Personally, I’d always hated it when I saw parents doing that to their twins, and so I vowed not to even if mine ended up being the same sex. But it wasn’t worth arguing with Sydney over.
“Anyway,” I said, not wanting to get too sidetracked, “I’d love to see you guys, but Connor’s cousin Lucas is with us, and I don’t really want to abandon him while we go out. Rain check?”
“Sure,” she said. “We would’ve had to get a late start anyway, since Anthony doesn’t get off work until eight.”
I made a noncommittal comment, and after that we said our goodbyes and hung up. In the next few weeks I’d have to try to clear out some time to get together with her, even if it was just for lunch, but this weekend was already over-committed. I set down the phone, peered in the mirror, and realized I needed to do a little clean-up work to get ready for dinner. After meeting with the elders and then my aunt, I was looking just a little drained. Thank the Goddess for blush and lip gloss.
* * *
We took Lucas to Nic’s in old town Cottonwood, since it seemed like the kind of place he’d enjoy. He did look right at home in the old-world atmosphere of the place, coaxing Connor into sharing a bottle of chianti after I swore it was okay for them to drink in front of me, then ordering grilled rib-eye and crab legs as if he did that sort of thing every day. Who knows — maybe he did.
Midway through dinner, though, his phone rang, and after shooting an apologetic glance at both of us, he pulled his cell out of his pocket, scanned the display briefly, and said, “I need to take this.”
Connor and I both murmured, “Go ahead,” and Lucas put the phone to his ear.
“Hey, Lester, you have something for me?” A pause. “Really? In Williams? And the address? Great, text it to me. Thanks for everything.” He ended the call and returned to the phone to his pocket, dark eyes twinkling. “Well, I have some good news for you two. That was Lester, the private investigator I told you about. Turns out Angela’s grandmother did move out of Flagstaff, but she didn’t go very far. She’s over in Williams.”
I knew the name, but I’d never been there. Williams was in the Wilcox zone. Now, of course, I had nothing preventing me from going there. “That is great news, Lucas.”
“Yeah, the reason I was having a hard time turning up anything about her was that apparently she changed her name after your grandfather passed away. She’s going by her maiden name now. Jane Bryant. Lester’s texting me her address, and I’ll forward it to you.”
“That was fast,” Connor said. Something in his voice sounded tense, almost nervous, as if he wasn’t as pleased as I’d thought he would be.
“Well, Lester’s good.” Lucas raised his glass of chianti toward me, and then Connor. “Here’s to getting one step closer to your goal.”
I had to toast with my water glass, but I found I didn’t mind so much. Now the only trick would be figuring out the best time to go see Jane Bryant, the grandmother I had never met.
* * *
We saw Lucas off to his B&B, then drove back up to Jerome in silence. Since coming through the rear of the house was almost impossible right now because of the construction, I parked on the street — pregnancy had turned me into the designated driver — and we went in through the front entrance. After I shut the door, I said, “You’re very quiet.”
“Am I?”
“I thought you’d be happy that Lucas found my grandmother. You’re sure not acting like it.”
“I am. Really. It’s just — ” He hesitated, eyes downcast, as if he was studying the patterns of the rug beneath his feet to gain some sort of insight.
“Just what?” I asked impatiently.
“It’s just — are you ready to hear what she has to say? What if she tells you things about your father that you really don’t want to hear?”
“I’m touched that you want to protect me, Connor, but I can handle it. Even if she tells me he was a horrible person, that he made a bet that he could bang a McAllister and get away with it — or whatever — it’s still better than not knowing anything. And maybe she’ll know where he is, if he’s still alive. I have to find out for sure. Can you understand that?”
“Of course I do,” he replied, moving closer so he could take me in his arms and pull me close. “I forget what it must have been like for you, knowing nothing all those years. I had just the opposite problem — I often wished I could forget my father, forget what an asshole he was.”
I snuggled into Connor’s embrace, smelling the warm, familiar scent of his skin, feeling the strength of his arms around me. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
“It’s over. Luckily, in his eyes I was expendable, so he didn’t pay a lot of attention to me. Damon was the one he focused all his energy on.”
And see how well that turned out, I thought. “Well, joke’s on him, considering you ended up as primus anyway.”
Connor didn’t reply, and I realized I’d stuck my foot in it with that response. “Sorry,” I said quickly. “That came out wrong.”
“It’s okay. I’ve also been known develop foot-in-mouth disease on occasion.” He let go of me, but gently, and not before planting a soft kiss on my forehead. “It’s been a long day.”
Had it ever. Hard to believe that it was only a little after eight. “So I say we veg out in front of the TV for a while and then go to bed. We can figure out what to do about visiting my grandmother tomorrow.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
And that’s exactly what we did — headed to the family room, booted up Netflix, and watched World War Z. Strangely, it made me feel a little better. I might have a curse hanging over my head, but at least I wasn’t trying to fight off a planet filled with zombies.
* * *
Since cooking breakfast was out of the question, the next morning we went down the hill and met Lucas for breakfast. I figured it couldn’t hurt to ask for a little advice.
“So should I call, or just show up on her doorstep?” I asked after taking a sip of orange juice.
Both Connor and Lucas were drinking juice as well, since the smell of coffee still made me want to throw up. Once or twice as the waitress passed by our table with a pot in her hand, going to refill someone’s cup, I felt a slight twinge of nausea, but it quickly passed. The problem was having it right in front of me, or filling the house with its scent as it was brewing.
“I wouldn’t call,” Lucas said, setting down his glass of grapefruit juice. “After all, she’s taken some pains to disappear, to disconnect herself from the Wilcox clan. Calling and claiming to be her long-lost granddaughter might just make her take off again.”
I hadn’t thought of it that way. Neither had Connor, apparently; he nodded as he listened to Lucas’ advice, but then remarked,
“And knocking on her door is better?”
“Well, at least then you have the element of surprise.”
True. “Okay, so we drive out to Williams and hope she’s there. What if she isn’t?”
Connor shrugged. “Then we take a look around, grab something to eat. It’s a cute little town.”
I wasn’t sure I could take such a setback quite that calmly, but he had a point. Sometimes you just gotta make lemonade.
“I’d say go ahead and give it a try today,” Lucas told us. “I don’t see how waiting is really going to help you.”
Connor and I exchanged a glance. Yes, I’d known that we would be driving out to Williams, and soon, but…today? Was I mentally prepared for that?
“Well….” I hedged.
Perhaps misunderstanding my hesitation — or not; Lucas seemed to be a pretty shrewd judge of character behind that air of breezy cheerfulness — he said, “And don’t worry about me. I did book a second night at the B&B, just in case, but I don’t have to stay. What you two need to do is far more important.”
There didn’t seem to be any way to argue with that. I shifted in the booth, turning toward Connor. “Are you okay with it?”
“Of course,” he
replied at once. “As Lucas said, this is important. Even if it turns out that your grandmother doesn’t think she really knows anything, she could say something that makes sense to us, even if it doesn’t make sense to her.”
That seemed to clinch it. “Okay,” I said. “We’ll go this afternoon.”
* * *
It was a longish drive, a little more than an hour and a half. We wound down the western slopes of Mingus Mountain, moving toward Prescott, and then turned due north to go through Chino Valley and hit I-40 in Ash Fork. Connor drove, since he knew I was tense enough without having to maneuver over unfamiliar roads. Well, some of it was unfamiliar; of course I’d been to Prescott and even Chino Valley, but no farther north than that, because then you’d start to run into Wilcox territory.
Funny how those arbitrary lines had now been more or less erased.
We pulled off I-40 into Williams, running along Route 66. Connor was right — the downtown area did look fun, full of restored buildings and shops and restaurants. In other words, not so different from the historic section of Flagstaff, although much smaller. From there we took a road that wound through a modest residential section, mostly of vintage homes that seemed to date from around the turn of the twentieth century, a little newer than most of Jerome, although not by much. The houses got bigger as we drove up the hill, and eventually Connor stopped his FJ Cruiser in front of a large farmhouse-style home painted white, with green shutters. The front lawn was brilliantly green, and bordered by carefully tended roses blooming in shades of red and yellow and pink.
All in all, it looked very respectable, the sort of place you might expect your grandmother to live.
Connor laid his hand on top of mine. “You ready for this?”
“Probably not,” I admitted. “But we’re here. If she slams the door in my face, we can turn around and go back downtown, and you can take me to that diner we passed and buy me a chocolate milkshake.”
He smiled, heavy lashes almost concealing the green of his eyes. “Deal.”
We got out and made our way to the front door. As we approached, I noticed that the dried-flower wreath on the front door had a simple wooden cross hanging in the middle of it. I glanced over at Connor, lifting my eyebrows, and he only shrugged.
Just do it, Angela, I told myself. So I reached out and pushed the doorbell.
I could hear the familiar Westminster chimes sequence from somewhere inside the house. A few minutes later the door opened, and an older woman with soft white hair pulled up into an elegant French twist opened the door. The afternoon sunlight hit the gold cross around her neck and made it gleam as if lit from within.
“Yes?” she said uncertainly, looking from me to Connor.
Since we’d put on “good” clothes to have breakfast with Lucas, we looked pretty respectable, Connor in jeans and a short-sleeved olive green shirt, me in a pair of my new jeans and a pretty sleeveless top with sequins and embroidery around the neckline. I could tell this woman was trying to puzzle out what we wanted, since we obviously didn’t look like your usual solicitor.
The words seemed to stick in my throat, but somehow I forced them out. “Mrs. Bryant?”
“Yes?”
Okay, so we definitely had the right house. Not that I’d really doubted the information Lucas’ P.I. had passed along. “My name is Angela — Angela McAllister. And this is my fiancé, Connor Wilcox.”
At the name “Wilcox,” she put a hand to her throat and took a step back. Then her gaze hardened as she seemed to really stop and study Connor’s face, looking for the family resemblance. At last she said, her voice much colder than it had been, “Yes, you do look like one of them.”
This was not going well, to say the least. I didn’t know what kind of bad blood existed between this woman and the rest of the Wilcox clan, but I couldn’t let it get in the way of our purpose for being here. “Mrs. Bryant,” I said desperately. “I really need to talk to you. I’m — that is, I think I’m your granddaughter.”
Dead silence. Her sharp blue eyes shifted, taking in my own countenance, seeming to study my features. For a second or two I thought I saw the thin lines of her mouth soften, but then she pulled herself up, saying, “Well, come in, I suppose. I certainly don’t want to have this conversation on the front porch where the neighbors can hear.”
An ungracious invitation, but one I’d accept nonetheless. I stepped inside, Connor hesitating before he followed me. I could tell he really wanted to be anyplace but here, and I couldn’t blame him. At least he could comfort himself that he was only related to this woman by marriage, whereas she was the only grandparent I had left.
She led us into a formal living room, the kind of stiff, uncomfortable space, with its faux antique furniture, floral patterns, and ugly landscapes in oil on the walls, that I really couldn’t stand. Just being there made me feel claustrophobic. But I made myself sit down on the couch, and Connor took a seat next to me, his hand reaching out to hold mine, to offer what reassurance he could.
I did notice that even with all the knickknacks sitting around, on the mantel and the side tables and in the curio cabinet in one corner, not one photograph was in sight, not one image of a husband, children…nothing. That disappointed me, because I’d been hoping for some visual evidence to corroborate Andre’s identity.
No offer of a glass of water or anything like that. She sat down on a wingback chair covered in faded French blue velvet, then said, “How did you find me? Was it…witchcraft?” The word was uttered with such distaste you’d think she’d just mentioned child pornography or something.
“Actually, no,” Connor said, his voice hard. “My cousin Lucas hired a private investigator to track you down.”
She sniffed. “Lucas. Lucky Lucas. And how is he? Same as always, I would imagine.”
“Very well. Thank you for asking.” Polite words, but I could tell from the edge to his tone that he might as well have said “fuck you for asking.”
“Mrs. Bryant” — there was no way I could call her “grandmother” — “was Andre Wilcox your son?”
“Was?” she repeated. “Is, as far as I know. At least, no one’s contacted me to tell me otherwise.”
A chill seemed to inch its way down my spine and then spread out, sending cold to every limb, even though it was quite a warm day, even here in Williams. “You mean…he’s alive?”
“Why wouldn’t he be?” she said irritably. “He’s only forty-five years old, you know. To someone your age, I suppose that sounds like one foot in the grave, but I assure you it isn’t.”
“No, of course not,” I agreed. Anything to keep her talking. “So…where is he? Because he never came back to Flagstaff after — that is, after….” I faltered, unsure as to how much she knew about her son’s time in California.
“After he came back from California?” she asked. My eyes must have widened, because she went on, satisfaction at startling me clear in her voice, “Yes, he told me where he’d gone. At the time, I thought it was a good thing. At least it got him away from that Indian girl.”
“‘Indian girl’?” I echoed. “Do you mean Marie Wilcox?”
“Yes, her. Never could see what he saw in her, but he was just crazy about her, kept going on about how they were going to get married. I told him not to be silly, that he could do better than her, but he wouldn’t listen. Always was hung up on all that Navajo nonsense, just because his father’s mother was an Indian.”
Connor had already told me that he was fairly certain Andre’s grandmother had been Navajo, so that wasn’t much of a surprise. That my father identified with them so closely was, however. Then again, with a mother like this, I could see why he might have tried to cling to a part of the family that was more welcoming, for whatever reason.
I glanced over at Connor, but I could tell from his expression that he preferred to have me do the talking, that otherwise he might have a hard time remaining civil. Not that I could blame him. This Jane Bryant was no one I really wanted to claim
as a relation. Unfortunately, it seemed we were connected by blood, whether I liked it or not.
“Did he say why he was going to California?”
“Not really. He went up to the reservation a good bit, visiting relations, I suppose. I don’t know, because I never felt the need to meet that part of my husband’s family. The Wilcoxes were bad enough.”
Beside me, I could feel Connor stir, and I laid a calming hand on his knee. “So Andre went to the reservation….”
“Yes, he went this one last time, was gone for more than a week, then came back saying he had to go to California, that there was something he had to do.”
I could feel my eyebrows shooting up. So this impulse to travel to California — possibly for no other reason than to seek out my mother — had come from the reservation? “Did he say anything else?”
“No, only that he didn’t know how long he’d be gone. His father tried talking to him, told him the Santiagos would never allow a Wilcox in their territory, but Andre said that wouldn’t be an issue. And so he went.” She shrugged her thin shoulders. “At the time I wasn’t too worried. I was just glad he was away from that Marie person. But then he didn’t come back…and he didn’t come back. And then his father got sick.” Her blue eyes, in their frame of fine, wrinkled skin, narrowed. “Pancreatic cancer. Much good your witch healers were for that!” she added with venom, glaring at Connor.
“They’re not infallible,” he said quietly. “And cancer is the worst, especially something like pancreatic. I’m sure they did everything they could.”
“Well, obviously they didn’t, because he died, and left me alone, surrounded by witches.” She transferred her scowl to me. “McAllister. So you’re a witch, too, I suppose.”
I nodded. Her lack of surprise at seeing a Wilcox engaged to a McAllister mystified me somewhat, but I certainly wasn’t going to inquire about that. “So…if you never heard from him, how do you know your son really is still alive?”
Darkmoon (The Witches of Cleopatra Hill Book 3) Page 17
