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

by P. G. Forte

  “He?” Jesse asked, and she could feel their interest spike. “You have a friend who’s a he?” He gazed at her as if she’d suddenly announced an interest in…sky diving, or alligator wrestling. But no, Marsha decided reluctantly, he’d probably find either of those ideas less incongruous.

  “And what do you mean, he’s staying at the cabin? Where does he usually live?” Frank was far too young to sound so old. Marsha glanced at him uneasily. He sounded like his father. Or maybe even her father. Now there was a chilling thought.

  “He lives in New York,” she said as she turned away from the salad to check on the rice. She’d planned a very simple meal, nothing elaborate. Red beans and rice, grilled vegetables, the salad, and some tortillas, which she’d put in the oven to warm.

  At least she hadn’t gone overboard with cooking. Certainly it wasn’t the kind of dinner that would give anyone the wrong idea. Then she remembered the homemade Sangria chilling in the refrigerator. That might have been a bit over the top, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time.

  “So, does this mean... you’re dating a tourist?” Jesse sounded incredulous. Which was just about the response she figured she could count on getting from anyone who saw them together, or even heard about it later.

  Sam had been way off track this afternoon. She had certainly not been embarrassed. But she knew, far better than he ever could, the kinds of conclusions to which everyone who knew her would jump. She knew the eager speculation she would see gleaming in her friends’ eyes. Knew how those same eyes would darken with sympathetic outrage when it ended. She knew all of it. She’d seen all of it. She just wasn’t sure she was ready to go through it all again.

  “Let’s get this straight. I am not dating anyone. Okay?” It really shouldn’t be too hard for them to fathom this. After all, she hadn’t been out on even one single date since she and their father had divorced. Which meant she hadn’t enjoyed one single romantic interlude in their entire lives. Jeez.

  The thought was so amazingly depressing, she was surprised when her wrist veins didn’t just pop open by themselves. But it still didn’t alter the fact that she was not dating Sam. He was just someone she enjoyed spending time with. That’s all. “I told you,” she said very firmly. “He’s a friend.”

  A friend. She wasn’t sure herself how or when it had happened, but somewhere along the way, a line had been crossed.

  She’d noticed the change during lunch. He was warmer than before, more relaxed somehow, and much less wary of her. And he kept gazing at her with a gentle amusement in his glance that would have spelled real trouble for her, if he’d still been radiating the same level of desire as he had the night before.

  But along with the other changes, she’d been chagrined to discover that the sensual awareness she’d grown accustomed to feeling around him had altered as well. She didn’t think it had diminished, exactly. Or maybe she just didn’t want to admit that it had. She preferred to believe that he had simply locked those feelings away somewhere deep inside him. Someplace she couldn’t sense at all.

  They’d stayed talking at the diner for far too long after they’d finished their lunch. Much longer than he’d planned—something she realized only when he was dropping her back off at the shop.

  “When do you finish up here?” he asked, with a worried look at his watch. He had computer equipment to pick up and drop off. And on top of that, he now had to stop by the station and see Nick, as well. He’d never be able to do everything he had to and still be back before she closed.

  “Look, don’t worry about how long it’s going to take you,” she told him. “I don’t live all that far from here. I’ll walk home. That way you can just bring the van back there whenever you’re done.”

  He shot her an odd look. Hooded, dark, almost predatory, but it was gone again so quickly, she couldn’t be sure she hadn’t just imagined it.

  “Are you sure? I’d hate to put you to any trouble.”

  “It’s no trouble,” she assured him, writing the address down on a piece of scrap paper. She could walk home through the greenbelt, as the intricate network of parks and footpaths that threaded its way through Oberon was called. She got a vivid mental image of herself doing just that, in the warm September twilight. In her vision, she was carrying a couple of grocery sacks, and tingling with a pleasant sense of anticipation. Of course, she thought, as the idea unfolded in her mind. She could stop at the produce stand in the next block after work and pick up some fresh vegetables to grill for dinner.

  Dinner. The lamplight gleaming in his eyes. The pleasant clink of china and silverware. The animated murmur of voices.

  Her fingers fumbled as she removed the car key from her key ring. She trusted him, she reminded herself, as she handed the key over to him. And it was just a car.

  “Just don’t drive too fast, okay?” She laid one palm against the side of the van, adding just a little more power to the shell of protective white light that was already there. “I don’t think it’s used to maneuvering as quickly as you are.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” he answered very politely, his mouth quirking into a small smile. “Anything else I should know about it?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” She paused. “So... when you get back, would you like to stay and have dinner with us?”

  “Us?”

  “My sons and me.”

  “Oh, right. Right.” He nodded, letting out a deep breath and blinking once or twice. And then he smiled at her. “Yes, that sounds wonderful. Thank you.” It was a nice smile. Pleasant. Warm. Friendly.

  She hurried inside then, reluctant to watch him even get into the driver’s seat. She stomped down hard on the images that tried to form in her mind. Images of long, supple fingers making delicate adjustments to the mirrors; sliding caressingly over the steering wheel; cupping the ball of the stick shift in the palm of his hand, with a firm, sure grip.

  She kept herself very busy all afternoon, not thinking about the van. She compiled a grocery list of things to pick up for dinner. She decided what merchandise to discount for Saturday’s sidewalk sale. She picked out a new Enya CD. She could play it this evening. She went over her inventory of beeswax candles, and chose a pair of lemon yellow tapers to fit in her candlestick holders. They’d look perfect on her table. Then she sampled some of Lucy’s new amber- scented massage oil; selected a few sticks of gingerflower incense to use tonight, as well; and finally decided she couldn’t live any longer without a pair of aquamarine, peridot and blue topaz earrings she’d had her eye on for over a month.

  Shopping was a good form of therapy, and less expensive than most. But when she considered the state of her bank account, and her rapidly shrinking profit margin, she was thankful that the afternoon had not dragged itself out any longer than that.

  “So when is this friend supposed to get here?” Frank asked.

  “Any minute now,” Marsha answered casually, listening to the rapidly approaching hum of a familiar engine. “Why don’t you get the door?”

  Sam parked the van in the driveway of the little blue house and checked the address one more time. Not that he doubted for a moment that this was the right place.

  He had never seen this particular shade of teal blue used to paint an entire house before, and until this minute, he wouldn’t have been able to imagine it either. But it worked, of course. He wondered if it was even possible for something to resist falling in line with whatever plans she’d made for it?

  The wood of the fence that bordered the small front yard had been left untreated, and had mellowed to a warm brownish gray that was a near match for the dark taupe of the house trim. The yard itself was a profusion of wildflowers; green and gray-green foliage spangled with white, yellow and pink blossoms in a variety of shapes and sizes. The late evening sun illuminated a haze of dancing dust motes swirling in the air above the garden. Or were they tiny insects? He shook his head. Hell, in this place, they might even be a host of fairies.

  He climbed
the two steps to the door. The screen door was locked. Its wooden frame had the same weathered appearance as the fence. He was just about to knock when the front door was abruptly pulled open from inside by a tall, blue-eyed boy of about twelve.

  “Hello,” the boy said. One of Marsha’s sons, Sam supposed, although his voice was coolly unemotional—nothing at all like his mother’s. And she’d have to be re-born a dozen times before her eyes could ever achieve the frosty glare her son managed so effortlessly. They regarded each other from either side of the screen door that the boy made no move to unlock.

  “Uh, hi. Is your mother around?” Sam watched the boy’s glance rest for an uneasy instant on the jet and silver stud he wore in his ear, and he barely repressed a grin. Marsha’s son also wore an earring, and Sam got the distinct feeling that he didn’t appreciate the common bond.

  “Yes,” the boy admitted at last. “She’s here.”

  “Well, I’m a friend of hers. She invited me to dinner.”

  “I know,” he said, still making no attempt to unlock the door. “She told us.”

  Sam was growing a little impatient with the game. “Look, if you don’t want to let me in, why don’t you at least go tell her I’m here?”

  Sam heard the pounding of footsteps, and then another boy – sliding in socks on the bare wood floor – came to a sudden stop behind the first boy. Sam noted shorter hair, no earring, and a slightly more reckless expression on an otherwise identical face.

  “Hi. Who’re you?” he asked bluntly.

  “Sam. And you are?”

  “I’m Jesse.”

  “Nice to meet you, Jesse. You think either you or your brother could unlock the door for me?”

  “Frank! Get away from the door and let the man in. Now!” Marsha’s voice floated faintly from somewhere in the back of the house. Sam was no longer surprised that she would know what was happening several rooms away. Neither were her sons, apparently. They exchanged a long-suffering glance, and then the first boy – had she called him Frank? – unlatched the hook and eye that fastened the door and stepped back reluctantly into the small entranceway.

  Sam glanced around him as he stepped inside. To the right was the living room. It was a small room, made smaller looking by the clutter of furniture and personal belongings. Two worn leather sofas faced each other in front of the small brick fireplace, and the mantle was crowded with candles and photographs. Several bright abstract paintings were hung on the wall. To the right of the doorway, in a small alcove, stood a rather utilitarian looking desk. Beyond it, an antique brass floor lamp illuminated a comfortable looking oak armchair; its seat and back upholstered in a bold red and black geometric design. A wicker basket next to the chair held books and magazines. The far left corner of the room was taken up with the television, surrounded by stacks of videotapes and games. There was a comfortable, lived-in look to the place, Sam decided at last. But unlike the cabin, or his own apartment, each of which presented the tastes and interests of a single person, this room was more of a collage, in which the various personalities of each of the residents combined and competed with each other.

  It took him a couple of minutes to identify the source of the unease it engendered. And then he got it. He resented having to expand his view of Marsha to include her family. He’d gotten used to having her all to himself over the last couple of days, and the emotion he was experiencing right now felt a little too much like jealousy to be comfortable. He suppressed it ruthlessly, and focused his attention on the two boys who were still regarding him with slightly hostile curiosity.

  “My mom said you guys met this weekend,” Jesse finally volunteered.

  Sam nodded. “Yes, that’s right. At the Coastal Cleanup.”

  “Were you with her yesterday, too?” Frank asked abruptly.

  “Yes.”

  “Thought so.”

  Jesse shot his brother a disparaging glance. “You did not!”

  “Oh, like you knew what I was thinking, right?” Frank scoffed.

  “C’mon, Sam. I’ll show you where Mom is,” Jesse offered, ignoring his brother’s scowl.

  Sam followed Jesse toward the back of the house. He noticed in passing that the dining room table was mostly taken up with a surprisingly advanced computer system.

  “Nice computer,” he commented, taking a closer look. He felt a moment of disorientation when he realized it was the same make and model as the computers in his and Harry’s offices. But the disorientation faded quickly. He was rapidly getting used to such coincidences.

  “My father got it for us,” Frank told him. There was a tone in his voice that Sam could not identify. It could have been pride, but somehow he didn’t think so.

  “The college was getting rid of it, anyway,” Jesse, elaborated. “That’s where he works.”

  “He’s a professor,” Frank offered, the tone a little stronger now, but no more identifiable.

  “Yeah,” Jesse added. “He teaches psychology, or something.”

  “So your mother said.”

  She had not had all that much to say about her ex-husband, but she’d talked about him with the same wry, self-deprecating humor she’d used to describe the aftermath of her car accident. It hadn’t taken a genius to realize that was how she dealt with painful subjects.

  “So, there I was,” she’d said, chuckling at the memory. “Just beginning to get a handle on the fact that all these weird impressions I was getting were actually psychic flashes, right? And I knew he was fooling around. I mean I could practically see it happening in my head, I gave him details, for heaven’s sake! And he still kept insisting that I was being paranoid, that I was being insulting and ridiculous. That I didn’t trust him. Well, of course I didn’t trust him! He was sleeping with I don’t know how many of his students at the time.”

  “So, did he finally admit it? Or did you catch him in the act, or what?”

  She’d sipped at her vanilla chai latte and sighed. “Well, no, actually. We went on like this for several years. He almost had me convinced I was crazy. Then one day, when the boys were only a few years old, he came home from work and announced that he was too confused to be a father, and he wasn’t too sure how he felt about being a husband anymore, either. And that he needed to live alone for a while, to sort things out. And then, well, not to make a long story of it, a short while after that he packed his things and moved in with our babysitter.”

  “That was his idea of being alone?” Sam asked, outraged on her behalf.

  But she merely shrugged.

  “Well, not exactly, but then, Lucy claims Sherry is so totally lacking in personality that living with her is pretty much the same as being alone. But personally, I always thought it was his idea of breaking it to me gently. Of course, as I found out later, he’d already filed for divorce.”

  “That must have been a terrible shock.”

  “It was, at first.” She said, and smiled wryly. “But I adjusted. And now, I can’t imagine why I ever tried to stop him. I should have helped him pack. You have no idea how exhausting it can be to share a bed with someone whose dreams are constantly seeping into your consciousness. Not to mention disconcerting. Especially when those dreams all seem to involve having sex with people you don’t know and wouldn’t expect to be attracted to. When I wasn’t worrying that I was crazy, I was thinking I had to be gay.”

  Sam felt a momentary clutch of disappointment seize him. “You’re not, are you?”

  “It’s kind of too bad I wasn’t. Or that Alex wasn’t. Either way, I might have at least gotten a little vicarious enjoyment from his dreams. As it was, I was just very, very confused.”

  She laughed as she’d said it, but her eyes had a haunted look that pierced his heart. She was too nice a person to be treated so badly. He was surprised by the surge of protective energy running through him. She didn’t deserve to be hurt like that.

  Now, as he followed her son into the kitchen, he was getting angry all over again just thinking about it. She didn�
�t deserve to have her trust betrayed. She didn’t deserve to be lied to, either.

  That ex-husband of hers must be a real rat.

  Yeah? And just what the hell does that make you? It was a good question. Too bad he didn’t have a good answer for it.

  Marsha looked up as Sam and the boys came through the kitchen door. “Great, you’ve met.” She smiled brightly, determined to ignore the tension that surrounded them like fog. Emphasize the positive, that was her motto. Sam had a distant, angry look in his eyes, but she didn’t think it had anything to do with the boys. Which was just as well for him. They might be annoying, but they were still her sons.

  “Nice earrings,” Sam said, his expression softening slightly as he looked at her.

  “Thanks.” The earrings she’d bought today. The only adjustment she’d made to her appearance since lunch. He sure didn’t miss much, did he? “Would you like something to drink? I made Sangria.”

  “Hey, I’ll have some Sangria,” Jesse said promptly.

  “Mom?” Frank stared at her as if he wondered who she was. “Since when do you drink wine?”

  Marsha ignored both of her sons and concentrated on Sam instead. Her friend. Who was smiling his new, friendly smile as he answered, “That sounds perfect.”

  A nice smile. Really nice.

  And she would ignore the disappointment that threatened to spoil her good mood, too, she decided, as she poured the chilled wine into two glasses. Because after all, what could be better than having made a new friend?

  You could never have too many friends, after all. True friendship was real and lasting. So much more important than any transient love affair could ever be.

  She was just handing Sam one of the glasses, when she saw him glance at the counter behind her, a startled expression on his face. Turning her head, she saw the damn mouse, grown unaccountably bold, busily nibbling on one of the carrots that hadn’t made it into the salad.

  Didn’t it figure he would show up now, just in time to ruin her dinner? Ahimsa had its limits. Perhaps it was time to re-think her entire stand on pacifism.