Hot Spell

by Shiloh Walker

  Besides, the school still needed money, a lot of money, and Cindy deserved the chance to finish her education in the comfortable, familiar school in which she had begun. It had taken Ally years to overcome the patchwork education she’d received moving around the country every two years, and she was still very shy and nervous around new people. Her niece was not going to suffer the same way.

  Ally stiffened her shoulders, filled with new resolve. She was doing this for Cindy. Anything else was unimportant.

  A spark of deviltry quirked her lips as she met the PTA chair’s frosty gaze. Well, not everything. She was thrilled to be able to throw a monkey wrench in Betty’s plans, too.

  Besides, Matt Cantrell was a busy man who didn’t even have a child in the school. In all likelihood, he’d refuse outright, or foist her off on some high school after-school helper who wouldn’t care enough about the job to notice anything amiss about her farm.

  “Of course, I’ll accept his help, or the help of anyone who knows how to make and run a maze. There’s no point doing this unless we’re going to make a success of it.”

  Jane jumped up and down, applauding excitedly, and Betty flashed another pinched-lip smile. “Fine. I’ll pass the word that the PTA would appreciate his assistance.”

  Ally nodded and sat down, the rest of the meeting passing in a blur. Instead, she stared sightlessly at the stage while her brain chased round and round a single thought. What had she just agreed to?

  * * * * *

  Matt Cantrell held open the door to The Black Angus, allowing Cecelia Warren to enter the restaurant first. As they shrugged out of their overcoats, he nodded a greeting to Josie, the teenaged daughter of the owner who acted as hostess.

  “Your usual table by the window is waiting for you, Mr. Cantrell.”

  “You’re the best, Josie.”

  She dimpled prettily at him, remembering after a moment to smile at Cecelia, too.

  Matt stepped aside to let Cecelia follow Josie to their table, knowing from experience that Cece’s independent spirit would not welcome any overt gestures of chivalry, such as his hand on her back.

  He threaded his way through the restaurant behind the women, stopping to exchange greetings with all the people he knew along the way. Cecelia was already engrossed in her menu when he finally arrived at the table.

  “The specials are a petite surf and turf for $17.50, or a King Crab and Prime Rib combo for $38.00,” Cecelia announced without looking up from her menu.

  “Thanks.” He flipped open his menu, gave it a brief scan to confirm that it hadn’t changed since the previous Tuesday, then closed it again.

  Tony trotted over to their table before the menu hit the tabletop.

  “Mr. Cantrell. Ms. Warren. What would you like to drink this evening?”

  Matt lifted a brow at Cecelia.

  “I’ll take a Black Opal Chiraz, Tony,” she said.

  “And a Bass Pale Ale for me.”

  Tony nodded. “I’ll get them right out for you.”

  He turned from the table, then hesitated and turned back. “Mr. Cantrell, are you still looking for contractors for the Sullivan Plaza project?”

  “You moonlighting, Tony?”

  Tony chuckled. “Not me. Meals for a table of eight is as much heavy lifting as I want to do. My brother, Mike, is trying to expand his business.”

  Matt frowned. “Didn’t he leave a few years ago?”

  “It didn’t work out with him and his wife. He’s staying with me while he gets his feet under him again.”

  “Yeah, sure. Tell him to go see Bob Grossman. If we can’t use him on this job, we’ll call him for the next.”

  “Thanks! I really appreciate it.”

  Matt grinned. “You just want your living room couch back.”

  “You’re not kidding! He snores like a hog digging for the last scraps in the trough.”

  Tony hurried off to get their drinks. Matt turned back to Cecelia to find her watching him with a smile softening her normally aloof expression.

  “That was sweet of you.”

  He shrugged, flicking open his napkin then smoothing the crisp square of white linen across his legs to protect the fine gray wool of his pants. “Everyone deserves a chance.”

  Good to his word, Tony arrived just then with their drinks.

  “Are you ready to order?”

  “I’ll have the New York Strip,” Cecelia declared, closing her menu with a snap. “Medium well. Honey mustard on the side, baked with sour cream, no butter.”

  “Very good. And for you?”

  “The strip for me as well. Medium, house dressing, and just butter on the baked.”

  Tony gathered up their menus, turned on his heel and headed for the kitchen. Matt lifted his beer to Cecelia. Echoing the gesture with her wine, she clinked the rims together.

  “So how have you been this week?” Leaning back in his chair, he took a long pull of his beer.

  She laughed, and tucked her sweep of chestnut hair behind her ears. “I am so glad Amy is back. Last week was a complete zoo with a temp filling in for her. She misfiled the Lamberts’ paperwork with the Larsons’ and we almost had to cancel and reschedule their closing.

  “How’d you find it?”

  “She remembered the other paperwork in the file was about an easage, or ee-uh-sage as she called it, so I knew which file it was in. Fortunately, we were in my offices, so I could send her to get the other file.”

  Matt shook his head. “I didn’t hear anything about that from Karen, the agent for that sale, so it must’ve been transparent to the client.”

  “Thank God.”

  “What was wrong with Amy? Was she sick?”

  “No. She and David won an all-expense paid trip to the city to see some concert. From the radio station.”

  Matt scowled. “And she went? Just like that? Without giving you any warning?”

  Cecelia reached across the table and covered his hand with hers, stilling the restless tapping he hadn’t been aware of until she stopped it.

  “That’s what vacation days are for. It wasn’t her fault that the temp agency sent me such an incompetent.”

  “I hope you filed a complaint with them.”

  “She was actually a very good receptionist. All my clients loved her. It was only her secretarial skills that needed work.”

  Cecelia started to lift her hand away, but Matt turned his hand over and captured her fingers in his. Not looking at her face, he ran his thumb back and forth across her soft skin. He’d been over this moment a million different ways in his head, but now that it was here, it wasn’t conforming to any of his game plans.

  “Matt?”

  “I was just thinking. We’ve been seeing each other for, what, six years?”

  “Since I opened my own law firm,” she agreed. “And you took over the real estate business from Johnny Carlisle.”

  “It’s been a good arrangement for both of us.”

  “I know. When I originally proposed the idea to you, I was just looking for someone to deflect my family’s matchmaking efforts so I could concentrate on my career. I never expected to find such a good friend.”

  He looked up. “Just a good friend?”

  Cece rolled her eyes. “Matt, we’ve been over this. Friendship sex is a bad idea.”

  “But we—”

  “It was years ago. We were both drunk. And it’s not happening again.”

  That wasn’t what he’d been trying to say, but Tony arrived with their steaks, effectively ending the conversation.

  Matt took a sip of his ale. He’d had a perfect opportunity to broach the subject of taking their relationship to the next level. But he hadn’t pushed, taking the out Cece had given him. Mistake. She was conservative, adverse to taking unnecessary risks. She’d never raise the issue. It was up to him to put the topic on the table.

  The waiter moved away, and Cecelia turned her attention to the plate in front of her, carving the strip steak into neat squares of ide
ntical size. She put down the knife, sipped her Cheraz, then launched into another anecdote about the office temp. The moment was gone.

  Matt lowered his beer, filled oddly not with regret or disappointment, but with relief. And that made him angry.

  He splashed steak sauce on his strip steak, then hacked it into chunks. Cecelia stopped eating and watched him, her brow lifting in the mocking expression that never failed to destroy a witness on those few occasions when she was called upon to appear before Judge Martins.

  “Getting in touch with your inner caveman, are you?”

  “Rough day today,” he lied.

  Instantly, her expression transformed into concern. “I’m sorry. I’ve been hogging the conversation. Do you want to talk about it?”

  He couldn’t have set up a better opening if he’d planned it. Actually, this was one of the openings he’d planned for. Now all he had to do was follow through on the plan. Remind her how well suited for each other they were, how they were both getting older, how most of their friends had already settled down. Ask her to consider the possibility of formalizing their relationship.

  Formalize their relationship. Hell, he couldn’t even say the M-word in his head. How was he ever going to ask her to marry him?

  She was still watching him, waiting for his answer. Did he want to talk about what was bothering him? Hell, no! That’s what was bothering him!

  “No. It’s okay. Go ahead with your story.”

  She smiled and finished telling the anecdote. He laughed appreciatively at the end, even though he had no idea what she’d just said. He suspected she recognized his laughter was forced, but good friend and proper lady that she was, she didn’t call attention to that fact.

  It was just one more reason that she was all that he was looking for in a wife. They got along extremely well, with similar goals and approaches to life. They were at similar stages in their careers, the hunger and drive of their early twenties replaced with steady success. He knew she wanted children, eventually. Just as he did. It was time, as old Johnny Carlisle would say, to fish or cut bait. They could do worse than to marry each other.

  So why was he so reluctant to raise the question with her?

  They ate for a moment in silence, then Cecelia said brightly, “My sister said the last PTA meeting was very interesting.”

  “Oh?” He’d had the misfortune of sitting through one of the endlessly droning meetings. He couldn’t imagine anything short of an attendee’s coronary that would make it exciting, and he’d have already heard if something like that had happened.

  “You know how the school board is strapped for cash this year?”

  He nodded. “I’ve got the second sports field on sale for them. Not much hope for it, though. It’s not zoned for commercial development. “

  “They asked the PTA to help raise the needed funds. And Jane Wilcox came up with the idea of hosting a corn maze.”

  “Not a bad idea. Corn mazes are always popular draws. But it’s too late in the season to plant and grow a maze this year. The PTA needs that money this school year.”

  “Ally Nichols offered to put the maze in one of her crop fields. My sister thought Ally could use your help.”

  Matt set down his cutlery and stared at Cecelia. She was serious. “She wants to turn one of her corn crop fields into a maze? She’ll lose the whole crop.”

  “I presume she has a plan to address that. Betty didn’t tell me any more than I’ve told you.”

  “I’ll give her a call, and tell her what’s involved. I’m sure once she realizes what she volunteered for, she’ll change her mind.”

  “What if she doesn’t?”

  Matt’s lips pulled into a goofy grin, completely destroying his image as a serious businessman. “It’s been years since I was involved in the hands-on business of Matt’s Marvelous Mazes. And what a challenge, to pull this off in only a few weeks. How could I resist?”

  Even better, with all his attention needing to be devoted to the nearly impossible project, he had a perfect excuse for postponing any discussion of marriage. Cece had waited for six years. She could wait a little longer, until he was able to devote his full attention to proposing. By the time the corn maze was finished, he’d have figured out why he was hesitating, and take the appropriate steps to remedy the situation.

  The next time he set out to ask Cece to marry him, he’d make it all the way through the proposal, to the part where she said, “Yes.”

  * * * * *

  Ally swept her falling hair out of her eyes with the back of one hand, then realized she’d probably smudged dirt across her forehead. Kneeling in the soft soil surrounding her shady flowerbed on the north side of the house, she laughed. The oh-so-proper Betty Ellersbee would no doubt never be seen in ratty jeans and a university-logo sweatshirt bleached almost beyond recognition, with dirt on her face and twigs and leaves in her hair.

  Betty Ellersbee was missing out. There was nothing as satisfying as encouraging plants to grow, transforming earth and water into wood and the fire of life.

  She snipped another blossom from the peach-colored impatiens and tucked it into her basket beside the snapdragon pods, thanking the plant for its generosity. Shoving herself upright, she paused to stretch her back before walking out back to the herb garden to harvest the last of her ingredients, a few sprigs of thyme.

  The mechanical chirp of the telephone interrupted her contemplative state. Her sister’s voice drifted through the open kitchen windows, too soft for Ally to make out anything but the surprised tone.

  A moment later the screen door banged open, and Susan peered around the garden.

  “There you are. Telephone.”

  She’d harvested everything she needed. Stripping off her gloves, Ally followed her sister inside. “Who is it?”

  “Matt Cantrell. I told him we weren’t interested in selling the farm, but he said he had to talk to you.”

  Ally sighed. “I told you, I volunteered to run a corn maze for the PTA. He’s the local expert on corn mazes. No one’s trying to buy the farm.”

  “Oh. That’s okay, then.” Susan nodded, but judging by the blank look in her eyes, the news was penetrating no further than it had the first time Ally had told her.

  She wandered away, once again absorbed by her daily routines of housecleaning and other chores, the simple tasks that she had performed when her husband was still alive that were the limit of her abilities now that he was gone.

  Ally watched her go, wondering how long Susan’s grief could possibly last. One day soon she would have to get better. Wouldn’t she?

  Distracting herself from the futile question, Ally lifted the handset of the phone. “Hello, Mr. Cantrell.”

  “Call me Matt. No sense standing on formality if we’ll be working together.”

  Ally caught her breath, stunned by the impact of his voice. Matt’s energy fairly vibrated through the phone line. She felt that if she closed her eyes and reached out her hand, she could touch his warm, living body.

  She tightened her fingers around the phone.

  “Matt, then. Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. By the time I’m through, you might be giving up your notion of holding a corn maze.”

  And let the school system go bankrupt? Uproot and disrupt Cindy even worse than she already had been? Never!

  “I assure you, my mind is made up. I’ve chosen a field where the corn ripens a month early. I’ll hand harvest the ears, leaving the stalks in place. All I need to do is cut some gaps in the rows, dig up those ears and plant them between other rows, and I’ll have a maze.”

  Silence answered her, stretching for so long that she wondered if they’d been cut off. Then he said, “You’ve obviously given this a lot of thought. Have you also thought about security, parking, and crowd control?”

  Ally dropped into one of the kitchen chairs. “No. I hadn’t thought further than making the maze.”

  “That is the main hurdle. But you’re right, a simple m
aze can be designed that’s mainly horizontal lines, with a minimum of vertical replantings. When can I come out to see the property?”

  “Why do you need to see the property?” She restlessly fingered the velvety blooms of the impatiens. He wasn’t a farmer. He wouldn’t notice anything unusual about her fields. Maybe.

  She planned to make sure all traces of her witchcraft were removed from the cornfield before the maze was opened to visitors, but that would be after the harvest. Until then, she wanted to draw as much power and protection to the delicate hybrid crop as possible. And she didn’t want anyone wandering around the field, looking at things they had no business seeing.

  “If I’m going to design your maze, I have to see the field where the maze will be. I have to understand where people will enter, how the land is contoured, and what natural features I can take advantage of. I have to know how high the corn is, and how thick. The only way to do that is to walk the property.”

  She hesitated, torn between the realization that he was right, he needed to inspect her cornfield if the maze was going to be a success, and the need to keep her family safe by keeping strangers and possible threats as far away as possible.

  “Ms. Nichols?” he prompted.

  “Call me Ally. After all, cornfields are no place for formality.” She parroted his earlier explanation back at him.

  His rich laugh flowed across the telephone line. “Ally. When will it be convenient for me to come over and look at your field?”

  “Tomorrow.” Thursday was a well-omened day, perfect for launching new ventures and ensuring good luck and prosperity.

  “Tomorrow it is.” Paper rustled in the background. “How’s one-thirty sound?”

  “Fine. I’ll see you then.”

  Ally hung up the phone, then remained standing in the kitchen, staring at it. She had half a day to get ready, and hide any obvious evidence of her witchcraft. But first, she had a spell to cast.

  Grabbing her gardening basket, she headed for her workroom in the barn.