The White Raven

by Carrie D. Miller

  He stares at me for a long moment. His jaw finally relaxes, and he takes a deep breath.

  “I’d like to give this a chance,” he says, lacking the bravado of before. He presents his glass to me. I nod in agreement, heart pounding so loudly in my ears that it drowns out the sounds of the restaurant, and clink it with my own.

  Our meals arrive, interrupting the sweetness of the moment. The massive dishes of chicken parmigiana and baked sausage and penne pasta are placed between us, and we stare at each other in dismay. He tells the waiter that we will definitely need to-go boxes. The waiter laughs and says that most people can eat more than they think.

  At the sight of the food, I’m instantly ravenous. “It’s a good thing I’ve only had three mini-muffins today!”

  “I can’t believe you wore white to an Italian restaurant,” Cal chides with a laugh in his eye.

  I hadn’t considered that when picking out blouses. Shrugging, I dig the big spoon into the penne.

  “So, what are we doing after dinner?” I eye him, carefully piling the pasta onto my plate so as not to splatter red sauce on my white blouse.

  “You’ll just have to wait and see. I can’t have you running off if you don’t like what I tell you.”

  I laugh, but he does seem a little nervous.

  From somewhere to my right, I feel a stab of negativity. I don’t turn but use my Sight instead. Miss Perfect Pants is a few tables from us, volleying daggers at me. Her outfit is more elaborate than usual, based on the few times I’ve seen her anyway, and I wouldn’t have thought that possible. Every finger boasts numerous glittering rings that catch the light as she lifts her wine glass to her lips, glowering at me over the rim. The plethora of bangles on her wrist tumble down her arm with such a clamor that I imagine the tables around her will get very annoyed very quickly. It wouldn’t be hard to pick her out in this crowded restaurant; her hot-pink, skin-tight dress stands out and shouts for everyone to take notice, as does her bottle-blonde hair stacked high on her head. But Cal hasn’t noticed her and that pleases me.

  As the waiter packages our leftovers, Cal asks if I want to have another beer or to begin the fun part of our date. I tingle when he uses the word ‘date,’ and I’m sure I’m grinning like a fool. I opt for starting the fun. As we leave, Cal hands the bag of food to the hostess, asking her if she could put it in her refrigerator at home as he will pick it up tomorrow. Suzie brightens at the news that he’s coming to her house until he clarifies that he is stopping by to give her father a bid for his new project. Her face falls, but she’s already agreed to take the food.

  Once on the sidewalk, I turn to him. “She’s got a crush on you, you know.”

  His mouth falls open. “No, she doesn’t! She’s, what? Seventeen?”

  “And you don’t think seventeen-year-old girls ever get crushes on hot older guys?” I ask with an inquisitive eyebrow raise.

  He is visibly embarrassed. “Serious?”

  I nod aggressively, grinning. He shakes his head, astounded.

  As we walk towards the parking lot, he stops abruptly. “So you think I’m hot?” His face is full of mischief.

  Now it’s my turn to be embarrassed, and I pucker my face at him. “Come on.” I wave him forward. “I’m ready for this fun to commence.”

  He leads the way to his truck, which proudly displays his company name, Jacobs Family Plumbing, on the door. I compliment him on the truck but hold my tongue on voicing the commonly held belief that a man with a big truck is compensating for something. Too early for those kind of jokes, I think. He opens the door for me, and I have to climb up to get in.

  Our general direction seems to be southwest, but I’ve not explored the city enough to know if there’s anything ‘fun’ in this direction. I tell him if this thing isn’t extraordinarily fun, then I’m going to be very disappointed. There’s a hint of worry on his face.

  As I stare out my window, his little finger touches my hand, which is resting on the console between us. He closes his hand over mine. I respond with my own little squeeze. The butterflies in my belly have won the battle over the knots, and I realize I’m blushing. How old am I? I inwardly shake my head at myself.

  We haven’t been driving for long when Cal slows. I am staring around in all directions, trying to identify this ‘fun’ thing. He snickers. Ahead, the mast of what appears to be a pirate ship peeks through the trees. As we round the corner, a waterfall multiple stories high and filled with hideously fake blue water cascades down an equally fake mountain. There is a young girl running down the path of the fake mountain, tiny putter in hand, yelling something about being the first to make it to Blackbeard’s ship.

  “We are going mini golfing?” I ask, not hiding my amusement.

  “The eighteenth hole is a pirate ship,” he says with a grin.

  I narrow my eyes at him in scrutiny. “How old are you again?”

  “Shut up,” he says laughingly. He parks the truck and hops out.

  I notice he is coming around the truck so I wait. He opens the door and extends his hand. As I exit the truck, the enormous ship fills my view. I instantly pick out the flaws as my mind compares it to a true pirate ship. I have to remind myself of when and where I am. It’s impressive for what it is, and the kids, of all ages apparently, seem to love it.

  Cal takes hold of my hand again. I am pleased with his boldness.

  “Well?” he asks tentatively.

  I take in the entirety of it. It’s a small amusement complex complete with go-carts, batting cages, arcade, and two courses of mini golf elaborately dressed up with the pirate theme. The face I give him crushes his eager smile.

  “I’m kidding! This does looks like fun. I’ve never done any of this.” I wave my hand at the expanse.

  “Serious?” He pulls me towards the ticket booth. “Then I’ll try to go easy on you.”

  At that moment, I decide that I’m going to cheat.

  “Let’s start with the Blackbeard’s Treasure Hunt course,” he says, handing me a putter. “It’s really meant for little kids but it’s a good place to start since you’ve never done this before.”

  Oh yes, I’m definitely cheating.

  I thoroughly enjoy myself. We laugh from hole to hole, mostly because of my terrible putting executions—miraculously, the ball still goes in. He’s never seen anything like it. Guilt gets the better of me, so I stop cheating after the sixth hole. By the end of the course, my score is almost double his. He finds great humor in this, and I resist the urge to muck with his last putt on eighteen.

  I get slightly better on the second course after some close-quarter tutelage that I string out on purpose. He doesn’t seem to mind when I ask him to show me the proper stance and arm position multiple times.

  It is closing time for the park when he finishes showing me the finer points of swinging a bat. I think he is showing off now and I don’t mind in the slightest. Watching him position himself over home plate and line up for the swing allows me unfettered time to admire his physique.

  “I can’t remember having so much fun!” I gush as we make our way back to his truck. “I’ve never driven a go-cart or played a video game or swung a bat.”

  He stops and looks at me, stunned. “Serious? What cave have you been living in your whole life?”

  “Oh, shut up,” I scoff, grabbing his arm and tugging him forward.

  Once back in my neighborhood, he has to park a few blocks from my house. Someone must be having a party as there are no parking spaces open. We stroll along, chatting aimlessly and sharing trivial tidbits about our lives. We share a favorite color, purple, but differ greatly on the topic of ice cream since I don’t care for it and he professes that he could eat his weight in it on a daily basis.

  “I eat ice cream so I jog. I jog so I can eat ice cream,” he says with a laugh.

  Somehow the conversation turns to child-rearing, and his mood changes quickly.

  “It will be another year before my brother is back from Afghanistan
. He’ll be retiring actually, and I know Will is happy about that although you wouldn’t know it by hearing him talk.” Cal sighs heavily, shaking his head. “Bill and I have very different ideas of what discipline is, and I feel obligated to do what he’d do, which bugs me. It doesn’t work, at least not anymore. Will just seems to get more defiant every day. We used to be pals; I was ‘Cool Uncle Cal,’ but now…”

  I am quiet for too long and he glances at me. “I’m sure the last thing you want to hear about is Will.”

  “Oh, no, no. I’m sorry. I just have nothing to contribute to the conversation. Children are beyond me.” I stop myself before what’s in my head comes out of my mouth. I always found children to be cruel and unrelenting in my experiences with them. Partial blame can be placed on the parents, who teach them hate and intolerance, but in the underdeveloped mind of a child, those values morph into something more diabolical. I shudder at the memory of my head being pinned down in a stream, rocks cutting into my cheek, by a large, brutish boy who was intent on drowning me for my witchery. He and I were both ten.

  As if sensing my distress, Cal gently wraps his hand around mine. His hand is warm and strong; the pleasant sensation pushes away the dark memory. We walk in silence until we reach my gate.

  He sees the aster bush alight and remarks how amazing it looks in the dark. I am thankful that the fairies have quieted at our approach. I’m sure that his compliment has earned him a few more points with them. They had remarked to me how pleased with him they were when they witnessed his handling of the wayward nephew. They had not liked the boy.

  He opens the gate for me. Something scampers across the pebbled walkway in front of us, and he starts. I am always followed by magickal creatures, and many of them have come to live in my yard. They feel safe around me, knowing instinctively that I will protect them when needed, and I welcome their company.

  “I think you have rats,” he says, looking in the direction the creature went.

  “I’ll get Arial right on that.”

  Once on the porch, I push my nerves aside. “Would you like to come up to the rooftop terrace?”

  “You have a rooftop terrace?” He looks at me, surprised. “How? Didn’t think that was possible on these types of houses.”

  “Magick,” I say with a wink, and he rolls his eyes. I discreetly pass my hand over the lock; I forgot the key. With a click, the deadbolt retracts.

  As we enter, muted lighting flicks on in various parts of the shop and illuminates the way up the stairs.

  “That’s a great idea. Motion-sensing lighting.”

  Oops. I do that so automatically that I forget I do it at all. I am relieved he thinks it’s something else entirely. I need to be more careful. It’s not time yet to reveal myself.

  He follows me quietly up the stairs and does not notice that Maggie is trailing him. We pass through the kitchen and to the door on the left side that opens to reveal a narrow staircase, each step illuminated by a small candle.

  “You leave your candles burning? That’s not very safe.”

  I transform the candles into LED versions between the flickers of the flame that obscure his vision just enough. “They’re not real candles.”

  He peers closer. “Oh. Sorry.”

  Feeling his eyes on my backside as we trek up the stairs, I blush at the thought of him assessing my butt. The stairs are steeply pitched, and we must use the railings on each side.

  I push out the screen door and move aside for him to go first. He gasps and exhales an exaggerated ‘wow’ as he looks around.

  The moon’s bright light gives the illusion of being concentrated around the pergola, accentuating it as the focal point. At this time of the year, the trumpet vine’s flowers are in full bloom. The plants’ massive growth over the top of the pergola looks disproportional to the smallish containers they are planted in at each post. In the moonlight, the dark orange blooms appear blood red.

  Two small creatures fly up from the flowerbed on the right and then dive, disappearing below the roof peak. Thankfully, Cal is looking in the opposite direction.

  Behind me, the distant croak and call of my feathered stalker rings out, and I wonder if he’s followed us the whole way. I don’t turn to look for him.

  “Would you care for a drink?” I ask, still standing by the door.

  “How did you do this?” He is still gaping around him.

  “As I said, magick.”

  “Oh, come on, be serious.” He turns to me now, a little annoyed.

  “Answer my question first.”

  “Oh, yeah. What do you have?”

  I rattle off the contents of my small bar. He doesn’t favor any of those and says he’ll just have what I’m having.

  “Okay, I’ll be back in a minute. Feel free to look around.”

  I make our drinks the old fashioned way, with my hands. As I finish, it dawns on me that he’s the first mundane who has been up there, and I mount the stairs as fast as I can. There’s no telling what might jump out at him if I’m not in attendance.

  I don’t immediately see him when I come through the door and I panic slightly, looking around. But he’s in plain sight, sitting on the double chaise under the pergola. I exhale in relief.

  “What did you make us?” he asks as I hand him a highball.

  “Taste it and you tell me.” I sit beside him, my knee bent underneath me so I’m somewhat facing him.

  He takes a healthy sip and puckers. “Ah, gin. My mom used to drink this.” He takes another sip. “I never really cared for it, but this isn’t bad.” He sits back, studying my face.

  “Are those contacts?” he asks.

  “No.”

  “Very cool,” he says, taking another sip. “So, how did you do this?” He waves his free hand around.

  Part of me wants to levitate the river rock coffee table or cause the ring of candles to flame up. If I wanted to run him off, that would probably do it.

  “This portion of the roof was used in the past to hang clothes to dry. I hired an architect and told him what I wanted to do with the space. So this area was reinforced and then it was just a matter of hauling all this up here. Lots of stronger backs than mine.” The part about hiring an architect was true. After he told me what I wanted was impossible, I thanked him for his time and showed him the door.

  He nods approvingly. “Well done. I’m really impressed.” He reaches for my hand and squeezes it. Pleasant tingles race up my arm. “I have to say,” he starts after clearing his throat, “you aren’t like any woman I’ve ever met before.”

  You have no idea. I only smile and can’t help blushing—not from what he’s said but from the gentle rubbing his thumb is doing on the back of my hand.

  I pull my leg from underneath me and make a move to sit against the back of the chaise. He lifts his arm to invite me to lean back against him. I take his offer, snuggling against his side.

  His body is warm, and he smells of bergamot and sandalwood again. The heady scent suits him well. His hand rests on my upper arm, his thumb lightly rubbing the silky fabric of my shirt. We sit like that for some time, and I hear only the sounds of his breathing and my heartbeat. When he speaks, he whispers so as to not cut into the serenity of the moment.

  “This is really nice up here.”

  “It really is. I spend a lot of time here.”

  “You can barely hear any cars.”

  I ‘mmm’ in agreement. I could fall asleep like this.

  “You’re not falling asleep on me, are you?” He moves his body slightly to see my face.

  “Hardly,” I chuckle. “This is just so comfortable.”

  “Agreed,” he says, leaning back again.

  At some point, each of us has set our empty glasses down and our arms get wrapped around each other. My legs have made their way across one of his, and my head is nestled against his neck. His breathing has become as rapid as my own. Warmth has taken over my entire body, and I struggle to keep my arousal in check. He is rubbing, rathe
r firmly, the outside of my leg and his cheek is pressed against the top of my head. I lift my head and our mouths meet instantly.

  My hand moves to his cheek, caressing it as we kiss gently, tentatively. Both my breathing and his have become more ragged, and I move my hand to the nape of his neck, lightly pulling my fingers through his hair. He groans at this and tightens his grip on my hip. I push my lips more firmly against his, and a shockwave travels down my spine when his tongue flicks lightly into my mouth.

  He is kissing me hard, and I respond in kind. His hand leaves my waist and travels into my hair, holding my head firmly as if to keep me from pulling away from his lips, which I have no intention of doing.

  The hand on my hip moves slowly under my blouse to my waist, resting for a moment, as he gauges my response. Receiving no indication that he shouldn’t proceed, he moves his hand upward. His fingers strum fire along my bare skin. I want his hands all over me, and I try to wriggle closer into him which isn’t possible. I hear nothing but the blood pounding in my ears and our uneven breaths. I moan softly as his fingertips travel lightly below my bra.

  The screen door explodes open, and Jo bursts through screaming my name.

  16

  The sound shatters the intensity of our embrace and I jump up, straightening my clothes. Jo is still screaming my name, running towards me. She stops just short of colliding with me and bends over, hands on her knees, puffing painfully. She must have run from her house. I have never seen her in such a state.

  “Jo!” I put my hands on her back. “What is it?” I try to maneuver her to the nearest chair, but she only waves me off as she straightens. Cal is on the other side of her, hands in position to catch her if she collapses. She raises her hand to him also, shaking her head.

  “Aven, please, you have to help my mother.” Jo’s words come between her gasps for breath. Her eyes are locked with mine, full of panic. She looks incredibly old and frail.