Making Magic: Books of the Kindling, Book 3

by Donna June Cooper

  “Spasms now and again?”

  “Not bad. I need to get in some PT, but I haven’t had time.”

  “Feel free to use my equipment down at the solar barn,” Nick said. “It needs to feel useful, like that saw.”

  “Thanks. I might.” Jake felt a warm tingle from Grace’s fingers and tried not to jump.

  “It looks good,” Grace said. “You need to stretch those muscles though. Warm up then stretch before you do any crunches or use that equipment.”

  “Yes, Dr. Grace,” Jake said, tucking his shirt back in.

  “I think I want to try something else,” Grace said. “All that did was make me seasick.”

  Nick grinned. “No problem.”

  “I’ll leave you folks alone then. Hope Lily decides to show up soon,” Jake backed down the steps and headed for his truck before he had to hear any more about inducing labor.

  As he drove across the meadow, he rolled down the window and listened for Thea’s flute. Nothing. Damn engine. He pulled off the road and turned off the ignition.

  There it was.

  Plaintive and perfect. And he knew the song she was playing. She had played it for him a long time ago, daring him to try and harmonize on his dulcimer. And he had, eventually. Not well, but that didn’t matter. With the voice of her flute soaring above it all, as it did now, the piece had still been breathtaking. For him, it evoked images of a solemn procession making its way across the mountain on a wet autumn day, with bright leaves drifting to the ground through the gray mist. There was a sense of ponderous and dramatic loss, but the flute gave it a bright flourish of hope.

  After his initial attempt, Jake had actually practiced it on the dulcimer for a while, hoping she would challenge him again, but she never had.

  He walked across the meadow toward that glorious sound without even thinking about it. She had told him that her Pops always coaxed her to play this piece. “For my Lizzy,” he would say. Thea’s grandmother had died when they were all very young. Now she played the tune for her Pops, who lay beside his Lizzy in the Woodruff family cemetery.

  It was called “The Enigma Variation IX,” though he could never remember the composer. The unusual name, back then, had sounded really cool. He finally caught sight of Thea standing in front of the great black stone that marked Logan and Elizabeth Woodruff’s graves, eyes closed, playing the Burkart flute.

  But the flute wasn’t playing harmony to the mountain’s melody. Instead, the mountain’s song seemed to change to accompany the sound soaring now through the trees.

  It was no longer a flute played by a teenager who was trying on emotions like clothes, unable to conceive of the depth of feeling conveyed in that piece. It was a flute played by a woman mourning those she had lost, and the notes drifted through the air like silver tears.

  He stopped and closed his eyes as she transitioned smoothly into another piece, just as beautiful and emotional. It was one Becca had played with her.

  Becca, who had played classical violin as well as Celtic fiddle, had loved to perform with Thea. Thea had called it a duel instead of a duet, as they often tried to outplay each other.

  Jake almost heard that poignant violin playing alongside Thea, with the sounds of the mountain providing counterpoint beneath it all. He could picture Becca’s blonde hair swirling around her, those blue eyes sparkling over the polished wood as her bow danced on the strings. Even when the song was solemn, Becca had never been able to do anything but smile when she was playing. She’d been so young and so talented. So full of life.

  Damn it all.

  She was only nineteen fucking years old, he wanted to yell. And his father had only been fifty when he’d been shot five years later, leaving Jake to deal with the mess left behind, both in the department and at home.

  Like a huge black wave, grief threatened to overwhelm him. At the funerals and every other damn time the pain threatened, he’d used anger to push it back down. Anger at his mom for driving drunk that night. Anger at the damn doctors that got Becca hooked on those pain meds. Anger at his father for giving up while his family disintegrated around him—for walking right into a bullet.

  When Thea slid from that piece into another that they had all played together, the mournful “Ashokan Farewell,” he gave up. Urged on by Thea’s flute and that ghostly fiddle in his head, he sank into the grass and finally let the grief overtake him. It felt like a summer storm breaking against the mountains.

  If Thea’s flute hadn’t been keening so loudly, she might have heard him. But she kept playing, moving from the farewell to another piece—something he couldn’t place. She was playing it with more than her fingers and her breath, she was playing with her soul. It was powerful and piercing.

  He wiped at his face. Damn it all, he couldn’t even find the will to get up and back away. Thea was playing out the grief he hadn’t seen her express at the funeral. And she was taking him along.

  Her sorrow and his. It was all the same.

  So he crouched there, letting the music carry him along into another piece her Pops had often asked her to play. This one he knew. An old Irish folk song with a waltz tempo. “A Stór Mo Chroí”.

  The pain eased. Although the flute still sang of love and loss, it was no longer so overwhelming. Jake lifted his head, expecting the mountain to be shrouded in fog and dripping from the passing storm he’d imagined, but it was still a bright sunny afternoon. Only his face was wet. He swiped at it with his sleeve. When the last note faded, he shook himself and pushed to his feet.

  Then she surprised him. No longer did he hear the lovely sound of the Burkart, but the first notes of “Drowsy Maggie” on an Irish whistle. Normally a lively reel intended for dancing, Thea was playing it slow and solemn, as if she wasn’t quite ready to leave the sadness behind. But as she played, the tempo increased and became more upbeat. Jake’s fingers itched to join in as she bridged into another fast and furious reel that would bring anyone to their feet to dance, “Toss the Feathers.” His group had the same arrangement on their playlist for this week. He smiled. It made perfect sense to his Scotch-Irish soul. First you grieve, then you dance.

  He would love to have Thea play with them. That would be something. They had no flute player at the moment, and he was sure there would be people in the audience who would remember her performances from years ago. Her ability had only matured—maybe she’d picked up a couple of tricks at Curtis before she left. Despite what he had feared, Thea hadn’t given up her music. She had been playing somewhere, even if it was only for herself.

  His feet moved him forward, almost involuntarily. He knew Thea too well. As he approached, he saw that she had what he assumed was the dog from the car on a very long leash looped around her waist. It was hard to believe that white ball of fluff was the same dog.

  As she took a breath to begin the next song, he cleared his throat.

  Thea gasped and spun around. Her face, flushed and wet with tears, went dead pale.

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you.” His voice sounded rough to his ears. “And I don’t mean to intrude.”

  She shoved the flute behind her in a way that reminded him of a much younger Thea. “Well you did,” she said, her voice sharp and a little shaky. She shoved out her chin, another familiar gesture. “What’re you doing up here?” As if she had only just noticed that her face was wet, she wiped the back of her hand across her cheeks.

  “Listening. You’ve gotten even more amazing, Thea,” he said. “What was that piece after ‘Ashokan Farewell’?”

  She chewed on her bottom lip. “Part of something I wrote,” she said at last. “‘For The Woodsman’.”

  He paused for a moment, looking over at her Pops’s headstone then back at her. “You finally did it, didn’t you? You composed it. The mountain’s song.” It wasn’t a question.

  They had discussed it long ago, the song that the mountain s
ang to all of them. It was hard to capture because it changed from season to season and year to year—the trills of birdsong woven through the counterpoint of wind in the trees, the slide of water over mossy rock beneath the vibrato of the frogs, and the silent fall of snow that muffled the crunching percussion of leaves underfoot. If that was only a part of it, he wanted to hear the whole.

  A soft smile curved her lips even as she took another swipe at her wet face.

  “Your Pops would’ve loved it,” he said, wishing that he carried a hanky. “Are there parts for other instruments?”

  A spark had kindled in those wet gray eyes when she looked up. “What do you think?”

  “I think no one instrument can capture this place.”

  The fuzzy white dog came over to inspect him. He crouched to let her smell the back of his hand and noticed a pile of what looked like lace on top of Thea’s flute case. He looked closer and saw that it was a huge stack of lacy, white flower heads. “If you’re gathering flowers, I think you forgot the stems.”

  The sound she made was a bit too watery to be a snort. “It’s called deadheading. Sort of like beheading—” she paused for effect, “—except for flowers.”

  He straightened. “What’d the poor flowers do to you?”

  She gestured around them. “It’s Queen Anne’s Lace. Not native and really invasive, according to Grace. Makes Daniel’s honey smell and taste horrible if the bees get at it. So…” She put her thumb and index finger together and snapped them sideways. “Off with their heads.”

  Jake’s hand went to his throat and Bailey’s ears went up.

  For a moment, Jake couldn’t get his brain to work. Thea’s hair was that thick, glossy auburn he remembered, even though it was far too short. And dressed in a skimpy green T-shirt and denim cutoffs that showed a lot of very pale leg, she looked fantastic.

  Thea’s smile faltered. “I was really sorry to hear about your dad. That had to be rough.”

  He cleared his throat. “It’s the risk you take when you put on a badge.” But she would read his true feelings. She’d always been able to.

  “I hear that your job got pretty risky a couple of months ago. Grace told me you got shot.”

  “Yeah, well, like I said.”

  “Some idiot tried to shoot the mayor and got you instead?”

  “Lots of idiots out there, you’ll have to be more specific.”

  She crouched down to scoop up the flower heads and dump them into her tote. She tucked the Irish whistle into a cloth sack.

  “Isn’t that the one—”

  “You made for me. Yes.” A wedge of auburn hair slid forward as she put the sack into a pocket in her flute bag, hiding her face.

  “Still sounds good,” he said.

  “Of course it does.” She started disassembling and cleaning her Burkart. “Are you still making them?”

  “When I get an order. These days I’m focused on hammered dulcimers. Keep playing. I didn’t mean to stop you.” He nodded to her flute. “I need to get back to work. Got three I’m trying to finish for the festival.”

  “That’s right. It’s that time of year, isn’t it?” Her voice sounded odd. He wondered if her memories of the festival were tainted too.

  “You…” He almost asked her to play with them, but the other members of the group deserved to have a say first. “You should come. We play on Friday afternoon.”

  Thea looked uncomfortable at the idea. “I don’t know if I’ll still be here. I-I just came for the wedding.” She closed the case and stood, tucking her hair behind her ears.

  With all your worldly goods in your car. Right. “Seems to me you should get some more rest and recreation in before you head off back to the corporate world. You were pretty worn down, from what I saw.”

  He saw her eyes narrow.

  “But you look like you feel a lot better now,” he added.

  “For someone who throws himself in front of bullets, you look quite well yourself,” she said, sliding the case in its cover into the bag which she slung over her shoulder.

  He frowned. “I didn’t throw myself in front of it.”

  “Tripped then. And fell. Right in front of the mayor.” She smirked, clearly enjoying herself. “Klutz.”

  He glared at her but didn’t attempt a comeback. He was too glad to see her back in her usual sarcastic form. “What kind of dog is Bailey, anyway?”

  Thea looked down at the dog. “She appears to be some kind of half toy poodle, half who-knows-what. Whatever it is, it is small and very fuzzy, considering what Mel trimmed off of her.”

  The dog, aware that they were talking about her, started dancing around getting herself and Thea thoroughly entangled with the leash.

  “Seriously, I didn’t mean to stop you. I wanted to… I heard you playing and…”

  She stood with her hands on her hips, her chin thrust out.

  “It’s good to have you back,” he finished, knowing full well how lame it sounded. “Damn good.”

  Her teeth worried her bottom lip for a moment, as if considering her reply. Then she looked down at the dog. “Thanks for getting me home in one piece,” she said, her voice so soft and the words so rushed that he almost had to lean forward to hear her.

  “You’re welcome.” He looked at her feet, now thoroughly entangled, with Bailey still bouncing around her. He took a step away and grinned. “Would you like me to carry you back to the house again today, Matchstick?”

  “Jake Moser.” She glared at him and took a step forward, almost tripping as the leash caught her.

  He stepped backward. “You know, Bailey’s a Woodruff now. You should let her off that leash.”

  Had she been holding anything, he suspected it would have been sailing in his direction by now.

  Jake backed up a bit faster. “She’s got the mountain’s song in her head. Even if they get lost, anyone who belongs on this mountain comes back to it eventually.”

  Thea stopped in her tracks, a confused look on her face.

  Jake spun on his heel and strode toward his truck, grinning.

  Chapter Four

  “It was like a movie or something, the way he came up the porch steps carrying you and Bailey.” Mel took a sip of her coffee and gave Thea an innocent look.

  “Yeah. Tarzan of the Apes,” Thea groused. “Him Tarzan.”

  Mel laughed. She was perched precariously on the porch railing of her soon-to-be home while her soon-to-be husband crawled around on top of the gazebo in the garden. It was a misty, humid morning. Dust motes drifted through shafts of sunlight and a steady murmur of bird song and bee buzz droned through the hollow.

  “But did he really have a crush on Grace?” Mel flashed an impish grin.

  “Yes,” Thea said at the same time Grace said, “No.”

  Grace grimaced at Mel. “Thea totally made that up.”

  “Did not,” Thea protested. “He was always finding reasons to hang around, and it certainly wasn’t for me.”

  Grace was lying on a porch swing that Thea thought was more like a swinging couch. It was obviously handcrafted, with colorful thick cushions on the bottom and back and big bolster pillows on each end. Thea wanted to give it a spin, but Grace and her baby bump got priority.

  “Now that I think about it, he was probably looking for payback opportunities after all those pranks you and Becca pulled on him,” Grace retorted.

  “Becca?”

  “Jake’s sister,” Thea said. The sense of loss was only an echo now, but she could feel Grace watching her.

  “They were best friends,” Grace said. “And made a habit of ruining Jake’s love life by following him around and popping up at inconvenient times…singing.”

  Mel’s laugh was infectious. “Sounds like fun. What did you sing?”

  Thea frowned at her sister. But today was to be devote
d to Mel. Grace would keep after her until she caved and performed for the bride-to-be.

  “Jake, Jake, Earthquake. Jake, Jake, Beefcake. Jake, Jake, Cupcake. Jake, Jake, Hotcake,” she sang. It wasn’t a tune, just a singsong that cascaded up the scale to the last word, which was delivered dramatically with arm flourishes and hair tossing like some kind of pre-teen pep squad. She remembered Becca’s throaty alto weaving through her own soprano and the bubble of Becca’s laughter at the end.

  Mel’s hand was over her mouth. “Oh my.”

  “They did it at every opportunity, including this dance they had one year at the festival,” Grace said, raising her eyebrows. “And I wasn’t the girl dancing with Jake, I must point out.”

  Thea had to smile. “No, but whoever it was, she wasn’t dancing. She was murdering his poor feet.”

  “I think I like this Becca. I haven’t met her, have I?”

  Thea shook her head. “She died.” She knew her voice had gone flat. “A long time ago.”

  “Oh.” Mel was looking from Grace to her and back. “I’m sorry. She must’ve been very young.”

  “She was,” Grace said. “Very.”

  The sound of hammering echoed around the hollow. They heard Daniel yell something down to Nick, who stood on a ladder below him.

  Grace sighed dramatically. “Well, personally I prefer my men a bit darker than our illustrious sheriff.” Her gaze was on her husband in the distance. “Jake is so very blond and—”

  “Hey!” Mel pointed to her own very short blonde hair.

  “Not you, but on guys it looks so…”

  “Annoying,” Thea stated, hoping to steer the conversation away from Jake and Becca. Jake’s hair really wasn’t his best feature anyway. She liked his eyes, which were the color of good whiskey.

  Grace sipped her tea, those green eyes of hers watching Thea over the rim. “Well, I like dark with a hint of wicked. Blond is so clean-cut and… What’s the opposite of dangerous?”

  Jake is plenty dangerous, in his own way, Thea thought. She knew that he had been crying yesterday before he interrupted her. Either he didn’t realize that she could tell, or he didn’t care. But his grief, for Becca, for his father, for Pops, had been apparent. And that had cut her to the core.