by Bailey Cates
“A present? That’s so nice. What is it?”
But Declan didn’t answer. He was looking over my shoulder, into the living room. He looked less than pleased.
I winced.
“What’s he doing here?” Declan asked.
I stepped back to let him in. Steve stood in the middle of the living room, arms held slightly out from his sides. And there I was, caught in a crossfire of glares.
“All right, that’s enough, you two,” I said. “I don’t know what your problem is, but I wish you’d try to get along while you’re in my home.”
A moment of silence stretched out long and thin, then snapped. “Don’t worry, Katie-girl,” Steve said. “I have no intention of remaining in your house as long as this guy is here.” He pushed past me.
I stumbled.
Declan’s hand shot out and grabbed Steve’s shoulder. “Don’t touch her.”
I watched red fury pass through Steve. He shrugged Declan’s hand off. “I’m not the dangerous one, McCarthy. I’m not the one who lets people die.”
My jaw dropped. Steve stalked down the front walkway without another word, climbed into a black Land Rover parked across the street, started the engine and roared off.
Shocked, I raised my palms toward Declan. “What the heck is he talking about?”
Chapter 17
“It’s kind of a long story.” Declan took a sip of wine and settled back in one of the chairs he’d brought over. Mungo lay down and rested his chin on Declan’s foot.
Funny that I’d been talking about not having any patio furniture, because that was exactly what Declan had in the back of his truck. His neighbor wanted to get rid of the bistro set, and my new fireman friend offered to take it off his hands—and put it into mine. He also brought a two-burner hibachi, a bottle of lovely Cabernet Sauvignon and two stemmed wineglasses.
“Then I guess you’d better get started telling it,” I said. A bit blunt, perhaps, but I was determined to get to the bottom of the enmity between Mr. Dawes and Mr. McCarthy. I wasn’t above plying my guest with some of his own wine to get the story, either.
“It’s nice out here.” His gaze took in the expanse of green lawn, the tidy wooden fence around it all. Somewhere nearby, honeysuckle had started to bloom, the fragrance barely teasing through the air. We could hear the water in the little stream, and crickets chirped in the bushes.
“You’re lucky.”
I nodded my thanks to the iridescent dragonflies patrolling the edges of the property, grazing on their prey while creating a zone free of biting insects for yours truly.
“Yes, very lucky,” I said. “You know, I thought you two might actually mix it up in there.”
Declan sighed. “Yeah. Sorry about that. We usually manage to avoid each other, but since your arrival that’s been kind of difficult.” He stopped and licked his lips. “Is he … Are you, um, interested in him?”
“Honestly? I recently had a bad breakup, and it doesn’t seem like a good idea to date anyone right now.” My answer was automatic, though I wasn’t convinced it was true anymore.
“What, exactly, do you call having supper with Steve Dawes, then?”
“An accident—at least on my part. He asked me out, I said I couldn’t, so he showed up with takeout.”
“That’s pretty pushy.”
I nodded. “Sure was.” Never mind how sexy his confidence was, or my own purely physical reaction. “But it wasn’t a date.”
Relief played across the planes of Declan’s face. “Well, that’s good news, at least. I’d hate to see you get mixed up with him.”
I poked the bear. “Still, he seems nice enough. You know, after my dating hiatus is up and all.”
“He’s a player, Katie. If your heart is still bruised from your last boyfriend—or if you simply don’t want to be hurt—you should stay away from him. Please. I’m telling you that from the perspective of someone who knows him pretty well, not because of any problem we have with each other.”
“You were friends once, then?”
“Not really, but his brother, Arnie, and I were best friends. We trained to be firefighters together, were roommates for a while even. We went through our first year as rookies pretty much joined at the hip.”
Alarm bells sounded in the far recesses of my brain.
“What happened to him?” I forced myself to ask. But I knew the answer from Uncle Ben already.
Declan’s head dropped, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. “He died.”
“I’m so sorry.”
He raised his head. Unshed tears blurred the intense blue of his eyes. “I didn’t kill him. But I couldn’t help him. I miss him, and yet I still get so darn angry when I think about what he did!”
I let him talk.
“It was a bad fire, the building fully engaged by the time we got there.” He was still looking out at the yard, but I could tell he was seeing the flames. “See, you have to know firefighters live by the two-in-two-out rule,” he said. “You go in with your partner, you stick together no matter what, and you come out together. No exceptions. Ever. You can keep each other alive that way. But at that fire, Arnie didn’t follow the rule. He left me and the hose line to search a room on his own. I tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t listen.” He spoke the last words through gritted teeth.
“It got bad fast. The smoke increased and visibility deteriorated. Arnie got turned around and couldn’t find the hose line or me. So he called a mayday to let Ben know he didn’t know his exact location. They sent in help immediately, but they couldn’t get to him fast enough.”
My hand covered his, and I squeezed his fingers. “I know it wasn’t your fault. Ben told me a little about it.”
“But Steve blames me for his brother’s death. Always has. And frankly, I’m getting tired of it.”
Oh. Wow.
“Declan—,” I began.
“Arnie screwed up! I couldn’t stop him.”
“I know,” I repeated. “Ben knows.” I pushed his wineglass across the table toward him.
He grabbed it and took a big slug.
“Why does Steve blame you? He has to know about Arnie’s mistake.”
“Doesn’t believe it. Thinks his little brother could do no wrong. So it must have been my fault, right? See, he not only accuses me of getting his brother killed, but of shifting the blame for the whole incident to Arnie. It’s been years, and his hatred is still white-hot. It took me a long time, but I finally realized that I’ll never be able to do anything to change that.” He moved his free hand to sandwich mine against his fingers. “But it’s important to me that you know what really happened.”
I reached for my wine with my unencumbered hand, curiously content to leave my other one right where it was. I kept my eyes on his face, only now realizing how much daylight had faded from the sky as we’d talked.
Mungo lifted his head, barked and ran out into the middle of the lawn. We both turned to watch him trotting and whirling among hundreds of tiny lights. The fireflies moved around him, first clockwise and then counterclockwise. Deosil and widdershins, as my coven—my coven—would say. As I watched my familiar dance joyfully within the glowing circle, I wondered whether their movement was purposeful.
Well, of course it was. Everything was purposeful, whether we understood the purpose or not. That had resonated as deeply as any of the things the spellbook club had told me.
“I’ve never seen anything like that,” Declan breathed, still holding my hand in his.
Gently, I extricated it. “Maybe they’re attracted to doggy smell.” Lame, but I couldn’t tell him the truth, however much I wanted to. How wonderful it would be if this sweet man could share my secret, though.
Shaking his head, he stood. “Amazing.” He drained his wine. “But I know you have a big day tomorrow, so I’ll get going.”
“Let’s just hope it goes off without a hitch. We’ve had enough excitement from the DBA brunch to last a lifetime.” I stood, too, and we walke
d around the edge of the small house to the driveway.
“Then let’s hope for plain, boring success.” There was still a note of sadness in his voice, but I had the feeling it had been there for a long time and would be for a while longer before it was gone altogether. I could only hope that it had helped for him to talk about his friend.
Though I hadn’t given him much choice.
“I’ll check in when I get a chance.” He opened the door of his truck and turned back to me. “I really am sorry about running into Dawes. I never would have stopped by if I’d known he was here.”
“No worries. It was harder on you than on me.”
He stroked my cheek with his thumb. Before I knew it, his lips were on mine. His kiss was quick, casual and undemanding. Warm and comforting. Nice. My body pressed against his for a moment before I gathered my wits and stepped back.
“Um,” I said.
He grinned. “Don’t worry. That was just an accident. Like having supper with someone.”
My lips parted in surprise, and he climbed into his truck. Rolled down the window. “See you, Katie. Break a leg—or whatever bakers do.”
I stood in the driveway for a full minute after he drove away.
“Just a friend?”
I turned to see Margie standing on her front steps, a smile playing on her face in the yellow porch light. “I need me a friend like that. Only Redding would pop a vein.”
“It was … Oh, never mind, Margie!”
Her laughter erupted. “Don’t mind me. You have fun, darlin’. Just save some details for your old married neighbor, if you will. Not the best ones, of course—just a few goodies to get me through Bart teething. Speak of the devil …” The sound of a crying baby drifted out onto the night, and she raised her hand. “Good night, Katie.”
I waved at her and went back inside, Mungo at my heels as always. I turned the floor lamp on and plopped down on my purple sofa.
“Well, mini-me, what am I supposed to do now?”
His head tipped to one side.
It had been a busy night, indeed, but now everyone was gone and the rest of the night stretched out ahead. My nerves were on edge, and energy thrummed under my skin. Images flashed like strobes through my mind: Steve, then Declan, then Ethan Ridge and finally Mrs. Templeton sitting in her car, her head at that funny angle. I rubbed my eyes, but they kept coming.
Yip.
Mungo ran into the kitchen. I followed to find him standing on his hind legs pawing at the cupboard. On the counter above was the container of Lucy’s seven-layer bars.
“Okay, okay. I suppose you want some, too.”
Yip.
“But no chocolate for you.”
Pant. Grin.
I ate the cookie bar, surprised to find it less cloying than some I’d sampled in the past. Coconut and chocolate chips combined pleasingly with the graham crackers and slightly bitter walnuts, all glued together with condensed milk. As I chewed I realized Lucy had substituted peanut butter chips for the usual butterscotch chips. But that was only six layers. What was the seventh?
Holding the bar up to the light, I picked at it with my fingernail. Flecks of green were sandwiched between the coconut and the chocolate chips and walnuts. Of course: an herb. What had Lucy said she’d added? Agri-something.
A quick search of the Internet reminded me that her not-so-secret ingredient was agrimony, a member of the rose family with a reputation as a sleep aid. It wouldn’t work for me, of course, but I’d have to remember to ask her about it.
After making sure it didn’t contain chocolate chips, I gave Mungo a small bite. He practically inhaled it, and we headed off to get ready for bed. At least I felt like I could concentrate enough to read now.
Head on the pillow, I thought about how Declan’s lips had felt on mine. About how they might feel again. How would he react to the word hedgewitch?
On the other hand, Steve already knew what I was. Not from any independent knowledge—I couldn’t imagine anyone had told him. He just knew, the same way I knew things. Was that why my skin almost burned when he was in the same room? Why my teeth ached?
The signaling shiver ran down my back.
I wondered what Mama would say about all this. What Daddy would say, for that matter. After everything Lucy had told me, I kept imagining the conversation I would eventually have with him. As she put it, he’d had my back.
Well, sort of.
The problem was, I absolutely could not imagine the conversation I’d have with Mama, and so far that had prevented me from doing anything more than making that quick call to check in and let them know I was all right.
Mungo started snoring next to me. Next thing I knew, Lucy’s seven-layer bar hit me like a sack of bricks. My last thought before sinking into blessed oblivion was how much I adored the scents of clove and leather.
I slept for five whole hours. Not since the age of twelve had I slept that long at one time.
The problem was, I hadn’t set an alarm clock since back then, either, so I was over half an hour late getting to the Honeybee. I burst through the door, shedding my tote in the office and donning a white chef’s apron in seconds flat.
“You look refreshed,” Lucy said, calm as could be.
“Well, I feel frazzled as all get-out. I overslept, on this morning of all mornings.” The more I thought about it, the more upset I became.
She smiled. “You ate a seven-layer bar, didn’t you?”
“Yes. Thanks a lot.” Couldn’t quite keep the sarcasm out of my voice.
Lucy ignored it. “You’re welcome. Where’s Mungo?”
“I asked him very nicely if he minded staying home today since it’s the grand opening and I can’t afford to be distracted. He graciously agreed.”
Luckily, we’d prepared well, and the aromas of hot baked goods soon wafted into every corner. As the sun rose, Lucy and I moved from oven to counter, counter to display case in a synchronized dance of efficiency. Her tie-dyed cotton skirt swished and twirled, and in the end I switched out my smeared apron for a frilly bright red one. By the time Ben showed up we were calmly sipping lattes and crunching on sesame biscotti.
He grabbed a biscotti to eat while he got the cash drawer ready and checked the supplies behind the espresso counter. Lucy got up and turned on the music, light jazz for first thing in the morning. At seven o’clock the three of us went to the front of the Honeybee together. Ben kissed Lucy on the cheek and gave me a squeeze. “Here we go!” He flung the door open.
I almost hooted with joy: A dozen people were waiting on the sidewalk.
Ben ushered them in and slipped behind the counter. The owner of the knitting store next door stepped up to the register first. She peered at the display case through a pair of rhinestone-rimmed glasses and ran her tongue over her lips.
Ben adjusted the chef’s apron he wore over a yellow short-sleeved shirt and khakis. “What can I get for you, Annette?”
“Oh, dear. There are far too many enticing choices.” Then she laughed. “I guess I’ll just have to work my way through everything. Today let’s make it one of those.” She pointed to a pumpkin–cream cheese scone. “And a cup of coffee. Dark roast.”
“Excellent choice.” He rang up her order while Lucy poured her coffee, then moved on to the next customer.
“Oh, my,” Annette mumbled around a bite of scone. “That’s too good.” She swallowed. “I’m going to be in serious trouble, having you right next door.”
I caught her eye and grinned. She could talk with her mouth full all she wanted if she was going to say things like that.
The way Ben filled orders, took money and joked with customers, it seemed as though he’d done it forever. Meanwhile, I continued to mix and whip and sprinkle and bake in the kitchen while Lucy played barista.
Only it wasn’t play anymore. The Honeybee was really open!
After the initial rush, a slight lull caused me concern, but soon the pace picked up again. People going to work and early-bird to
urists made up most of the clientele until close to ten o’clock, when the laptop-bearing crowd arrived. They settled in at tables and on the sofas, and most stayed for much longer than the previous group had, sipping and munching and typing away.
We gave away a ton of peach-and-pecan mini-pies, a kind of loss leader for our first day only. The peaches were spiced with cinnamon and plenty of Lucy’s muttering with the intention to increase good luck and money. Sure enough, once customers tasted the sweet concoctions, they ended up purchasing other goodies to take home to their families.
Wearing a pale orange twinset, Mimsey breezed in about noon and took up a station by the bookshelf. Instantly, she began chatting with customers. She seemed to be having a ball, and so did they. Many left with books in their hands.
“Wait a minute,” I said to Lucy. “Now we’re a lending library?”
“We are whatever people need us to be. Those books are there to be found by those who need them. If they want to take them home, so be it. You have to trust that books—whether those or others—will come back to us.”
“Threefold?” I muttered.
She laughed.
Mimsey wasn’t the only person steering people toward what they needed. My aunt did her share of guiding customers to this cookie or that scone, which I now knew were not only delicious but also contained magic. Besides adding cinnamon to the mini-pies, she told me allspice was good for money, luck and healing; basil was protective and facilitated change; and caraway and rosemary both promoted fidelity. The last two she’d mixed into the savory Parmesan muffins—a brilliant combination.
There was so darn much to learn.
As I refilled the display case, I mused on Steve’s assertion that there was no such thing as bad publicity. Perhaps that was doubly true given Jack Jenkins’ comment that the folks in Savannah had a particular interest in the macabre. But no one had asked any questions about the murder or said a word about Mrs. Templeton.
Until, that is, a tall man with a shock of gray hair and searching eyes approached the register.
“Ben.”
