Oberon Boxed Set (Books 1-3) Welcome to Oberon

by P. G. Forte

  Perhaps she should get another cat, she thought, as she waited for the water to boil. She already had one, but Shadow had the leisurely, laid-back temperament typical of most long-haired felines. She would probably be completely happy to catch that mouse for her – just as soon as the mouse indicated his willingness to be caught; perhaps by sauntering up and placing himself actually between Shadow’s paws.

  Too bad she didn’t know of any Indian or Egyptian mouse-headed God she could invoke for guidance. Most religions tended to be in sympathy with such creatures, when they didn’t actually deify them. Catholicism didn’t, of course. But that was no help. Despite eleven years of Catholic schooling Marsha could not actually recall a single saint one could pray to in hopes of being rid of mice. If it were snakes now, she might have tried Saint Patrick. But mice?

  Maybe she should focus her attention on figuring out what lessons she was supposed to be learning here. Mouse energy, after all, was supposed to indicate a need to pay attention to areas in your life you’d been neglecting.

  So what areas had she been neglecting, she asked herself, as she filled the tea infuser with jasmine tea. As if she couldn’t guess. Those traps were sounding better all the time, because it stood to reason that if there were things you were neglecting in your life, it was probably because you didn’t want to pay attention to them in the first place.

  When the tea was ready, she took it out on the back steps. She stared out at the night sky. The air was cool, but she sat with her back against the western wall of the house, absorbing the heat it radiated. All was darkness. The moon was just past half full tonight, but it wasn’t high enough in the sky at present to shed much light into her backyard. The next full moon was due on Friday, which was also the Fall Equinox. If Celeste were alive, Marsha would be going out to the canyon Friday after work to celebrate Mabon, the harvest festival, with a ceremony in the little grove behind the cabin.

  But with Celeste gone, and the cabin occupied, she couldn’t even keep the tradition by herself.

  Of course, if she were still on good terms with Sam, she probably could’ve gone out there Friday night. She didn’t need to use the cabin itself. And there was no reason why he should object to her spending the hour or so she needed to, in the grove. It would have been worth the trip, for the peace she knew it would bring her. Even if it did mean driving back home in the dark.

  But she wouldn’t be asking him now if it were all right with him. Not after the way he’d freaked out so suddenly this evening.

  You think I’m so desperate I have to lure you into some bushes so I can have my way with you?

  Had she said anything to suggest that? She certainly hadn’t meant to. And what the hell was it supposed to mean, anyway? Was he saying he’d have to be desperate to want her? Funny, that’s not the way he’d acted all weekend. And the way he’d kissed her, right before he went all ballistic, hadn’t seemed like a deliberate attempt to seduce her. He’d seemed... content. Perfectly happy to continue doing just what they were doing for a good long while... right up until the point when he’d begun ranting like a mad man about some stupid picnic tables. Picnic tables! Of all things.

  She’d never heard of anyone having a picnic table fetish before, although when it came to sex, she supposed nothing was out of bounds.

  Scritch, scratch, scritch.

  There was no way she could be hearing that damn mouse out here. Which meant the noise was in her head now, urging her to stop neglecting... what? Her sexual needs? Oh, please. Was she supposed to believe there was a picnic table in her future? And why the hell should she take advice from a mouse, anyway? She had damn good reasons for avoiding that kind of relationship. Especially with someone like Sam.

  And that’s why you won’t sleep with me, now? Because of something that happened – how many years ago?

  She hadn’t told him everything, of course. Actually, she hadn’t told him anything that he could’ve understood. Still he’d figured out what she’d been getting at, quick enough. He just could have no clue as to why.

  She thought back to that long ago night in Jamaica. As an introduction to sex, she could hardly have asked for anything more perfect. In fact, everything about the evening had been so romantic, so magical, that it was almost surreal. Like something off a Hollywood sound stage. Palm trees and hot music. Stars blazing in the velvet depths of the sky. Soft sand and warm breezes, and a beautiful stranger with a voice that was just as soft, just as warm and beautiful as the night itself. Jerry. Seventeen years old, tall and slim, as cocky as only a seventeen year-old boy could be. And gorgeous.

  He’d made her feel beautiful. Which, given the shape she’d been in, less than two years after her accident, had been as damn near miraculous as her having survived it. And while that might not have been the best reason for choosing to lose her virginity with someone she’d only just met, it had seemed sufficient at the time – especially once the Kahlua kicked in and made her forget about the need for precaution.

  And oh, she remembered how wonderful it had all felt. Like being submerged in a warm ocean, endless waves of pleasure washing through her. She had good reason to remember, though didn’t she?

  She’d relived it every night in her dreams for months and months afterwards; waking each morning to an aching sense of loss. It finally became so painful, only the fact that she was pregnant could have kept her from finding another cliff to drive off.

  It wasn’t just the physical experience that haunted her. She’d found that out soon enough. Sexual partners weren’t that hard to find, even in a little place like Oberon, so long as she set her sights low enough. But no one she met seemed interested in the kind of soul connection she craved.

  Maybe they weren’t capable of it, or maybe, as Lucy had often claimed, she’d purposely chosen men who were emotionally unavailable – men like Alex – in order to protect herself.

  And so she’d gone on for years and years, wanting to feel that way again, but afraid of it as well. Protected from having to risk herself, simply because she’d never met a man with whom that kind of relationship had been possible. Until now, perhaps.

  Now? Oh, who was she kidding? Sam wasn’t looking for anything meaningful. He’d said it himself this afternoon. If she went to bed with him, she could pretty much count on it being a meaningless physical encounter. At least on his end. And brief, as well. Because, even if he were capable of making her feel the way she wanted to feel, how long could it last? The man lived three thousand miles away!

  Well, at least this time you know his name, she told herself. And at least this time you’re both emotionally stable enough to handle the complications that could arise.

  Or maybe not. He certainly hadn’t seemed all that stable those last few moments before he’d stormed away.

  After that fiasco, no doubt he’d give her a wide berth, for the duration of his stay in Oberon. Just as well, really. She certainly was not going out of her way to see him again. She didn’t need the aggravation. She had Alex for that.

  Scritch... scratch... scritch.

  Tomorrow, she’d take some time at lunch to do a little shopping. Enough was enough. She was definitely buying those traps.

  * * *

  Darcy hung up the phone and turned to stare out the window of her motel room, gazing through darkness at the car lights marking the highway that led out of town. This trip had gotten way more complicated than she’d planned for, she should have been gone by now. But who knew when she’d be able to leave? Especially now that Nick was involved.

  He had to be kidding about keeping her in town until the case was solved though, didn’t he? On the other hand, knowing Nick, maybe he had meant it.

  Truth be told, she was more than a little worried about her former partner. He’d always been something of a wild card. He played things close to the vest, and it was hard to tell what he was up to. And he’d been in one weird mood when she’d seen him this afternoon, that was for sure. She’d known him a lot of years, and been th
rough a lot of really strange stuff with him, and she’d never seen him like this before.

  What did he know? What had he found out that he wasn’t telling her?

  She was beginning to wonder whether Paige hadn’t been right. This was not the Nick she used to know.

  * * *

  Nick sat at the patio table, smoking his way through the new pack of Marlboros he’d bought on his way home and making a serious dent in a twelve pack of beer. The smoke mingled with the smell of jasmine and honeysuckle. It was a very soothing scent. It reminded him of Scout.

  Out in the garden, hidden in the darkness, he could hear the low, mournful challenging sound of cats getting ready to fight. Scout was upstairs right now, sound asleep in their bedroom which faced the garden. He thought about that, and briefly considered doing something to shut the cats up, but finally decided not to bother. It was going to take something a lot louder than a catfight to wake her tonight.

  He thought about that, and for just a moment, the tightness he’d felt in his chest all day seemed to ease. He loved how sleepy she was all the time now, how she could barely keep her eyes open. Loved that she could just curl up anywhere and be asleep in minutes.

  Loved that he was the one who got to watch her sleep.

  His marriage to Lauren had never been like that. But then, his marriage to Lauren had never been a lot of things – good, for instance. They had fought about everything under the sun. Until their entire marriage became one endless argument. Until they could find no other way to relate to one another, nothing else to do in each other’s company. And when he could no longer take the monotony, the yelling, the tears, he simply went to work. And stayed there. For days at a time.

  Lauren could give chapter and verse on the many ways in which he’d failed to measure up to her expectations, but the bottom line was simple. She thought he made a lousy husband and a terrible father, and he couldn’t say she was wrong. His problem with her, however, was even more basic. She wasn’t Scout.

  Of course, that was hardly her fault. He shouldn’t have married her in the first place. But by then he’d given up believing Scout would ever come back, and he wanted so much to be married. He wanted a home and a family of his own. He wanted the kind of life he saw his cousins leading. Which seemed ironic as hell, at the moment. He just hadn’t wanted it with Lauren.

  Marsha was dead wrong about one thing, though. He could remember times in his life when he’d have been perfectly happy to be living a lie. Times when lies were all he wanted. When he had begged for lies, for anything that would keep away the truth. And right now, he wished he could find a lie to tell himself about what he’d seen in that damn folder. Sixteen years of deceit and betrayal. Sixteen years of proof that sometimes love was the biggest lie of all.

  He stubbed out his cigarette. Fuck this shit. He didn’t want to be out here alone any longer. He needed Scout. He needed to hold her close, and somehow, to keep believing that their love was real. Something that could last for years. Something that wouldn’t turn out to be a meaningless sham.

  He was almost to the house when his glance fell on the grill. He thought about last night, and countless nights like it. Thought about years of family and friends gathered together; sharing meals and laughter and love. Rage engulfed him. He seized the grill and threw it over. Picked it up by the legs, and swung it into the wrought iron railing that surrounded the patio. And again – into the side of the house this time. Then the railing again. And again. Until his ears were ringing with the sound of metal striking metal, and the air was thick with ash. Finally, he hurled what was left of it over the railing and into the grass. He stomped off toward the house, and was just reaching to open the glass doors that led to the kitchen, when his mother did it for him.

  Oh, fuck. He’d forgotten she was even here. And she, of course, had never been a heavy sleeper.

  “What’s wrong with you?” she asked him, direct as ever. Kind of like Lucy, that way. But he was not going to start thinking about Lucy right now.

  “Nothing. I knocked over the grill.”

  “You knocked it over?”

  “Yep.” That was his story, and he was sticking to it.

  “Come inside, I’ll make you some tea.”

  “I don’t want any tea, Ma. I’m going to bed.”

  “We’ll have some anyway. I want to talk to you.”

  He groaned as he followed her back into the kitchen and slouched in a chair. While his mother ran water in a saucepan and set it on the stove, he dug the pack of cigarettes back out of his pocket. If he had to deal with any more shit tonight, he could damn well smoke while he did it. There were no ashtrays out, and he didn’t feel like looking for one, so he reached for one of the saucers stacked on the counter behind him, instead. His mother watched with pursed lips, and a disapproving expression as he dropped his spent match into the saucer.

  “When did you start smoking again?” she asked finally.

  Let’s see how she liked the truth. “Since yesterday, Ma. Since I found a friend of mine murdered.”

  “She was a friend?”

  “Yeah, sort of.” Or then again, maybe not.

  “Does she know that?” his mother asked with a nod toward the ceiling. She. Scout. That was nice. That was real friendly. Shit.

  “No. She doesn’t know anything.”

  “Was this woman a friend of hers, too?”

  “No, Ma she wasn’t.” And don’t even think of asking who else she was friends with, ‘cause tonight, I just might tell you. And I don’t think you’ll like it one bit better than I do.

  “So, what’s the matter with her tonight? She doesn’t come down and see what all the noise is about?” She peered at him closely. “Did you two have another fight?”

  “She’s sleeping.”

  “She can sleep through that?”

  “Why not?” He shrugged. “Kate did.”

  “Kate’s room is at the other end of the house,” his mother reminded him. “Besides, she’s always been a very sound sleeper. You know that.”

  “Right. Well, Scout’s a real heavy sleeper too, sometimes.” Especially these times.

  “She take sleeping pills?”

  The water is never going to boil, Nick thought suddenly, and I’m gonna be stuck here answering stupid questions ‘til the sun comes up. “Nope.”

  “She take drugs?”

  “What? No! Of course not.” Jesus Christ. Where the hell was this coming from? He’d figured that waving Darcy in his relatives faces would be enough to keep their attention focused on his behavior. Obviously, he’d underestimated the depth of their distrust in Scout. He didn’t think the conversation could get any more ridiculous, either, but he really should have known his mother better than that.

  “I think she’s an alcoholic.”

  Oh, for God’s sake. “Now, why would you say something like that, Ma? Of course she’s not.”

  “I don’t know about that,” his mother said, meaning she did know. Meaning no one was going to convince her otherwise, either. She shook her head. Her arms were folded across her chest and her mouth was pursed so tight it was a wonder her lips didn’t just implode from the pressure. She had one hip braced against the counter, and she was clearly prepared to argue this right into the ground. And still, that water was never, ever going to come to a boil.

  “Well, I do know, Ma. And you’re wrong.”

  “Oh, what do you know? I’ve seen her, haven’t I? Always with the water or the ice tea. That’s one of the signs, you know. Never drinking when anyone is around, but always carrying something that you could add liquor to without anyone noticing. I know what I’m talking about.”

  “Ma—”

  “And then this morning, right in the middle of Mass, she had to run to the bathroom to be sick.”

  He looked up suddenly. “Scout was sick? She didn’t tell me that.”

  “Said it was because of the body you found.”

  “Uh-huh,” he answered, careful to keep his voice
as neutral as his expression.

  “So, if it’s your friend who was killed, how come she’s the one getting sick?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe because I’m more used to looking at corpses than she is. Ever think of that?”

  “Hmph.” She obviously didn’t like that answer. She lifted the lid of the saucepan to check on the water. Nice try. And then busied herself putting tea bags into two mugs and taking down a tin of biscotti and placing several of them on a plate. Nick lit another cigarette. His mother frowned, but said nothing. She checked the water. Again.

  Give it up, he thought tiredly.

  “Last night she was all the time disappearing into the bathroom. I’ll bet that’s where she hides them.”

  “Them? What them? What the hell are we talking about now?”

  Her bottles, of course. She must have been going in there to refill her glass. A couple of times she looked like she was going to pass out.”

  “She was probably tired. It had been a long day for her.”

  “Tired,” his mother sneered. She checked the pot again, but he could have told her: it isn’t ever gonna fuckin’ boil. “What does she have to be tired about?”

  “Well, what does she have to hide bottles for, either? It’s her house. If she wants to drink, who’s gonna stop her?”

  His mother’s head reared back at that. “Not you?”

  “No, I’m not,” he answered, and then he saw the disbelief on his mother’s face. Well, yes, of course, if Scout really were a secret drinker, he supposed he might have to do something, but— “She’s not an alcoholic, Ma. So the situation is not gonna come up.”

  “Just look in these cabinets. There’s all sorts of liquor in here. You don’t drink all this stuff. And she doesn’t drink anything—she says. So, then why does she have it here?”

  “That’s it. This is ridiculous and I’m not going to stay here and listen to any more of it.” Nick got to his feet and stubbed out his cigarette, and then washed the contents of the saucer down the disposal. “Good night, Ma.” He kissed his mother on the cheek.