More Than Magic (Books of the Kindling)

by Donna June Cooper

  “I mean, I’ve seen what the bad stuff can do,” he pressed on. “To the people who take it, to their kids, and to other people’s kids.” Like Alex. “Magic fairy dust that’s actually good for you seems like a great alternative.”

  Nick knew a lot of what he had done with the DEA over the past years—walking the edge and pushing too hard—was to somehow fix what had happened to his brother, to his mom—hell, to his whole family—all because of one meth head. Nothing he could do would fix it, but he could also never bring himself to walk away. Maybe his body had just decided for him. And this was it—this one last case. One way or another he was going to solve the damn thing.

  It was an odd contrast when she straightened again, the obvious guilt on her face and the plump cookie with a white frosting star in her hand—a hand that was shaking a bit as she set the cookie down on a plate.

  “What would you like to drink with your cookies?” she asked, controlling herself better now. “Tea or milk? I could make some coffee?”

  “Nothing stronger? You look like you could use a drink.”

  “Not right now. We have some good wines, and there’s some old brandy around here somewhere if— But…no, you probably shouldn’t have alcohol.”

  “What? Does that magic powder you gave me interact badly with the stuff?”

  She took a deep breath and started to frost another cookie. He was surprised they weren’t crumbling in her hands with the tension he saw in her back. Obviously he was on the right track. The word “magic” seemed to wind her up tighter and tighter. Something was going to give.

  “No, but I think whatever it is you have is still— I think you need to talk to your doctor.”

  Nick frowned. She was still worried about his health when he was standing here practically telling her he knew what was going on.

  His head told him to keep pressing, his gut told him he was totally off target, and his body told him to do something with her on a handy flat surface—soon. And this kitchen had a lot of handy flat surfaces.

  “I think I’ll take just a little of that brandy. My Nan always takes some brandy and honey as a hot drink for medicinal purposes. Can’t hurt too much. She’s still kicking at eighty-seven.”

  Oh, that hit a soft spot for sure. Grace spun around and stormed across the kitchen. She leaned over a lower cabinet and rummaged around inside, coming up with a rather dusty bottle and surreptitiously swiping at her eyes. She pulled two colorful mugs off a tree on the counter and set them down with the bottle.

  “Feel free to make yourself a t-toddy. There’s honey on the c-counter there. You can use the microwave if you like.”

  She was fighting back tears as she returned to the cookies.

  Nick had dealt with tears before. A lot of perps cried when they were pinned down and confronted with reality, but this was different.

  Gah! He was getting soft and brandy wasn’t going to help. But if he were in charge of building her a toddy—

  “So, two mugs. Did you want some as well?”

  Grace nodded without a sound, still furiously working on the cookies. Her stars were looking a little lopsided.

  “Well, no microwave for me. Nan insists on boiling the water. She thinks microwaving it changed the taste. How strong do you want yours?”

  There was a sniff. “I have n-no idea.”

  “Hey, I’ve upset you or something. What did I say?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing. It’s— I’m just a bit over-tired and I got some good news about a friend and—” Grace leaned back against the counter, wiping her eyes openly now. “And Pops did love a good t-toddy.” She managed a watery smile. “And he didn’t use the m-microwave either.”

  All of Nick’s protective instincts roared into full alert and clapped on their armor.

  Well, this was not going the way he planned at all. If she was acting, Hollywood needed to sign her up because she was better at it than he was.

  “Right. Your grandfather. Today’s his birthday. I’m sorry.” He put some water in the electric kettle. “But good news, that’s good, right?”

  “Very good. A little girl in complete remission from cancer. So this is what you’d call a good cry.”

  Nick leaned against the counter, facing her. Part of him didn’t want to keep digging away at her. Part of him was reacting to the word “remission”, and not in a good way. And part of him just wanted to solve this damn puzzle before he was in too deep. “A patient of yours?”

  She didn’t go pale or fall apart. She simply crossed her arms. “Jamie.”

  “Yes. Jamie’s a big fan and staunch defender of ‘doctor-doctor’ Grace.”

  She smiled. “I’m not practicing.”

  “Doesn’t make you any less a doctor, does it?”

  “Jamie talks too much.”

  “Ya think?”

  Grace laughed. Damn. The woman had a really great laugh. He cleared his throat and looked down at his shoes, then went back to finishing the toddies.

  “Pooka.” Grace’s voice was firm and Nick heard the hound retreat to his bed.

  “Speaking of our Jamie… I’m a bit embarrassed to ask, but is it appropriate to refer to Jamie as a he or a she?” he asked.

  She laughed again and the sound sparkled through him like champagne. He was just digging himself deeper with every damn word.

  “Well, I think Jamie would say, ‘If you can’t tell, it don’t matter’,” she responded. “Not yet anyway.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Where is our Jamie, by the way?” she asked. “Usually I’d be fighting to keep enough of these for our trick-or-treaters.”

  “Out there constructing some unsolvable puzzle for me to ponder tonight.” Nick nodded toward the sunroom.

  Jamie’s precious notebook full of puzzles—encrypted messages as well as the ciphers and keys used to create them, from what glimpses he had gotten of it—was a cryptologist’s dream. The guys in D.C. would be ecstatic to get their hands on even a few pages. And if they had been lucky and intercepted the next message, the key might be sitting out there in a notebook that Jamie wouldn’t let him actually touch, unless Grace said it was all right. If Grace was protecting the information in that notebook for some reason, he could only think of one.

  Grace closed the space between them. Nick tried hard not to react as she leaned over and her subtle perfume wafted around him, but every cell in his body stood at attention. He held his breath, hoping she wouldn’t notice.

  “She doesn’t want to be pigeon-holed. She thinks girls get a raw deal in school and is determined not to be short-changed,” Grace whispered. “But please don’t let on that you know. You’ll lose any ground you’ve gained with your interest in her as a person, not as a girl.”

  She returned to the cookies and Nick willed his body to stand down. He had planned on putting a bit of brandy in his mug, but decided, after that reaction, to keep his head clear tonight. Instead, he poured a substantial amount into hers.

  “Well, Jamie won’t let me have the notebook to look at tonight. Won’t even tell me much about how the game’s played or why or who. Says that you have to give your okay.” He doctored the mugs with honey. “That must be some kind of secret game you have going.”

  Grace went to the refrigerator and poured a glass of milk, and picked up a plate of cookies on the way back. “Oh, I don’t see any reason you can’t look at them. Jamie’s just being careful because we do put some little gifts and gadgets in the caches from time to time and—” She seemed to stop and think about what she was going to say. “Jamie’s learned some hard lessons about trust lately, so you’re probably getting the short end of that particular stick. You can study the puzzles all you like, just don’t slip up and tell me any secrets.”

  She didn’t notice his mouth drop open as she walked into the sunroom with Pooka in her wake.

  What the hell?

  Chapter Seven

  “So. Exactly what are we doing here? What is this tradition?” Nick sat at the breakf
ast bar next to Jamie, who was slumped on one of the bar-height chairs painstakingly writing on a colored notepad.

  Grace looked up from where she sat on the other side of the counter, putting each cookie into a decorated paper bag and stapling the bag shut with one of Jamie’s notes in place. She’d had a couple of sips of the rather strong toddy Nick had mixed for her, but the rest had gone cool in her mug.

  “It’s from our Irish and Scottish ancestors who settled these mountains. It might even be Celtic in origin. Long before there was trick or treating, back in medieval times, children would go door to door begging for these, not candy,” Grace explained.

  “But why soul cake? They look like cookies to me.”

  Grace smiled. “Since there was no written recipe passed along, the Woodruffs created their own. In the spirit of the original, which appears to have had currants on top, we changed it from a cake to a nice fat ginger cookie chock full of raisins.”

  “And the soul part?” Nick bent over Jamie’s shoulder to look at what the notes being stapled on each bag actually said.

  “Well, for every cake a child received, they were to offer up a good word or a prayer for the souls of the dead relatives of the person handing out the cakes,” Grace said, stapling another bag shut.

  “What about the stars? Is that a part of the tradition?”

  Grace looked down at the cookie she was holding and traced the bright white star with her finger. “No. That was Pops’s idea. He loved the stars.”

  When she looked up, Nick was watching her from behind Jamie with a strange expression, as if she had missed something.

  “This looks like it might take a while, and I really want Jamie to finish setting up that puzzle for me. Can I take over here?” He raised his eyebrows at her and looked down at Jamie.

  Grace frowned and glanced at Jamie, who didn’t look up at her.

  Well, that was just odd.

  Grace nodded. “Sure, if—”

  Jamie swiveled around without a word and took off toward the sunroom. Grace moved to follow, but Nick raised his hand and quietly pushed two of the notes toward her.

  “He must’ve been quite a man, your grandfather,” Nick said.

  Jamie’s careful cursive “Please say a word for The Woodsman this year” was smeared, and the colorful paper pockmarked with tears.

  Grace’s hand flew to her mouth. She went to fill the teakettle with water, but couldn’t see what she was doing. Nick came up beside her holding her mug.

  “I’ll freshen yours up and get myself another,” he said in a firm voice.

  When he put his hand at the small of her back, pushing her toward the chair, that touch sent heated tendrils twining around her heart. She didn’t so much sit down as melt onto the chair. And then she just sat there numbly, watching him move around in her kitchen, until he pushed the hot mug into her hand.

  It was probably far too strong again, but this time she didn’t care and sipped at it until she could breathe easily. She resumed placing the cookies into bags one by one, remembering all the past times when she had done this same duty.

  When they were all tucked away except for the extras Jamie would take home, she looked over at Nick. He sat carefully writing the rest of the notes in his own bold script.

  You don’t really know him. You just met the man. It’s animal attraction. Biochemistry 101, nothing more.

  But Nick had noticed Jamie, the irrepressible chatterbox, going uncharacteristically silent, then had quietly done what needed to be done. Pooka seemed to adore him. He just did things without a lot of fanfare—like giving them both room to grieve without getting in the way. And he made her laugh.

  And you know the inside is as gorgeous as the outside. You’ve seen it.

  Grace was startled when Nick pushed the pile of notes toward her. “I think that should be enough. I’ll go check and see if my puzzle’s ready. We can drive down to the gate and put out the basket for you. That’s how it’s done, right?”

  She nodded wordlessly.

  That eyebrow of his went up as he looked at her. He seemed satisfied with what he saw. Apparently she wasn’t falling down drunk—yet.

  “You think Jamie would be okay with a ride home?”

  “I doubt it.” At least her mouth was cooperating, even if the rest of her was feeling warm and fizzy. “I’ve tried, but the ride down to her house is far too much fun. Only the very worst weather keeps Jamie from riding that bike everywhere. And even then—” She shrugged.

  “Well, don’t you move while we’re gone,” he said in a commanding tone. “Just finish that drink and when I come back, I’ll fix you a meal you won’t forget.” He grinned and went out the door.

  I don’t intend to forget any of this.

  It took her a moment to get her body to cooperate, but she managed to staple the rest of the bags shut with their notes and place them in the bushel basket, just in time for Jamie to run in, grinning mischievously, and grab the basket. The emotional resilience of children was pretty amazing.

  “Mr. Nick thinks he’ll have that puzzle worked out before I come up tomorrow.”

  “Well, I hope you gave him an easy one,” Grace responded.

  “You’re kidding, right? He knows about the Beale ciphers and the Dorabella and a bunch of others. He’s not half bad.”

  Grace tried not to laugh. “No, he’s not bad at all.”

  “Oh, and I fed Pooka for you. But I didn’t get to the birdfeeders today. I’ll get ’em tomorrow, after my project,” Jamie said. “You think Mr. Nick might go with me?”

  “Well, he has a book to write, so don’t pester him about it,” Grace said firmly. “And thank you for your hard work today, sweetie.”

  Jamie dropped the basket and ran across the kitchen floor. Grace barely had time to bend over before the skinny arms wrapped around her neck and a hard kiss was delivered to her cheek.

  Then Jamie and the basket were gone and Grace realized Nick had been standing at the door the whole time. The intense look on his face changed back to an easy grin. “You have a wine cellar in this place?”

  She pointed to the stairs just beyond the pantry. “The door just behind the bar downstairs in the game room. We usually keep it pretty well stocked for our guests, but it may be down to our personal stuff at this point. Pops was a big advocate of buying local and organic.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be just fine for my purposes.”

  There was something about his voice and the look he gave her that sent her back to the breakfast bar to gulp down the rest of the toddy and wonder exactly what his “purposes” were, besides the meal he was planning. When she heard the SUV start up in the distance, she shook herself, looked down at her flour-covered shirt, and headed for the stairs.

  She managed to pull her hair back into some semblance of a neat twist and apply a bit of makeup before she heard the door open—no mean feat considering how long it had been since she had bothered. By the time Pooka had clambered up the front stairs and found her, she had pulled on her teal blue sweater and was standing in front of the mirror.

  “Relax,” she said to the mirror. “So what if you’re a little rusty at this? It isn’t brain surgery.” Pooka cocked his head at her. “Oh, shut up.”

  When she came back downstairs, Nick was already exploring the pantry.

  “I found a couple of bottles of this red down in your cellar that I want you to taste. Very nice cellar, by the way. Good temperature controls. Did you know that you have—” he turned the corner with an onion in one hand, a potato in the other and a bottle of olive oil under his arm and stopped short, staring at her. “Whoa.”

  And here he was planning just to get her a little tipsy and talkative, having tossed the clumsy pass idea out as being totally inappropriate, and she shows up looking like this. If only she hadn’t shoved her hair back into one of those torture devices again.

  “Nice,” Nick managed, but it came out just a little hoarse.

  Grace smiled at him, but it was a slig
htly fuzzy smile. Much more relaxed than her usual expression. “So, point me in the direction of this red.”

  There’s only one red that interests me at the moment. Nick looked at her hair for a long moment, then pointed at two bottles on the counter.

  He blew out a long breath, but tried not to be too obvious about it as she strolled over to look at the labels. Damn, she had long legs.

  “What did I not know that we have?” she asked, opening a drawer to fish out a bottle opener.

  “You have some champagne that’ll go bad if you don’t drink it soon. I stuck it in the refrigerator.”

  “Why am I not surprised that you know this by looking at the bottle?”

  “I have this thing about champagne,” he said, pulling a pan down from the rack over the stove. And redheads with long legs.

  “Well, traditionally we’ve used hard cider to toast the ancestors, but I think Pops would approve of champagne.”

  She levered in the corkscrew and popped out the cork on one of the reds, sniffing it carefully. “Mmmmm.”

  Nick set the wine glasses he had found on the counter at her elbow. “And what’s this tradition?” She poured a small amount and sipped it. “This is good.”

  “I have this thing about good wine, too,” he said dryly. And that scent of yours, whatever it is.

  He filled both of their glasses, picked up his, and went back to work at the counter, taking a garlic bulb out of a container and popping off a couple of cloves before putting the bulb back.

  “Tradition?” he said pointedly, pouring olive oil into the pan.

  She was perched on one of the chairs, her legs curled around it in a way that made his mouth water. “We take harvest wreaths out to the graves and drink a toast to our ancestors.”

  “Graves? You go to a cemetery on Halloween night?”

  She laughed. “Well, I never thought of it that way, but yes. It is a night for honoring the dead, after all.”

  “My mom and my Nan do that, on one of the days after Halloween.”

  “All Souls,” Grace agreed.

  “That’s it.” And there are too many graves there with the McKenzie name on them.