Bewitching the Bachelor

by Suzanne Marie Calvin

  Bianca smiled. “Honey, I appreciate your passion, but black magic isn't the way. Even with men like Jasper. He'll reap his own karma eventually."

  Fallon rolled her eyes. “I know, I know. Harm none.” She waved a hand and snorted. “I would have gladly suffered whatever karma threw my way just to be able to make him hurt the way he hurt you."

  It was a constant disagreement between them. Bianca knew Fallon might never understand the gravity of the threefold rule, an awareness that whatever was sent out would come back to the sender threefold. Using magic as a means of revenge was very dangerous.

  Nevertheless, Miles and Fallon cared. Knowing this was a comfort to Bianca. They had befriended her years ago when others were afraid to. The Frank siblings were more like family than friends, really.

  "I'm confused by something I saw tonight,” Bianca finally told them. “When I touched Luke's hand, I had a vision.” She waited for them to interrupt with friendly banter again but they remained seriously quiet now.

  She paused, swallowed hard, and watched her hands, where she wrung them on her lap. Mouth dry, she nearly choked over her words. “It was a hanging. A witch's hanging. A long time ago. I'm nearly positive it was Celia Honeywell's hanging."

  She watched their eyes widen, but neither spoke.

  Bianca lifted her shoulders, heart throbbing dully in her throat. “Anyway, I was the witch they were hanging. At least, I was in her body. I felt the rope around my neck, I heard the voices, smelled the smells. It was all very, very real."

  She looked away and blinked back a surprise attack of hot, stinging tears. No matter how hard she tried, Bianca couldn't sort through the jumbled thoughts rolling around in her head.

  Except...

  "One thing was clear. What I saw has something to do with me ... and with Luke Jones. I could feel it. I didn't see him there, but I sensed that he was there, somehow.” She stopped, then pressed her lips together while a shudder scalded her spine.

  When Bianca closed her eyes, the vision played over in the backdrop of darkness.

  "I saw a man. And a woman. With their children.” She breathed deeply then stammered, “I mean ... there was a crowd ... But the man, most especially, stood out. Secondary were his wife and two children."

  Bianca shook her head, feeling edgy and frustrated. “I'm not sure, but my guess is that the man was Liam Halestrom. The anger I felt when I saw him was ... intense. I just don't know why I was sent there in my vision. It doesn't make sense."

  "Do you think Luke knows what happened? That you saw something?” Miles’ forehead was creased and she sensed his concern.

  "I'm not sure,” she admitted. “He left before I could find out.” She frowned. “Escaped, actually. I hadn't planned to let him go until I got some answers, but Mr. O'Malley distracted me."

  Miles moaned and rolled his eyes. “Did that man lose his cane again?"

  "Of course.” Bianca laughed softly. “Thank heavens his head's attached."

  "What do you think it means? Your vision?” Fallon's voice was uncharacteristically hushed and Bianca realized she was worried also.

  "I'm not sure. That's what's so unnerving about it.” She sighed, combed a hand through her hair, and explained, “Usually my visions make sense. I know instinctively what the symbolism means. Why I'm seeing what I'm seeing.” She shrugged again, her heart sinking deep into her abdomen. “This time, I'm just not sure."

  "Maybe Luke Jones knows.” Miles leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Want me to find him for you?"

  "I have a feeling he'll resurface on his own.” Bianca knew Luke would be back. Perhaps for no other reason than to get his precious story. “Yes. He'll definitely resurface.” Hoisting her chin up a determined notch, she fixed a steady gaze on Miles and Fallon. “And when he returns, he's going to have some explaining to do."

  Chapter Four

  Luke saw Dr. Moss the next morning and, damn it, Bianca had been right. No cracked ribs. Only bruising.

  He begrudgingly thanked the doctor, left the office, and found himself at Nanna's Pet Store. There he bought thirty dollars’ worth of chew toys, dog biscuits, and a hideous thing that looked like an eye-less, ear-less teddy bear. For good measure, he strolled into The Candy Factory, where he purchased a half-pound of fudge.

  Payola in hand, he found Abigail O'Grady in the phone book and drove his motorcycle down the scenic highway to a small yellow Colonial-style house on Cornfield Road, where endless tidy rows of tall corn lined both sides of the street.

  Wind chimes, dozens of them, dangled from her front porch, tinkling softly in the subtle heat-plagued breeze that was slowly pushing in clouds. A summer storm was on the way, bringing stifling humid temperatures and tiny annoying bugs that just wouldn't let up. “No-see-ums” was what Jimmy LeBlanc, the owner of the hardware store in town, had called the pesky critters that loved eating city boys alive.

  Dodging a cluster of them, he jogged up onto Abigail's porch and banged on the screen door.

  Lulu, the famous poodle, greeted him first. She was a ferocious little bundle of white curly hair and bows. He thought anyone who fancied tying pink ribbons in a dog's hair had too much time on their hands, but Luke summoned a friendly greeting for the over-pampered, sorry excuse for a dog anyway.

  "Well, hello there!” Abigail came through the den to meet him at the door. “Luke Jones, isn't it?"

  "Yes ma'am. Beautiful place you have here. And how's your wonderful dog today, ma'am?” When Abigail let him in, Lulu relentlessly nipped at his ankles. He resisted the urge to punt the poodle and tried to sound sincere as he commented, “You're right about Lulu, she's certainly one of a kind."

  "Come here, baby,” Abigail cooed in the kind of voice most adults used when speaking to an infant. A human infant. “Now don't you bark at this nice man.” She kissed the dog's nose then smiled at Luke. “What brings you out here?"

  "I come bearing gifts.” He grinned, lifting both arms. In one hand was a brown paper bag from the pet store, in the other, a container of fudge.

  Abigail beamed, her pudgy cheeks flushed, her blue eyes dancing. Then she spoke to the dog again. “Lookie here, Lulu pups! It seems that Mr. Jones has brought you some treaties!"

  Luke forced another smile. “Yes. Treaties. That's what they are, all right."

  "Come into the kitchen, Luke. I just made some iced tea."

  He followed her through the den, noting that the decor had to be circa 1950-something. As far as he could recall, it was the last era that had used colors like pea soup green and pumpkin shell orange.

  The kitchen wasn't much different, with its imitation wood dinette and butternut-squash-hued faux-leather chairs, Luke felt as if he were in some sort of time warp. The stove was antique, as was the refrigerator, not to mention the cheesy linoleum.

  He sat at the dinette and Abigail let Lulu back down. While she poured tea into tall plastic cups that were neon green and pink, Lulu resumed her ankle-nipping fetish. Luke tried to distract the dog with chew toys and the odd-looking teddy bear. The biscuits did the trick. He'd bought them large. It took the dog nearly five minutes just to break one in half.

  "That should keep you busy for a while.” He managed to sound pleasant and cheerful rather than malicious and relieved. Reporters had to be—among their myriad other talents—actors, too.

  Abigail set the iced teas on the table and slid her plump bottom into a chair. “What can I do for you, Luke?” She patted her glistening face with a folded napkin, then smoothed her silver hair back toward the bun on top of her head.

  "I understand that you're the town historian.” He paused to sip his tea. It was cold and refreshing. His mood lifted instantly. The creases in his brow smoothed and the clench in his jaw relaxed. “Mmm! Great tea."

  Abigail beamed a thank you smile at him.

  He settled back into his chair, letting a smile soften his features. “I'd like to know about the Honeywells."

  She shook her head and mused, “You r
eporters. You never give up, do you?"

  "The others were amateurs,” he joked with a wink and his most fetching boyish grin. “I'm the real thing."

  Appreciative eyes slid over him and, suddenly, Luke felt like a side of beef. He drank more tea and tried not to blush.

  "You'll get no argument from me.” Her chuckle was deep and rumbling. She gave his wrist a pat, her hands spotted with age, her nails short and unmanicured. She glanced down at Lulu, still happily gnawing away at her dog biscuit. “What do you want to know about the Honeywells, Luke?"

  He drew his hand away and stroked it through his hair. “How long have they lived in Connecticut?"

  "Off and on for hundreds of years. Celia Honeywell's hanging is said to have taken place in Connecticut, and that was 1695.” She sipped her tea, stroked the napkin over her mouth, then continued, “The Honeywell place here in town is over a hundred years old. Bianca is the fifth generation to live in that house."

  "What happened to the others?"

  "Well, Bridget, the great-great-grandmother, died of old age. In 1930-something, I believe.” She tapped an index finger at her chin, and lifted her eyes to the ceiling. “Belinda, her daughter, was said to have died of a broken heart. Only fifty-five when she passed.” Wagging her head, she clacked her tongue. “So young. A shame. Brianna, the grandmother, passed with pneumonia one winter.” Remembrance dawned over her blue eyes. “Come to think of it, she had a brother. Bartholomew. He died very young. Only twenty-two. Horse-riding accident, I think, but I'd have to check the books."

  "Is there some significance to the fact of everyone's name beginning with the letter B?” he asked curiously.

  She laughed. “Odd, I know. I guess that began with Constance's daughter, Rebecca. Constance was Lydia's daughter. Lydia belonged to Celia.” Abigail nodded thoughtfully, again a faraway flicker in her eyes. When she snapped out of the reverie, she went on, “Anyway, Rebecca went by the name of Becca. She had a daughter and called her—hmm—Beulah. Yes. I believe it was Beulah.” With a shrug, she said, “From that point, every Honeywell's first name began with the letter B.” Her forehead creased. “Wonder if that's common in witch families?"

  The fact that she said “witch families” as if they really existed irked him. “Tell me about Bianca's mother."

  "Oh, Blythe.” She smiled fondly. “Lovely woman. Bianca looks so much like her.” Shaking her head, her voice was distant and sad. “I have to say I miss her terribly. She moved away to England. They have family there, too. I suppose they all came originally from England."

  Luke polished off his tea then set the glass back on the table. The melting ice cubes shifted. Tempted, he plucked one from the glass and popped it into his mouth. “Why did she go?

  "Some say to care for a sick relative.” There was a knowing twinkle in her eyes. “I think she was trying to escape the curse."

  "Celia's curse?” That made no sense, he decided, crunching the cube in his mouth. “I don't understand."

  Abigail's smile was melancholy around the edges. “Well, I'd say it must be hard for those women. Men never stick around very long, not once they find out about the curse.” She fixed a steady gaze on Luke, as if summing up his reaction to her words.

  Luke snagged another piece of ice, stuck it in his mouth, and said nothing. He figured she expected him to quake in his boots, being a man and this big bad curse hanging over any male who might have Halestrom blood in his veins.

  Noting his bland expression, her brow furrowed. “It's never been proven that any man died by the hands of a Honeywell woman.” Sighing, she smoothed a stray wisp of hair from her forehead. “Still, whether they're Halestroms or not, men won't come within a mile of a Honeywell woman once they find out about Celia's curse."

  In silence, he mulled over her words. Most people shied away from reporters who took meticulous notes. Tape recorders were even worse. A recording device could make the chattiest informant suddenly clam up. Luke committed everything to memory. He could have the most wary interviewee eating out of his hand in five minutes flat. Charming, attentive and patient, he was anyone's most trustworthy confidant. That was why Luke was good at what he did.

  "Bianca's great-grandmother ... Belinda, was it?"

  She nodded and smiled, clearly glad he was an attentive audience.

  "You said she died of a broken heart?"

  "Oh yes. Very sad.” She clucked her tongue again in dismay. “Fell head over heels for a man. Married him and gave birth to Brianna. He died tragically. Attacked by a wolf while camping alone. Got torn up real bad.” Scrunching her face in disgust, she added, “It was horrible. Could hardly identify the body."

  She swiped the folded napkin across her forehead, sipped her tea, and then met his quiet stare. Luke cleared his throat, dropped his gaze, and agreed, “That's very sad."

  Some hurts never went away. His own father had died twenty years ago and, still, Luke remembered how it had torn his mother apart. The shock. The despair. It was impossible to forget that kind of pain.

  Luke had kept himself busy. But never busy enough to forget what it felt like to be fatherless at such a young age. Then, many, many years later, learning of the Honeywell curse while studying the witch trials in college had reopened half-healed wounds.

  "Of course, folks blamed it on the curse, though Belinda's husband wasn't even a Halestrom. Not the way Mark was—” She stopped short, her cheeks pink, and looked away, muttering, “I think you should look through my books. Everything about the Halestroms and the Honeywells is there."

  "You know about Mark Halestrom?” Luke probed.

  Abigail's nod was slow, though she'd suddenly lost her gift for gab.

  With curiosity eating away at him, Luke swallowed the lump of frustration in his throat. Fine. She clearly wanted him to learn about Mark Halestrom from one of her books. That's exactly what he would do.

  "So you were saying ... folks thought the curse killed Belinda's husband,” he ground out, his tone less tolerant than the patient smile he gave her.

  "Yes.” She snorted, anger passing over her eyes as she irritably waved a hand. “There were even ridiculous rumors that Belinda had turned herself into a wolf and killed him. Folks'll make up the stupidest stories when they can't find the answers some other way. They never saw hide nor hair of a wolf in the area before or after the attack.” She shrugged. “So I guess that gave everyone the right to draw their own conclusions.” Shaking her head, sadness made her voice quaver. “Poor Belinda. Losing Cedric just devastated her, but to make matters worse, people were telling tales that she'd turned into a wolf and attacked him."

  Shape-shifters, he thought to himself. Another myth. Humans who could change the way they looked, often taking on the form of animals. Crazy. Lunacy. People believed in the strangest things sometimes.

  Luke's mother had never been blamed for his father's death. They had loved each other immensely. Besides, Virginia Halestrom wasn't a witch. That fact alone was reason enough for him to disbelieve the Honeywell curse.

  Abigail sipped her tea. The troubled expression in her eyes told Luke that she wasn't exactly impartial when it came to the Clover Falls chronicles, especially pertaining to the Honeywells. Dabbing her forehead, eyes, then her nose with the napkin, she told him, “Poor Belinda could barely stand the grief and the guilt. Died in her sleep one night."

  The image her words created tugged hard at his chest. If he let his guard down, empathy might sneak up on him, and there was no place for compassion in reporting. It was all about objectivity.

  He looked away, trying to get a handle on what he was feeling. Good reporters—no—great reporters didn't get emotionally involved.

  He glanced at Lulu, still working on the biscuit, oblivious to his ankles, and off-handedly queried, “You mentioned that Blythe left for England. Why did Bianca stay?"

  "You'd have to ask her that.” Abigail gave him a thin-lipped smile, her eyes gleaming with something he thought might be mischief. “But if you want my
guess, I think that girl is just bound and determined to live a normal life, in spite of the curse. Got a lot of piss and vinegar in her, that one."

  He might have used that same phrase to describe Bianca as well. Along with words like intriguing and sexy. Maybe unnerving. Definitely puzzling. Especially after last night. Luke still wasn't sure what had happened when she'd taken his hand. He wasn't certain he wanted to know, either.

  "Can't be easy for a girl like her, though,” Abigail considered aloud.

  "What do you mean?"

  The twinkle in her eyes turned to a flicker of disbelief. She tilted her head and watched him out of the corner of her eye. “As if you don't already know, Mr. Jones."

  "I'm sorry?"

  With a smirk and a nod, she told him, in a slow, purposeful tone, “Celia Honeywell was the first witch hanged in her colony."

  "There were others. I read in the history books—"

  "Innocents. Victims. Celia was a real witch."

  He brought his eyes to the ceiling and laughed, humor rolling over each word. “Okay. Sure. We can pretend for a minute that—"

  "Pretend?” she repeated, her laughter hearty. “You can't be the town historian without hearing and reading things you never thought were possible.” She blushed, then looked down at the napkin she folded, over and over, in her trembling hands.

  A flicker of excitement made his nerve endings crackle and his mouth went dry. Then reality trickled back in. Abigail's little performance was so believable Luke had almost fallen for it. Instead, he rebuked himself for being uncharacteristically gullible.

  For Pete's sake, even the town historian was pulled into this charade. How many people had Bianca Honeywell made fools of?

  It was ridiculous. She had to be stopped.

  "You should know, Abigail, I'm not here for the hype. I'm not interested in campfire stories or myths that have been passed down through the generations. I'm here for the truth. That's what I write. The truth."