Missouri Magic

by Charlotte Hubbard

  Then she stepped closer, her gaze shifting between Katherine and her niece. Justine was shaking, yet he sensed she didn’t feel the chill in the air.

  “You’re ganging up on me, trying to take away my home!” she said in a keening voice. With her pale nightclothes rippling around her, and her dark, piercing eyes, she resembled an eerie, avenging angel come to haunt them. “Ambrose inherited the business because he was the son, and Rachel got a man with her looks, and all I have to show for a lifetime of duty and devotion to my father is this house! You won’t take it away from me! I won’t let you drive me away!”

  Chapter 21

  Where did such frightening ideas come from? Celesta pondered this question long into the night, after Justine finally succumbed to a doctored toddy Damon convinced her to drink. His was the only voice she would listen to. The hand that supposedly set a match to her beloved dimers was the one that had led her inside and held the warm cup to her lips.

  “I’ll go now,” he murmured when she was sleeping peacefully. “She might not want me here when she wakes up. Daylight will probably restore her faculties, and she’ll be upset if I’ve stayed the night.”

  Katherine had whimpered a reluctant agreement, and was probably lying wide-eyed in her bed, afraid of what the coming weeks might bring. She who once feared being evicted by her surly sister-in-law now stood accused of trying to turn the tables.

  Celesta understood her stunned, aching confusion perfectly: she, too, was part of the conspiracy to oust Justine, the way her failing aunt saw it. With the excitement of restoring Ransom Manor to the dignity it deserved, an idea Katherine began and Justine then embraced and asked Celesta to help with, it would seem impossible that any of them would want to be rid of the other. Yet the eldest Ransom was convinced she was being forced from her lifelong home.

  Where had this notion come from? Celesta stared blankly at the candle on Grandfather’s secretary, summoning help from his spirit, or from Sally, or from anyone who could shed light on this perplexing, potentially dangerous situation. People based their beliefs on what they saw and heard, reshaping their convictions each day as they learned new evidence or gained new insight.

  Celesta believed Damon Frye loved her, because of the way he spoke and acted and touched her ...yet the only time he’d mentioned love was when she’d prompted him. Was she mistaken, disillusioned because her heart perceived his intentions in a way that prevented her mind from focusing on the facts?

  Emotions were chameleons, changing with the circumstances to protect themselves. Who could say what would become of their passionate attachment now that they lived apart? Who could say what Justine was trying to protect—or trying to reveal—with her ravings? It seemed to Celesta that ever since the fire, they had no answers for what she did. They only had more questions.

  The next week was a trying one. Justine, near normal in the mornings, would allow Celesta to accompany her into town as though they’d shopped together for years. It was a colorful walk these days, among flame-colored sweet gums and crimson maples edged with frost. They could see their breath as they descended the hill; the mist rising from the river fascinated them with its mysterious beauty. Squirrels scampered by, their cheeks crammed with acorns, and life followed its natural rhythm as the earth around them prepared for winter.

  As each day wore on, however, Justine’s mood disintegrated. She talked to herself, or to her father’s portrait—sometimes when Celesta was present, and sometimes in French. Her schedule became erratic, and for the first time since she’d come to live there, Katherine commented on dusty tables and cobwebs in the ceiling corners.

  “She’s spending more and more time alone, listening to that phonograph,” her worried aunt whispered as they prepared meals together. “And by evening it seems she can barely stand to look at us, as though she still believes we’re going to force her out. Am I going crazy, or have you noticed these things, too?”

  Celesta grasped Katherine’s hand and could only nod. It was a terrible ordeal, to witness the fading of an intelligent woman’s mind, like living inside a watch that was wound too tightly. How long before the next disaster? When—and how—would it end?

  These were horrible questions to ponder, and Celesta felt herself drawn to Damon because despite his obvious concern, he radiated a comforting calmness. Justine felt it, too. She allowed him to tuck her into bed now, after he sat with her while she sipped her drugged milk . . . such childlike acceptance of his care, from a woman who refused to see a doctor, who weeks ago wouldn’t have been seen in her nightclothes—by a man who wasn’t family, no less!

  The evening he completed the installation of the upstairs bathroom fixtures, Justine stood on tiptoe to kiss him good night. After she was asleep, he joined Katherine and Celesta in the parlor, visibly shaken.

  “I...I don’t know why that kiss upset me,” he confided quietly. “We’re certainly friends, and there was nothing sexual about it. I just feel funny. If only we could understand what’s going on inside her mind.”

  He beckoned with an outstretched hand, and Celesta walked outside with him. The trees were rustling in a wind that rolled gray clouds across the azure sky, shadowing the moon and then allowing it to beam down upon them, the round, golden ruler of the night.

  “It’s going to rain,” she murmured as she sniffed the air.

  “It’s going to storm,” he corrected, pointing to the first jagged streak of lightning. “Are you afraid? Do you want me to stay?”

  Celesta gave him a wry smile. “Oh, I’d like you to stay, but not because the weather bothers me. If it weren’t for worrying about Justine, I’d be up watching the thunder and lightning, just for the joy of it. It’s very . . . invigorating.”

  “If it weren’t for Justine, I’d be peeling your clothes off right now,” he said as he pulled her close. “Storms excite me—all that untamed energy unleashed with every flash and crackle. But sure as we’d come together, she’d be pounding on the door. She’s got that uncanny sense about her now.”

  “I know,” Celesta whispered. “I’ve noticed it, too.”

  He gazed at her uplifted face, pale in the moonlight, and when she closed her eyes his best intentions blew away in the wind. Damon kissed her long and hard, holding her as though he’d squeeze the life from her. She was warm and restless, answering his pent-up longings with guttural moans that made his desire run rampant.

  “I need you tonight,” he rasped against her ear, “but I can’t take you in there to—”

  “So take me out here. Katherine and Ambrose used the gazebo when they were newlyweds,” she blurted.

  Where was her resolve? Had she been so starved for his affection these past weeks that one kiss could make her risk such a rendezvous? It was starting to rain. The thunder was a continuous rumble now, and by the time they finished she’d be soaking wet. Katherine would be in the parlor, waiting up for her. Justine might awaken, still groggy from her nightcap, but she’d know what they’d been doing.

  He watched the indecision flicker across her face and scooped her into his arms before she could change her mind. ‘‘Celesta, have you ever done something you knew you’d regret, but that you couldn’t live without?” he whispered.

  She nodded, her heart beating double-time as he carried her down the stone pathway.

  “Have you ever felt scared and empty and worthless, knowing a vital part of your life was missing?” he asked urgently. “Knowing that what you so desperately want to give someone is the very thing that might ruin her life?”

  Damon’s question frightened her, but there was no ignoring the mesmerizing eyes above hers, eyes so deep and black with desire they seemed like chasms of midnight she was destined to tumble into. “Wh-what do you mean?” she mumbled.

  “I mean I have to have you. Like the thunder needs the lightning . . . like the earth requires the moon to give it ebb and flow, and the sun to light it,” he said as he set her down inside the gazebo. “It’s not a matter of choice anymore. I n
eed you, now and for always, Celesta.”

  Her mouth fell open, and then he was kissing her fervently, loosening her hair and letting the pins clatter onto the wooden floor. The wind whistled through the latticework, yet she didn’t feel its chill. The swing behind them creaked on its chains as though ghosts were wrestling in it, but the wildness of the night only heightened the ache inside her. So long she’d languished without his attentions and stolen kisses! Damon Frye was all that mattered now, and the consequences of their loving would have to tend to themselves.

  When he saw surrender in her eyes, he rejoiced: Celesta was as needy as he, and impetuous enough to meet the challenges of their deliciously dangerous relationship. Her fingers flew nimbly down the front of his shirt and trousers. Her lips were parted with wanting, and her glorious raven hair whipped around her naked shoulders, a sight as bewitching as any he could conjure up in his dreams. Only a woman who shared his mad passions could behave this freely—and she was his!

  Their clothing cushioned them as they eased onto the floor and stretched out. She clutched him as though she might drown, and he washed over her with kisses that left a tingling trail when the breeze found its dampness. No words were needed as they came together with a flash of lightning that lit the gazebo around them.

  Rain drummed the roof, and Damon laughed, burying his face in her hair.’’ Climb on and take me, lady,” he commanded hoarsely.

  Celesta obeyed, reveling in the passions that played upon his moonlit face. So darkly handsome as her hair fell around his shoulders, so virile and powerful he was, moving inside her with thrusts as urgent as her own. “Shall I take you all the way to paradise, Mr. Frye?” she quipped, no longer afraid he’d respond as he had the first time they’d talked this way.

  “Farther,” he breathed, and then he coaxed her forward to kiss the breasts that pooled on either side of his face. “Take me so far I won’t know where I am—and I won’t care, except that I’m with you.”

  His words shot through her like a lightning bolt. With a soundless cry, she arched against him until he filled the voids within her, so long denied, with a rush of warmth.

  She fell against him, complete.

  He cradled her close, whole again, until the moment they moved apart and his cycle of need for her began again, over and over.

  Celesta wasn’t sure how long they drifted with each other, but she gradually became aware that her

  back was wet and that the floor was hard beneath her knees. She shivered and started to get up, but Damon draped an arm over her and kissed her with a sweet laziness that made her want to stay here all night.

  “Marry me, Celesta,” he murmured. “It’s the only way we’ll have enough of each other. It’s the only way . . . please say you will.”

  Her heart lurched, caught between panic and joy. Damon Frye was the answer to her every need physically, but—but she knew shockingly little about him, save that he once abandoned Lucy Bates and that he could charm anything he wanted out of any woman he met. Treacherous credentials, and yet—

  “Yes, yes I will,” she heard herself whisper.

  He crushed her to his chest, too overwhelmed to speak. Celesta knew his demons yet she accepted him, a man who presented more problems than solutions. He kissed her tenderly to seal their vow, and then eased her up. “You’d better go in now,” he said, “but if you want me to go with you, to speak with your aunt and justify your . . . appearance, I will.”

  She chuckled and started pulling her wrinkled clothing on. “I’ll go up the back stairs. It’ll be all right.”

  Damon rose to frame her face with his hands, gazing intently at her. “It’ll be more than all right. It’ll be wonderful, Mrs. Frye.”

  Somehow she dressed, and somehow she trotted through the rain beside him, and watched from the doorway until the clatter of his horse’s hooves were muffled by the downpour, but she wasn’t touching ground. Mrs. Frye! Damon had finally declared himself, and now everything else in her life would fall into place. There was nothing they couldn’t face together, no hardship they couldn’t overcome.

  Celesta removed her shoes and eased up the narrow back stairs, holding her soggy, crumpled skirts. Her soaked hair was clinging to her shoulders, and she wished the water was hooked up so that she could luxuriate in a steaming tub and relive the most startling, joyous moment of her life.

  A shadow moved above her, and she looked up to the second-floor landing. Justine was standing there, blocking her way. Her arms were folded, and her condemnation was plainly visible, even in the unlit corridor.

  “Just like your mother,” she stated, sounding as sane and judgmental as when Celesta had first come to live here.

  Her long finger snaked out to take aim, and Celesta sucked in her breath. “I—you don’t understand—we—”

  “I understand perfectly. I’ve seen everything,” she replied caustically. “Just like Rachel, you stole my lover, Celesta. And just like your mother, you’re going to burn in hell for it.”

  Chapter 22

  Long into the night Celesta lay awake, breathing too hard, her throat so dry it clicked when she swallowed.

  . . . you stole my lover . . . you’re going to burn in hell for it.

  How much of Justine’s accusation was true? Surely Damon wasn’t her aging aunt’s lover, and yet ... they’d grown undeniably close. And even if she could attribute this part of the eerie pronouncement to fanciful imagination, Celesta couldn’t ignore the implications of the final half. Just like your mother, you’re going to burn in hell for it. Did these vindictive words reflect only the jealousy of a jilted sister from twenty-some years ago, or had Justine taken action? Had she somehow poisoned Mama’s sugar to wreak the final revenge for marrying handsome Ian Montgomery?

  This is ridiculous, Celesta chided herself as she slipped her wrapper on over her nightgown. She’s a half-crazy old woman, sleepwalking after drinking doctored milk. And I’m letting her drive me crazy.

  Once in the alcove, she scribbled a few characters’ names and traits for a Sally Sharpe novel. Focusing her mind on a new challenge for Damon Dare and the Girl Detective settled her somewhat, but she was still too agitated to start a story. Come breakfast, she might find herself on the street for defying Justine’s dictates about Damon, and she should be thinking of ways to support herself. These dimers certainly wouldn’t pay her rent elsewhere!

  Instead, she saw Damon Frye sweeping her up in his invincible arms, the raging storm as his backdrop, and heard his love words over and over . . . it’s no longer a matter of choice . . . it’s the only way we’ll get enough of each other . . . marry me, Celesta.

  As though she’d invoked his presence, the rain washed down the alcove window in sheets. Acorns pelted the side of the house, driven by a wind that shrieked through the trees. What was it he’d said about ruining her life? She didn’t know—and didn’t want to know, since lately there seemed so many roads to ruination.

  Celesta glanced down at the sheet she’d been scribbling on, and from out of her despair came a giggle that put Justine’s threats in perspective. Below a few character names and plot incidents, over and over, she had written Mrs. Damon Frye . . . Celesta Montgomery Frye . . . Celesta and Damon Frye . . .

  What else could possibly matter?

  Katherine, who quaked at the first hint of thunder, had lavender half-moons beneath her eyes at breakfast. When it took her longer than usual to roll the biscuits and retrieve the smoking bacon from the stove, Justine was quick to comment.

  “Did it storm last night? Perhaps you should let Mr. Frye fix you a toddy before bed,” she said as she snapped her linen napkin over her lap. “I slept like a baby. Didn’t hear a thing.”

  Celesta busied herself carrying the jam and honey to the table, her jaws clenched. To think this infuriating woman’s threats had kept her awake half the night, and she didn’t even remember making them! As they sat down to eat she glanced at Katherine, but her younger aunt had apparently been too preoccupied by the
storm to overhear the confrontation on the back stairs.

  “You’ve always been deaf when it suited you, and so was your brother,” Katherine replied wearily. “And by the looks of the lawn, we’ll be all day raking up the leaves and acorns.”

  “The three of us will make short work of them after Celesta and I return from town,” she said pertly. Then she smiled at them as she lavished peach jam over half of a steaming biscuit. “I don’t know what sort of elixir Mr. Frye mixes into my milk, but I’m stronger than I’ve been in weeks. It’s good he’s decided to stay in town now, because I feel so foxy today I might just give Celesta a little competition if he were here.”

  Celesta’s mouth dropped open, but she caught herself before she blurted words she’d regret. Her aunt apparently thought Damon vacated of his own free will . . . and why spoil her carefree mood, when afternoon would find her getting progressively more restless and disagreeable? “It was probably snake oil,” she mumbled. “You’ve said many times that he’s not to be trusted.”

  Justine laughed, which brought dozens of tiny lines to light around her eyes and mouth, yet she appeared younger—and prettier—than Celesta could ever remember seeing her. On their way into town, she chatted about how much she was enjoying her redecorated room and her new Edison records.

  “Now all I need is a fresh Sally Sharpe story,” she said spryly. Then she sobered a bit and placed her hand on Celesta’s elbow just as they reached the edge of the business district. “Will you answer me honestly if I ask you something, dear? I hate to upset your aunt about this.”

  She gazed apprehensively into Justine’s bright brown eyes. “All right.”