
Cordie wished Blaine had called it off much earlier—sometime after his first date with Lexi would have been nice. But Blaine had never been one to listen to Cordie—or Lexi, for that matter. Curiosity stirred. Even though Cordie was secretly glad Blaine had backed out of the wedding, she couldn’t believe that he had done so. Who could help but love Lexi? Did he honestly expect to find someone sweeter, wittier, or more loving? Cordie knew such a person did not exist unless you counted Jimmy. And fortunately, Blaine had shown zero interest in Jimmy.
Zero interest in almost anyone other than himself. Did he have an interest in someone else? Cordie didn’t know and didn’t want to ask Lexi for fear of setting off another storm of tears.
Lexi snuggled against Cordie as she had as a child. “Tell me about your wedding.”
“You’ve heard it all before,” Cordie said.
“I know, but I want to hear it all again.” She sniffed, straightened, drew up her knees and looped her arms over them. “I need to believe true love can last.”
But darling, your father didn’t last. Cordie couldn’t say this to her heartbroken daughter. Instead, she pulled in a deep breath and began. “We were married in a wooden chapel outside of Redding by my Uncle John.”
“Who was there?”
“My Aunt Meredith, and Uncle John, of course. Your Uncle Weatherford and your Aunt Jeanette.”
“I wish I had known her.”
Cordie nodded, wondering what Lexi and Jeanette would have thought of each other. “Grandma and Grandpa, of course, and Midge and her boyfriend Mark.”
“Mark and Midge—that’s cute.”
“They were cute.”
“But that didn’t last,” Lexi said.
“No.”
“And she never married.”
“Nope.”
“Why, do you think?”
“She likes things just right. Maybe she didn’t find anyone who measured up.”
Lexi snorted. “That’s funny because she carries around that measuring tape.”
“Yeah, she just wants to make sure everything fits in the right place.”
“I thought Blaine and I fit.” Lexi’s voice cracked. “I thought I’d found my right place.”
Cordie rubbed her daughter’s back and stared out at the endless, clear turquoise water. Bali with its thick muggy air, strange chittering birds, and cloudless sky was so different from Northern California’s rugged coast. “Maybe it’s not so much about finding the right place or person. Maybe it’s about creating the right place and becoming the right person.”
“That’s such a mom thing to say,” Lexi said without rancor.
Cordie just shrugged. She didn’t mind sounding like a mom, because she was one. She didn’t expect to ever be anything else.
“THIS IS IT,” EVERETT said without looking at his father. “I’ll take it.”
The realtor, Betsy something, beamed at him and hugged her attaché to her chest. “I’m sure you’ll both love it.”
Frank snorted. “We’re in the middle of nowhere! Just south of Boony-town and east of Hicksville.”
Everett gazed out the window at the wild garden and the achingly empty moors beyond. “It’s called the Lake District, Dad.”
“Lonely-heart District is more like it.” Frank eyed the realtor and frowned because he appreciated pretty things and Betsy-something was not someone to be appreciated.
Betsy bristled. “It’s a sixteenth-century Tudor home with original slate floors and—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, blah, blah, blah...” Frank muttered and stomped through the French doors. He stood at the edge of the stone patio, gazing out at the myriad of sheep grazing in the green rolling hills that lay beyond the thick hedge.
“I apologize for him,” Everett said, dropping his voice because even though his father’s heart was weak, his earing was not. “He didn’t want to leave London, but he can’t be left on his own.” This was probably more than the realtor needed to know but since he wanted to make the village his home—at least until he finished his dissertation—he wanted not only the locals’ good opinions but also their goodwill. Especially since he was going to need help restoring the house and keeping his dad entertained and out of his hair.
Betsy followed Frank out the doors. “Let me show you the gardens. They were designed in the Edwardian period and the labyrinth, while extremely overgrown
“It’s a maze—not a labyrinth,” Everett interrupted her.
Her blank stare told him that she didn’t know the difference—and, quite possibly—had no interested in knowing. He’d seen that look a hundred, if not a thousand, times on his students’ faces. He pressed ahead anyway. “Although both are generally a complex and confusing series of pathways, the two are different. A maze is a complex, branching puzzle that includes choices of path and direction, while a labyrinth has only a single, non-branching path, which leads to the center.”
Frank snorted again. “Excuse him.” He emphasized the two words to tell Everett that he’d overheard his earlier comment. “He doesn’t mean to be so boring.”
“Restoring the maze is top on my priority,” Everett said.
Patricia glanced at her attaché as if she could see through its thick leather at the papers bearing the description of the nearly derelict house. She sighed and may or may have not muttered, “Americans,” under her breath.
“I’m a professor of ancient religions,” Everett told her as if this explained everything.
“JUST TWO WORDS,” MIDGE said, “Aidan Ross.”
“Aidan Ross!” Cordie tried not to smile. She should have known this would happen. “I’m not wandering around for hours just to catch a glimpse of your TV crush.”
The afternoon sun sent a dying beam of light through the antique shop’s dusty window. Across the street was a pub called The Cauldron and beside it stood The Witches Circle. Cordie didn’t know what was sold there, but it didn’t sound like a place she wanted to visit.
“He’s here.” Midge picked a ceramic jug off the table of odds and ends and shook it at Cordie. “Somewhere close by they’re filming The Coven, so they’re all here—Melissa Stewart, Jackson Asley, Turner Hunt.”
“Somewhere, but we don’t know where.” Cordie wrinkled her nose and flipped through clothing on a freestanding rack. Midge was interested in what she called objets d’art for her antique collecting clients. Cordie sought anything whimsical that she could give as gifts. She liked things with a sense of humor, whereas Midge was all about proportions, tones, and something she called “voice,” as if items could not only speak but speak to her directly.
Cordie picked up and then put down a ceramic cow with a goat on top of its back. “I don’t know how you can watch that show,” Cordie said. “It gives me the creeps.”
“I find the witch trials fascinating. I’m surprised you don’t, given how the condemned were your long-lost ancestors.”
“How are they lost? I didn’t lose them. I know exactly where they are.”
“Do you, now? How can you be sure they stayed in their graves?”
“Well, I’m not, but—”
“And those poor women definitely lost—they were all executed, weren’t they? That’s my definition of losing.” Midge set the jug down, picked up a ceramic statue of a dalmatian and turned it over in her hands.
“We should at least drive past your ancestral home,” Midge said.
“You make it sound so regal.”
“It might not be regal, but it’s definitely impressive. Anything that can
survive for four centuries is worth seeing.” Midge set the dalmatian on the table. “Let’s go. Now.”
Cordie smiled, shrugged, and followed Midge through the bell-jingling door to the sidewalk. “I can’t believe anyone would think Devils Burn was a good name for a town.”
“How are towns named?” Midge wondered.
Cordie shivered as a sharp breeze blew in from off the moors. Above them, dark angry clouds gathered like steam billowing above a simmering cauldron. Where were the witches executed? And why? Did it have more to do with political influence than superstition? Or maybe, probably, greed had also played a role. Kill a lone self-supporting woman and what happened to her lands and property? Could a woman in those days even own property? Doubtful.
A motorbike carrying two young people roared down the street, jumped the sidewalk, and nearly plowed into Cordie. She jumped out of the way and fell against a warm broad chest. After regaining her balance, she gave the man a cursory glance before seeking out the couple on the scooter.
Then she did a double take. The man who had caught her was quite possibly the largest man she’d ever seen. A grizzly sort of man with a strong jaw, thick dark hair with a smattering of gray at his temples, and concern etched in his brown eyes.
“You okay?” His accent gave him away. Boston, probably. New England certainly.
Cordie stepped away, although she felt drawn to him. “I’m fin—” her words sputtered when she reached for the bag that should have been on her shoulder. She spotted the couple on the scooter zooming down the street, her bag bouncing in the arms of the girl sitting behind the guy driving.
“Hey!” Cordie took off after them even though they were now half a block ahead of her. As she ran, she heard the man chuckling.
EVERETT HAD BEEN STUDYING the wee-folk for nearly twenty-five years, but he’d never held one in his arms before. Her perfume filled his head, and a silent voice warned him not to drop her. Fragile, soft, elusive. He longed to tighten his grip and keep her there pressed against him, but even at that moment, he knew she would be impossible to keep.
She flashed him a glance of surprise before refocusing on the motorbike. She stiffened, then pulled away. Darting down the sidewalk, she was gone.
The parallel was so symbolic, it made his knees weak. For years now, he’d been researching and writing his thesis about the Druids and now, when one of the wee folk dropped into his arms, he’d failed to keep her.
She zigzagged down the sidewalk, dodging his fellow pedestrians, moving three times as fast as anyone else around her. She wore white linen pants, and pink top, and strappy sandals—definitely not workout clothes. So, why was she running? Curiosity drove him to her.
He caught up to her at the intersection. The anger on her face surprised him.
“They took my purse,” she told him, her dark eyes flashing.
West Coast accent, he guessed. Maybe Seattle, but probably California, although she didn’t look Californian. Aren’t all Californians required to have long blonde hair and tanned skin? But this woman wore her dark hair short—chin length. And her cheeks were creamy white and tinged with pink. Her eyes, though. They snapped at him as if he’d been to blame.
“Do you know them?” she asked.
“Huh, no.” Brilliant. But why would he care if she thought him brilliant or lug-headed?
“I can’t catch up to them,” she said. Her glance told him that she wanted him to go after them.
“And neither can I.” Her sigh told him that she silently agreed, even if she didn’t want to. “What’s in it?”
“My wallet, credit cards...” Her voice trailed away and she gazed up at him with intense violet eyes.
He said the first thing that came to him. “Bummers.”
“Bummers?” She didn’t actually sneer, but he heard the laughter.
“My students often use that word,” he told her. “Strange, I’ve never actually had the opportunity to use it before now.”
“Really? No one’s ever stolen your purse before?”
“That’s probably because I don’t carry a purse.”
“And because of your size,” she said under her breath.
“Size as little to do with it.”
“What?” She rounded on him. “You don’t think anyone would think twice about stealing your purse? If you had one?”
“I don’t think your perpetrators targeted you because you’re small.”
She drew herself up to the unimpressive height of maybe five-five.
“Or because you’re a woman.” He added this because he knew that most women like to blame their victimization on their gender.
“You’re being ridiculous if you don’t think that I was targeted because I’m small and female.”
“I meant that your size and gender might have been considerations, but they most certainly weren’t the only ones.”
She blinked at him.
“More likely, you were targeted because you’re obviously wealthy.”
She rocked back. “What would make you say that?” She held out her hands to show her ringless fingers and wristless watch. “I’m not wearing jewelry.”
He waved at her. “You don’t need jewelry. A thousand tells giveaway who you are. Obviously, you’re American. That’s an important one. Your clothes, your haircut, even your nails—had they been looking that close. I bet your bag alone—even if there was nothing in it—is worth three hundred dollars.”
A curvy redhead with rings on her fingers and an elaborate watch on her wrist caught up to them. “What’s going on?”
“Some kids on a bike stole my bag,” the woman said.
“Aw, poor thing,” the redhead said with a smile.
“Why are you smiling?”
“Because now you are trapped!” the redhead returned.
“What?”
“Without a license, you won’t be driving—I will. And she who steers the car determines the map.”
“That’s bonkers.”
“Bonkers,” Everett muttered with a smile.
“Hey.” She turned on him. “People who use the word bummer don’t get to criticize word choices.”
“Fair enough,” he muttered.
“What’s your name?” the redhead asked him.
“Everett Marks. And you?”
“I’m Midge Havers and this is Cordie Wentworth.”
He grinned. “Even your name sounds expensive.”
“Her maiden name is Chattox.”
Everett’s world went still. Everything around him froze, and the colors faded to black and white. Chattox.
“Are you okay?” Midge touched the man’s arm.
He shook himself. “Sorry.” He squinted at the tiny, dark-haired woman. “Did you say your name is Chattox?”
“My maiden name, yes.” She motioned in the direction that the kids on the bike disappeared. “Shouldn’t someone call the police?”
“Oh, right.” Midge fished through her purse and pulled out her phone. “How do you do that here? Is it still 911?”
He gave her directions before turning his direction back to someone Chattox. She’d been interesting before he’d learned her name, but now that he knew she may be related to the Chattox family, he found her fascinating.
“Let me buy you lunch,” Everett said.
The redhead raised her eyebrows at the Chattox woman. “Cordie?”
“I’m sorry. I want to do whatever I can to retrieve my purse and standing on the street corner or eating lunch in a pub isn’t going to get me my things back.”
Everett took her elbow. “Let me take you to the police station.”
“That sounds threatening,” Midge said with a smile.
“I assure you, I’m not threatening,” he said when Cordie Chattox refused to budge. “You have an interesting name.”
“It’s short for Cordelia,” Midge told him.
“I meant Chattox. That name is famous in these parts.”
Cordie began to move in his direction
. “I’m not a witch—even if my ancestors thought they were.”
He nodded. “What brought you to Lancaster? Were you curious about your ancestors?”
Cordie snorted. “No. Nothing like that.”
“Coming here was my idea,” Midge told him, falling in step behind them. “Well, actually, her mom had the same idea.”
“Her mom?”
Cordie shot her friend a glance that Everett interpreted to say, shut up, because that’s what Midge did.
“If your mom wanted you to come, why didn’t she just come herself?”
“Too many germs,” Cordie told him.
Midge nodded in agreement.
Everett tried to process this. “And what made you want to come?” he asked the redhead.
“I’m an antique dealer.” She flushed a pretty pink and the tick in her eye told him she was lying about something. Maybe she really was an antique dealer, but that wasn’t why she wanted to visit Lancaster. No, there had to be another reason.
“You’re familiar with the Pendle Witch trials,” Everett said.
“Not really,” Cordie told him.
“Although, the TV show has raised a lot of interest,” Midge said.
“And a lot of false information,” Everett said.
Midge slid him a glance. “What do you know about the witch trials?”
Everett paused in front of the Police Station doors. “Quite a bit, actually. If you’d like to meet me for dinner at The Cauldron maybe we could share information.”
