Bewitching Hour

by Stuart, Anne

  “Sometimes. I never thought celibacy was all it was cracked up to be. Some of the great psychics of history have been fairly randy.” Dulcy took another decorous sip of her cognac. “And don’t bite your lip like that. I know you’re dying to ask me what the hell I know about celibacy.”

  “I wouldn’t do that,” Sybil protested, a small grin playing around the corners of her mouth.

  “Only because you’re too nice. But you thought it just the same. Why don’t you use some of that niceness and discretion on your new neighbor? He deserves it as much as Leona, probably more.”

  The dogs were scratching wildly at the door. Sybil rose, let them in, then wrestled the puppies for the chair while Annie and Rags, the two eldest, took their dignified places on the sofa beside Dulcy. “Why don’t you like Leona?” she asked.

  Dulcy sighed, draining her cognac. “Who says I don’t like her?”

  “Everything about you. Your expressions, your polite behavior toward her. The only people you’re polite to are people you don’t like.”

  “Maybe you could learn to be as polite to Nick.”

  “Why don’t you like her?” she persisted.

  “Maybe I don’t trust her.”

  “Why not? She’s sweet, kind, and has the same interests we do. She even spends lots of time with the old ladies in the Davis Apartments, just as you do. I’ve never heard her say a single mean thing about anyone.”

  “Maybe that’s why I don’t trust her. Anyone without noticeable malice has to have a lot hidden away.”

  Sybil laughed. “Well, at least we don’t need to worry about Nick. His malice is out there for everyone to see.”

  “I don’t think he’s malicious, Sybil. Just a little . . . contentious, maybe. I think with the proper handling he could be quite . . . lamblike.”

  Once more Sybil stifled a surge of irritation. “Well, go for it.”

  “Not me, kiddo. He didn’t come to Danbury for me.”

  “He didn’t come to Danbury for anyone. He came to do research on water witching.”

  “So he thinks,” Dulcy said with her serene smile. “In the meantime, the poor man is going to open a can of corned beef hash for dinner. Do you think that’s fair for a newcomer to town when you have chicken marengo in the fridge?”

  “Life isn’t fair,” Sybil grumbled.

  “It is the way you play it.” Dulcy rose to her full, impressive height, pulling on her handwoven lavender cape, which only added to her ethereal effect. “Take him dinner, Sybil. I’ve loaded your stove, fed the dogs and walked them, so you’ve got nothing else you have to do. Be your sweet, fair self.”

  “For someone like Nicholas Fitzsimmons?” she argued, knowing she was going to do it, had always planned to do it. She might feel cranky about the man but she was never mean.

  “Especially for someone like Nicholas Fitzsimmons. Things don’t happen without a reason, Sybil. He had a purpose in being here, and someone has a lesson to learn from it.”

  “And you think I’m that someone?” she said morosely, following Dulcy to the door, the dogs trailing behind them.

  “It seems like a possibility.”

  “I shouldn’t listen to you,” Sybil said glumly.

  “No, and you shouldn’t listen to Leona, either. You should only listen to yourself, to your inner voices.”

  Sybil tried one last protest. “My inner voices tell me to go to bed and let Nick eat canned meat.”

  Dulcy smiled her secret, glorious smile, and Sybil wondered how Nick could have resisted it. “Do they really?”

  Sybil gave up. “No, and you know they don’t. My inner voices say to change my clothes, fix my hair and drive back to the Black Farm.”

  “Good girl. Listen to your voices.” Dulcy started out into the chilly night air, now pitch-black. Her pale hair was a beacon of light in the darkness.

  “You still haven’t told me why you don’t like Leona,” Sybil called after her.

  Dulcy didn’t answer. She merely waved an airy hand behind her before climbing into her Honda.

  Sybil went back inside, shutting the door behind her. The dogs had already resumed their spots around the wood stove, ready to settle down for a long winter’s nap.

  “I don’t want to go out,” she said plaintively. Annie lifted her black-and-white head and stared at her with gentle, disbelieving eyes. “No, I really don’t. I want to stay by the fire and read romances and drink cognac and eat all the chicken marengo by myself.”

  Annie yawned, dropping her head down onto her paws, and one of her puppies rolled over, paws in the air. “I suppose I could call him. He’s probably already eaten. After all, it’s after”—she looked at the mantel clock—“quarter to six. Well, still, he probably doesn’t want any more visitors. If Leona and Dulcy took goodies to him, then other people probably did, too. He won’t need anything.” Rags shifted, his head flopping halfway off the sofa. “Okay, okay, I’ll call him.”

  “The number you have called, 555-7740, is not a working number. Please call your operator for assistance.” Sybil dropped the phone down in its cradle with annoyance. She didn’t need to call the operator to know that she’d messed up. It had been up to her to have the Black Farm telephone reconnected—she should have called New England Telephone two weeks ago when she first heard Nick was coming. In the hilly countryside cell phones seldom worked, and most people didn’t even own one. He would need a working landline.

  Now there was no question—she’d have to go back there, if for no other reason than to explain the phone situation. Sighing, she headed for the kitchen, ignoring the little spurt of excitement stirring in her stomach.

  NICK STARED AT THE phone in his hand in frustration. He should have had enough sense to try it earlier, when he could have driven out to Danbury and called the phone company. His cell phone didn’t work either, and hadn’t worked since he’d gotten off the highway, half an hour from his destination. He rather liked the idea of not having that electronic tether wherever he went, but he did need a way to communicate.

  There was nothing he could do about it tonight. Even if he wanted to attempt the snowy roads in the pitch-darkness, the telephone office would be closed and chances were the trip would be wasted.

  Of course, instead of turning left at the top of his driveway he could always turn right. Somewhere down that road was Sybil Richardson and her killer dogs. He could show up, exert his long-lost charm and ask to use her telephone. If he played his cards right she might even invite him to dinner, and he wouldn’t have to make do with the canned corned beef hash that had looked edible enough in the dim light of the almost empty cupboard.

  He’d have to think of someone to call first—preferably someone who wouldn’t be home, so he’d have to keep trying. It had been Sybil herself he’d been trying to reach when he discovered the phone didn’t work, and that had been a lame enough excuse as it was. What it all boiled down to was that he was restless, bored and lonely. And he was restless, bored and lonely for Sybil Richardson.

  Not that he didn’t have visitors. There had been a steady stream of them, from Dulcy with her herb jam to Leona and two of her elderly cronies, bringing rosemary wine, of all the disgusting things, and hard little cookies made entirely of whole wheat. He’d forced himself to nibble on them, poured the rosemary wine down the sink, and wished he had thought to go to the store before the early winter sun set.

  He would survive. He had gourmet Gummy Bears in his glove compartment, instant espresso in his travel kit. At first sign of daylight he’d hunt for a restaurant that would feed him. If worse came to worst, he could drive all the way back to St. Johnsbury and have an Egg McMuffin.

  That is, unless he wanted to go searching for Sybil Richardson. The more he thought about it, the less he thought of the idea. He was hungry, he was lonely, but at this point thin
gs would be much better if she made the next move. He didn’t want her to feel she was being stalked. Even if that was exactly what he was contemplating.

  He threw himself down on the comfortable couch, glowering at the wood stove. Nothing to drink, nothing even to read. It looked as if it was going to be a hell of an evening.

  Now what would one of the Danbury Seekers of Enlightenment do in a situation like this? Certainly not sit there and sulk. He could always lean back and meditate, send thought waves across the frozen countryside to his neighbor. He slid down on the couch, stretching his long legs out, a cynical grin on his face as he closed his eyes.

  “Come to me, Sybil Richardson,” he intoned in a spooky voice that was a good match for Leona Coleman at her campiest. “Come to me and bring me food.”

  The dry wood in the stove crackled cheerily in response, and Nick slid lower on the couch. “Come to me,” he murmured. “Bring me food and drink and leave your killer dogs behind. Come to me, Sybil.” His voice was low and eerie in the empty house, and for a moment he remembered John Black’s fate seventy-five years ago, and a ridiculous twinge of uneasiness hit him. He opened his eyes, glanced at the shadows in the dimly lit living room and for a moment considered getting up and turning on every light in the place.

  He didn’t, deciding he was getting a little nuts with hunger. Maybe he should just go to bed. Maybe . . .

  There was a loud rap on the front door. He could hear it all the way in the living room, and he sat up, startled. He hadn’t heard a car, hadn’t heard anyone approach in the stillness of the December night. Maybe it was John Black’s ghost, except that according to Sybil the place wasn’t haunted, and she wouldn’t have lied to spare his sensibilities. As far as she was concerned he didn’t have any.

  He headed for the hallway, pausing by the thick wooden door. Someone was rattling the lock, someone in a bad mood. He could guess who that someone might be, but it was too coincidental and downright creepy. He couldn’t really have summoned her across the miles, could he? The knocking began again, loud and irritable.

  “Who is it?”

  “Who the hell do you think it is, you paranoid flatlander?” Sybil’s irritated voice came from the other side. “Unlock the damned door.”

  A slow grin creased Nick’s face. “How do I know it’s really you and not a ghost?”

  There was a long, furious pause. “If you don’t open this door, I will leave, and I’ll take my chicken marengo and my bottle of cognac with me.”

  Nick flung open the door before the last word was out of her mouth. She stood there, small and defiant, a basket full of wonderful-smelling goodies on her arm. “Red Riding Hood, I presume,” he said thankfully, reaching out for her, reaching out for the basket. He tugged them both into the house, shutting the darkness out.

  “Your phone doesn’t work,” she said flatly.

  “I know. It’s the damnedest thing—”

  “No, it isn’t,” she interrupted. “I forgot to have them turn it on.”

  He stopped his rummaging in the basket long enough to look down at her. She looked like a rebellious little kid, awaiting a deserving punishment. “On purpose?” he questioned softly.

  “Of course not. I didn’t know ahead of time that you were so obnoxious. I thought you’d be a sweet little old man.”

  He laughed, too pleased with the smell of the chicken and wine to snap back. “And instead I’m a sour, big, not so old man.”

  “You got it.” She stood there, making no effort to take off her shedding down coat. “Anything else?”

  “You brought coffee,” he said reverently. “And cream, and pie and . . .” A silence fell over the hallway. “Courvoisier,” he said, and his voice was hushed with awe. “I could kiss you.”

  She was getting nervous, he could tell. The hall was a small place, and he was a tall man. She edged toward the door. “I thought you might not have had a chance to get to the store,” she said on that breathless note. “Well, I’d better be going.” She opened the door, clearly hoping to dash out.

  He put a quick stop to that, reaching over her head and slamming the door shut again. “You can’t leave me. I’m not only starving, I’m lonely.”

  “I don’t think I’d be the best company.” He set the basket down on the floor and became busy unfastening the buttons on the front of her coat. “Nick, don’t . . .”

  “Humor me.” He moved closer, pushing the coat off her shoulders, his body almost touching hers, simple tactics that were being amazingly effective. He could feel the heat from her lush little body, could sense the battle going on behind her startled brown eyes.

  It was a battle he lost. She reached up, yanked her coat back on and pushed him away. “Forget it. I have to feed my dogs.”

  He knew when to back off. He shrugged, moving away, but not before he saw a delicious flicker of disappointment in her face. “At least I was a higher priority.”

  “I was on my way home. Otherwise the dogs would come first.”

  She was lying again. He remembered Dulcy’s seemingly artless prattle that had told him a great many things he’d wanted to know.

  “Well, thanks for the dinner,” he said.

  She grabbed the doorknob. “I’d do it for anyone.”

  “I’m not supposed to jump to any conclusions, then?”

  “You got it.”

  “You want to tell me something, Sybil?” His voice stopped her as she stepped out into the chilly night air.

  She hesitated, and he knew she wanted to run back to the Subaru, but she was made of sterner stuff than that. She turned. “Yes?”

  “Why are you afraid of me?”

  “I’m not afraid of anyone,” she said with a weary sigh.

  “Then why are you lying to me?”

  “I’m not . . .”

  “Dulcy fed your dogs. Your car drove past here to your house an hour and a half ago. I was outside and I saw it. Why won’t you stay and have dinner with me? Are you afraid I’m going to attack you? I promise you, I can control my raging lusts.”

  “I’m sure you can.” Her voice was as clipped and cool as the December night.

  “Then why?”

  She smiled sweetly. “Because I don’t like you.” And without another word she ran out, got into her car and raced down the driveway.

  He watched her breakneck pace with smugness. “And that, Sybil Richardson, is another lie.”

  THE DOGS GREETED her return with their usual enthusiasm, but even their high spirits failed to lift her gloom. She’d given him the last of the cognac, and she wasn’t desperate enough to resort to her ever-growing cache of Leona’s rosemary wine.

  She let the dogs out one last time, loaded the stoves and pulled on her blissfully soft nightgown. She’d made it when she first moved up to Danbury, with a warm flannel patterned with tiny santas and the words “ho, ho, ho” on it, but she hadn’t paid attention when she’d sewn it, cutting the pieces and sewing it before she realized the pattern was upside down, the topsy-turvy santas saying “oh, oh, oh.” Climbing into bed, she pulled her battered copy of the I Ching from the pile beside her, sending the precariously balanced books tumbling onto the floor.

  Of all the various bits of arcane tools she’d come across in her search for deeper meaning, her favorite was the I Ching, the ancient Chinese book of changes. By casting coins and reading the appropriate hexagram, she’d gotten herself through more difficult times than she cared to remember. She sat back, closed her eyes and tossed the three coins as she cleared her mind.

  For now, her only problem was dealing with Nicholas Fitzsimmons, she thought, casting the coins for a second time. She didn’t lose her temper like that, she wasn’t usually so responsive to jibes and . . . was it flirtation? It had seemed uncomfortably close.

  She tossed them the third
time. Dulcy was right. There was a lesson to be learned here, and she was fighting it. Maybe the I Ching would show her the way.

  She rolled the coins three more times, opening her worn yellow book and turning to the appropriate hexagram. She immediately slammed it shut, sinking down into her bed with a howl of despair that woke the puppies.

  “Of all the hexagrams to have gotten,” she moaned, “why did I have to come up with Marrying Maiden?” With a groan of surrender, she switched off the light beside her bed and buried her face in the pillow.

  Chapter Six

  IT WAS A BRILLIANT, sunny morning, the first in days, and Sybil determined she was going to enjoy it. Leona wasn’t coming in at all, and with any luck Nick would be so busy settling in and buying groceries that he would forget about yesterday and she wouldn’t see him, either.

  Her mornings were traditionally allotted for office work: her afternoons for the bookshop. She would finish the long overdue monthly mailing, then take her knitting into the back room, turn on her new CD of Christmas music, which had brought her collection to seventy-three, and sit there in the sunshine drinking coffee and feeling righteous. It was going to be a glorious, wonderful day.

  Of course, she hadn’t taken into account that she couldn’t depend on Nick’s absence. It took her twice as long as usual to finish up the mailing, since she kept getting up to see if his Jaguar was coming down the road. Every time the phone rang she jumped a mile; every time the wrong voice spoke on the other end she felt a wave of emotion drain through her—an emotion she called relief but that still felt a lot like disappointment.

  She didn’t finish till quarter past twelve, and by that time it was too late to go out for lunch. Business had been brisk in the pre-Christmas rush. She might have an unending stream of three or four customers in the afternoon, and she couldn’t afford to lose a single one. She could afford to miss lunch, however, and if she had any hunger pangs, the Second new CD would take care of it.