The ritual was finished and the circle taken up as Dori rose again, lifting her arms in silence to bid farewell to the Goddess, then lowering them and crossing them over her chest, bowing her head.
As those gathered rushed into the next room, where snacks were piled high and wine was chilling, she quickly cleared her altar, lovingly wrapping each tool in silk cloth and tucking each back into the trunk in the corner. The Tiffany chalice. The crystal-tipped wand she’d had custom-made by an artisan in Greenwich Village. The statues of Pan and Diana, replicas of ancient artifacts. She’d bought them in the gift shop at the Met. The dagger, with its double-edged silver blade and onyx handle, slid neatly into its sheath. It was worth a small fortune. She was especially careful with the giant quartz crystal ball on its elaborate pewter stand. She rarely had time to use the thing, but it looked great on the altar.
She didn’t relax until every item was safely tucked in the trunk and she had turned the key.
“Thanks so much for letting us use your flat, Lady Starfire.” The voice was Sara’s—could be no one else’s, with that beautiful accent. She was new in town, but very highly regarded in the community. Had come straight from England with the equivalent of a Witch’s pedigree—a long and distinguished lineage.
When Dori turned to face her, it was to see her dropping into a curtsy, her head bent low.
“We’re not so formal, here, Sara. Ritual’s over. It’s okay to call me Dori. And I’ve never been all that comfortable with the genuflecting.” She glanced into the next room, where there had to be at least forty people eating, talking, laughing. Someone had put John Denver and the Muppets on the stereo—which was sure to start an earnest debate about playing Christmas music at a Solstice party among those not yet far enough along their path to realize they were all celebrating the same thing.
Dori almost cried when she thought of the potential crumbs and spills on her carpet.
“I simply couldn’t believe we had so many who wished to attend!” Sara went on. “Our open circles have only brought in eighteen to twenty people, up to now.”
“I know.”
“There just wasn’t room in the back room of my shop,” she went on. “And I couldn’t bear to turn anyone away.”
“I know,” Dori said again, fixing the beautiful blond Witch with a serious look. “It’s okay. Really, Sara.”
The other woman sighed in relief. A little too much relief. So Dori quickly added, “And next time, you’ll know in advance that you need a bigger place, so you’ll have time to make other arrangements.”
“Right.” She nodded hard. “Absolutely. And we’ll leave the place spotless, I swear.”
“The cleaning service will take care of that.”
Sara smiled. “Will you join us for the refreshments?”
Dori glanced into the dining room, at the smiling faces, young and old, dark and light, round and narrow. She didn’t want to join them. They tended to fawn and fuss and treat her like a celebrity and she wasn’t up to it tonight. Something was terribly wrong. But if she didn’t take part, they’d be disappointed, so she lifted her chin and walked into the dining room.
Several of those present bowed in her direction when she did. One quickly vacated a chair and another brought her a glass of wine.
Dori sighed, sipped her wine, smiled a little. Every High Priestess in this room had been taught by her. Every coven had sprung from the little one that had begun around her coffee table when she’d first come to Manhattan from tiny Crescent Cove, Vermont, ten years ago. She’d really done a good thing here, she thought. Her Witches were busy, politically active, constantly working to educate the public about the Craft and debunk the widespread misconceptions that caused so many Wiccans so many problems. They provided services for the Pagan community, raised money for the homeless, organized Pagan Pride events and voter-registration drives.
Yes. She’d done a good thing. And the Goddess had rewarded her. Her life was perfect. And she was sitting here in her penthouse apartment, petrified, waiting for the ax to fall.
In the morning, it did.
She showered and dressed for success in a burgundy Pierre Atonia suit—slender skirt, a little on the short side, tailored jacket that accentuated her narrow waist, matching designer pumps. She left a brief note for the cleaning service, asking them to spend extra time on the dining room carpet, and she took a taxi to work just as she always did.
But when she stepped out of the elevator into the reception area of Mason-Walcott Publishing, a grim-faced man was waiting for her.
“Ms. Stewart?” he asked. He didn’t smile.
He was tall and dressed all in black. His face was pale and bony, his eyes deep set. He could have been the pop-culture version of the Grim Reaper, she thought. And a shiver went up her spine. Everything in her told her this was it, the thing she’d been feeling in the air.
“Yes?”
“I’m Martin Black, VP in charge of personnel.”
She lifted her eyebrows. “Of Mason-Walcott?”
“Of Beckenridge.”
Beckenridge. One of the largest publishers in the biz—and notoriously right-wing conservative.
“And you’re here because…?”
“Because Beckenridge just took over Mason-Walcott.”
She looked past him to see if co-workers were lurking, ready to laugh at her falling for such a lame joke. But her stomach had clenched into a knot that told her this was for real.
“I’m afraid we’re…not going to be needing you.”
She blinked twice, and for the first time she noticed the big cardboard box on the counter that separated the receptionist’s desk from the rest of the area. It held her belongings.
She shifted her gaze back to Mr. Black’s. “You’re firing me?”
“Technically, we’re laying you off. We took the liberty of clearing out your office. Everything’s right here.”
She nearly gaped. “May I ask the reason?”
He shrugged. “Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters. I’m not even convinced it’s legal!”
“Oh, it’s legal. The position of editorial executive director is being eliminated, to be sure it’s legal.”
“But that’s not the real reason, is it?”
He shrugged. “Would you really want to stay, Ms. Stewart? Our titles fly in the face of everything you so openly believe in and practice.” He handed her an envelope. “A month’s severance. It’s more than generous. Good luck, Ms. Stewart.”
He scooped her box of belongings off the counter and shoved it into her chest, leaving her no choice but to take it or let it fall to the floor. Then he clasped her elbow, turning her toward the elevator, and reached past her to push the button.
“You can’t do this,” she said. Useless, but all she could come up with.
“I just did.” The doors opened. He nudged her inside and stood there until they closed again. “Goodbye, Ms. Stewart. Have a nice life.”
Chapter One
A few days before Winter Solstice, one year later…
“Hey, Dori, hon, you gonna get over here and fill this coffee cup, or do I have to climb over the counter and get it myself?”
“Keep your pants on, Bill.” Dori set down the tray full of dirty plates, grabbed the coffeepot and hurried to fill the man’s cup. Mort’s Diner, in Crescent Cove, Vermont, was decorated to the max for the holiday season: wreath on the door, fake green garland looped everywhere, cinnamon-and candy-cane-scented candles burned and holiday music played constantly.
Jason was there, sitting in a corner booth, enjoying a sandwich and a cup of cocoa. Watching her. He was there a lot, more often than seemed reasonable. Then again, she didn’t suppose there was much work for the police chief of a small, quiet town like this. Hell, maybe it was vain of her to think he came around just to watch her waiting tables. It had been more than a decade, after all, since he’d held her. Since he’d kissed her.
There was nothing between them anymo
re.
Dori sighed in relief when she heard the jingle bells over the door and saw Sally walk in. After setting the coffeepot back on the burner, she reached behind her to tug her apron loose as Sally came behind the counter.
“You’re an hour late. Again,” Dori said.
“I’m sorry, Doreen. Little Amy had a doctor’s appointment and I only just got her back home.” She pulled her apron around her and tied it in place.
There was always a reason. Always. And it usually had to do with the woman’s small army of children. “Whatever. I’m out of here.” Dori tossed the apron down, snatched her coat off the rack and went into the back room to collect her sorry excuse for a paycheck from the owner.
But she paused near the door as she heard Bill say, “Damn. You’d think she’d have come down off that high horse by now, wouldn’t you?”
Dori stood still, listening.
“It was a hard fall,” Sally said. “Going from a penthouse in Manhattan to her uncle’s log cabin on the lakeshore. From a high-powered job to slinging hash for lousy tippers like you. Hell, she probably used to earn more in a month than she’s made here in…how long has it been now since Dori came running back here with her tail between her legs?”
Bill didn’t answer. The grown-up version of the boy who’d been her summer fling as a teenager—for several consecutive summers—answered, instead. “Eleven months, three weeks and two days.”
“Think she’s gonna stay for good this time?” Bill asked.
“Wish to hell I knew,” Jason said. And there was something in his voice—something kind of pained.
Dori moved to the swinging door, peered through its porthole-shaped glass. He was still at his table in the corner, staring at the sheet of pink notebook paper he held in one hand. It was old, had been folded so long the creases were darker colored. It looked worn thin. As she stared at it, wondering, he lifted his gaze, and Dori backed away from the door.
“She belongs here,” Sally was saying. “Don’t you worry, Jason. She’s gonna realize that by-and-by.”
Now, why was she saying that? As if Jason had any stake in what Dori decided to do with her life. She’d broken things off with Jason ten years ago—in a Dear John letter….
Written on pink notebook paper.
Something knotted in her belly. She told herself she was being ridiculous, snatched her paycheck from the slotted mail holder on the wall and decided to go out the back door rather than walking through the front of the diner again.
Tugging the hood of her parka up over her head, she trudged through the snow to her car and rolled her eyes when she realized she would have to spend a few minutes brushing snow off it before she could go anywhere.
She missed her Mercedes—the remote starter, the heated leather seats, the warm, snow-free garage where she used to keep it parked. But she pulled her mittens from her pockets and thrust her hands into them. She opened the door to start the engine, grabbed the snow brush and slammed the door hard enough to knock some of the snow off. Then she began brushing. A thin layer of ice lay beneath the two inches of snow, and that required scraping. She hated scraping ice.
An old woman walked past the parking lot, waved at her and called, “Cold enough for you?”
“Plenty,” Dori replied.
“Ah, but cold means clear. It’s done snowing. The stars are going to be beautiful tonight,” the old woman said. And she continued on her way.
Fifteen minutes later, Dori had made a hole on the windshield just big enough to see where she was going, and she was heading out of Crescent Cove proper and toward Uncle Gerald’s cabin on the shore of Lake Champlain.
The lake was moody today, dark and choppy except in the spots where it was beginning to freeze over. She drove into the curving driveway, past the big wooden sign with the image of a green sea serpent and the words Champ Tours: $20.00. She made a mental note to take the sign down. She’d dry-docked the boat and closed up the souvenir shop two months ago. No point leaving the sign up all winter.
Champ—Lake Champlain’s answer to the Loch Ness Monster—had been her uncle’s bread and butter for as long as she could remember. She used to come out here every summer as a teen and work for him as a tour guide, retelling the Champ legends until she knew them all by heart, taking people around the lake until she knew it by heart, as well. And spending every free moment with local boy-next-door Jason Farrar.
He’d been her first lover. It had been innocent and clumsy and wonderful. She would never forget that night. But at the end of her last summer here, she’d left him with nothing except that stupid note, telling him she would never be back, and to look her up in Manhattan if he wanted to. He never had.
She’d meant what she’d written in the note. She had never intended to come back here. She wouldn’t have believed in a million years that she would be forced to revive the old business long after her uncle had retired to Boca Raton. But she’d had no choice. Goddess knew she couldn’t survive on the pittance they paid her waiting tables at the diner.
Yeah, Goddess knew all right. She just didn’t particularly care.
Sighing, Dori shut the car off and got out, hoping she wouldn’t have to scrape the car off again in the morning.
She unlocked the front door and went inside, flipped on the lights, heeled off her boots, shrugged off her coat, tugged off her mittens. She went to the wall to turn up the thermostat, then padded into the living room and sank onto the sofa.
On the opposite wall was a tiny plaque. It depicted a Goddess in silver silhouette against a deep blue background, standing in the curve of an upturned crescent moon. Her arms were raised the way Dori’s used to be in the midst of a circle when she was drawing down the moon. The plaque was the one ritual item she hadn’t been forced to sell.
But she had found that out here in Crescent Cove, there was little use for her elaborate, expensive ritual tools. She was probably the only Wiccan within a hundred miles. She practiced alone.
That wasn’t quite true. She didn’t really practice at all, unless you counted all the spells she’d cast, all the magic she’d done to get her old life back. Nothing had worked. Nothing. And for about the millionth time she found herself wondering if any of it had ever been real.
She looked up at the Goddess on the wall opposite her and wondered why she kept the plaque hanging there. Did she even believe anymore?
JASON WALKED around the cabin toward the front door, but he stopped when he caught a glimpse through the side window of the woman he’d loved for as long as he could remember. She was standing, staring up at something on the wall. A single tear rolled down her cheek.
He couldn’t take his eyes away. Why was she crying?
Hell, he hadn’t been able to make much sense of Dori Stewart since she’d dumped him and headed off to the big city to make her fortune. She’d barely spoken two words to him since she’d been back. And he wasn’t altogether sure that was a bad thing.
He still wanted her. Just as badly as he always had. But he wasn’t ready to risk his heart again. She’d damn near crippled him when she’d walked away. He’d been seeing wedding bells, a house and kids in their future, and she’d apparently thought of him as little more than a summer sidekick. He wasn’t going to let himself go through that again. So he’d stayed away from her, waiting to see what she planned to do, just about as long as he could stand to. For nearly a whole year he’d limited himself to a few words of greeting when they met in the diner, told himself to keep his distance for his own sanity, even while torturing himself by sitting in a booth every day, watching her.
He had asked her out once when she’d first come back to town. She’d shot him down cold. It was then he’d decided he owed it to himself to get over her. But getting over Dori Stewart was easier decided than done.
As he watched, she lowered her head, swiped an impatient hand at her tears and turned to walk out of his line of vision.
Jason went the rest of the way to the door, knocked twice, then stood
there waiting.
It only took her a second to come to the door. She asked who it was, and when he told her, he heard locks turning.
Hell, she’d been living in the city too damn long.
She opened the door and stood there, looking out at him. “What is it?”
Friendly, she wasn’t. Then again, he’d already ascertained that she wasn’t in the best of moods. He offered a friendly smile. “I’d prefer to tell you from in there where it’s warm. Save you letting all the heat out.”
She met his eyes, but opened the door wider to let him in. He stomped the snow off his boots and came inside, and she closed the door behind him.
He liked the way she looked. He hadn’t when she’d first come back. Her copper hair had been too tamed, too trimmed, too styled. Her skin had been as pale as porcelain and she’d been skinny as a rail.
A summer on the lake had improved things a whole lot. Put some color in her cheeks. She’d let her hair grow out just as it pleased, and she might have put on a few pounds, too. She was starting to look as though she belonged out here—even if she wasn’t acting that way just yet.
“So what can I do for you, Chief Farrar?” she asked.
“Kind of formal, don’t you think? Given our history?”
She shrugged. “It’s been a long time.”
“So long you can’t even call me Jason anymore?”
She met his eyes, and he saw something flicker. Regret, maybe. Interest, perhaps, he hoped. Her tone softened, as did her face. He thought a little of the stiffness left her body.
“What can I do for you, Jason?”
“A cup of coffee would do for starters. If it’s fresh.”
“I stopped serving people at five, but you’re welcome to help yourself.”
“I’ll take it.” He tugged off his boots and then sock-footed his way across the kitchen, draping his coat over the back of a chair on the way. Then he took two mugs from the little wooden tree and filled them. He set them on the table, grabbed the cream from the fridge and sat down.
12 Stocking Stuffers Page 36