Bewitching the Bachelor

by Suzanne Marie Calvin

  Edna, a sweet woman in her mid-nineties who shuffled around with the help of a cane, watched him from across the dinette. Behind tortoise-shell bifocals her eyes were the same color as Luke's. Her hair, pulled into a tight gray bun at the top of her head, had clearly, years ago, been ebony, like his.

  What really gave him the willies, though, was finding his father's nose and mouth on Edna Samson's face.

  "You haven't touched your pie, dear,” she commented, her lips sliding into his dad's smile.

  He stared at her wordlessly for a long moment. Strawberry-rhubarb pie, though Luke's favorite, was the last thing on his mind just then.

  "Mrs. Samson...” he began slowly. The tremor in his voice was a dead giveaway. He honestly felt as if he were in some lost episode of the Twilight Zone.

  "Edna, please,” she insisted. “We're family."

  His stomach pitched. He lifted a shaky hand. “Yeah. That's the part I'm kind of struggling with here."

  She sighed, inching her chair closer to the table. Lifting a fork to her slice of pie, she studied him over her glasses. With what seemed to be strained patience she asked, “Would you like me to explain it to you once more, dear?"

  He shook his head. Luke didn't need to hear it again. The first time was enough. It was just a bigger bite than he could swallow all at once. It wasn't every day that a guy discovered his family tree had been spliced with the branch from another genus altogether.

  He wasn't a Halestrom at all. He was a Samson.

  Lucas Halestrom, Liam's second-born son, was apparently not Liam's son at all. Lucas was the son of William Samson and Rebecca Halestrom. According to Edna Samson, at least. So while Liam had been enjoying Celia's company, Rebecca had found solace in the preacher's arms. And bed.

  All of this left Luke in a daze. Yet in the conflicting turmoil of chaos and clarity, things were gradually beginning to make sense.

  He eyed the diary, hesitant to open it. It was the proverbial can of worms. One hell of a can, at that.

  "Be careful,” she cautioned in a friendly tone before stabbing her fork into a glazed strawberry. “There are loose drawings in there. I never taped them in because I was afraid it would ruin them. And the pages are tattered but in good shape, considering how old that book is."

  More magic, he figured, realizing the voice in his head had lost a lot, if not all, of its cynicism. What he held in his hands wasn't just the three hundred year old diary of a woman who'd long-since died. Rather, Luke felt as if it held the answers to a thousand questions that had bumbled around in his head for years.

  The diary was as well-kept as Liam's suicide note had been. As if Rebecca's journal had preserved itself, in waiting. Waiting for the right someone to come along and read it.

  As Luke turned the small leather-bound book over in his hands, he felt like the right someone. Felt a thrill begin at his fingertips then pulse through his veins with every insistent thrum of his heart. He was supposed to be there, in Edna Samson's yellow and blue kitchen, with its smells of baked pie and coffee, holding this tattered old diary in his hands.

  Just like going to Clover Falls had been a part of someone—or something's—master plan. Meeting Bianca. Discovering magic. Learning of Celia's curse. His idea for the article in the first place. All of it had happened so that he would be there, right now, in Edna's kitchen, finding out who he really was.

  Smiling, Edna surveyed Luke with gentle, appreciative eyes. “You look like him, you know."

  "I'm sorry?"

  "Like William Samson. You look just like him."

  "I know. I've seen ... drawings.” He swallowed, his throat parched. Reaching for his glass of lemonade he drank half then set the glass back down. “Didn't anyone realize Lucas wasn't Liam's son?"

  "Liam and William shared so many of the same physical traits, the black hair and dark eyes, no one ever knew that boy wasn't Liam's.” She stabbed another strawberry, eyeing it pensively. “And Rebecca never had the heart to tell either man the truth.” Pointing at the leather-bound journal with a shaky finger, she told him, “All of it's in the diary."

  "I don't understand.” He wagged his head, brows furrowed, the shock of discovery still pumping cold through his veins. “No one's ever told me—” Peering at her he asked, “Who all knows about this?"

  "Only the people who've read the diary.” Dabbing a napkin across her mouth, she continued. “Just a few Samsons. There was never a point in showing it to anyone else. Why bring it up and start tearing families apart?"

  His jaw went tight. “Edna, with all due respect, that's quite possibly the worst excuse I've ever heard.” He held up the diary. “Do you realize how important it is to people to know where they came from?"

  In spite of the growing frustration in his tone, her smile was patient and understanding. She arched two gray eyebrows and met his gaze. “Luke, dear, you still come from your mother and father. Your father's father is still the same man. And so on. The only thing that's changed is that Liam isn't one of your ancestors."

  He swallowed hard and combed a hand through his hair, not sure what to think. Or feel.

  "But ... the curse...” he said in a tone that was softer and, at that point, bewildered. If the deaths in his family had made no sense before, they made even less sense now.

  Waving a dismissive hand, she grumbled, “Curse-shmurse."

  He lifted a brow. “Ma'am, a lot of men have died."

  "They all would've died anyway, of course. And call me Edna."

  "Are you telling me there is no curse?"

  "Whether there is or there isn't ... Who knows? I say curses only work on folks who believe in them.” She lifted her glass of lemonade with a bony, wrinkled hand. “The question is do you believe in the curse, Luke?"

  His eyes fell to the diary in his hands as he confessed, “I don't know."

  She shook her head and clucked her tongue. “It would be a shame if you lived your whole life afraid of something you aren't sure of."

  "Yes.” His nod was solemn. His throat hurt. “It would."

  She gave him a quick nod and eyed his dessert. “Eat your pie. You look like you could use something in your stomach."

  "Yes, ma'am.” He took up his fork, even if the last thing he felt like doing was eating. Edna Samson made him feel like a child again. It both perturbed and pleased him.

  "So Liam thought he had two sons, Lucas and Henry,” Edna said, setting her fork down then sinking back into the dinette chair. “Did your family stay in touch with Henry's side?"

  Luke shook his head, chewing his mouthful of pie thoughtfully. “No.” Cutting his fork into the crust, he complimented her. “This is really good. My favorite kind of pie."

  She smiled. “Mine too."

  "William Samson had three children not including Lucas,” he recalled. “Who are you descended from?"

  "Jeremiah.” She drank her lemonade then set down the glass. “Why do you call yourself Luke Hale?"

  He shrugged. “It's my pen name.” Politely and with a kind expression he asked, “Was there a Mr.—?"

  "Yes.” She nodded slowly. “Raymond. He passed away ten years ago."

  "I'm sorry."

  "I kept my maiden name,” she said with a feisty gleam in her eye. “That was pretty daring in my day, you know."

  He chuckled, nodding, as he agreed. “I'll bet it was."

  "You're about twenty, maybe?” She rolled her aged eyes over him briefly, summing him up.

  "Actually I'm thirty. Today."

  He'd spent the last week apprehensive about his birthday, yet here it was, having sneaked up on him anyway.

  "Well, happy birthday, dear.” She reached over and gave his hand an affectionate pat. Eyeing his worried expression she said, as if she understood the thoughts rolling around in his head, “Page one hundred and fifty.” Her gaze fell to the diary in his hands. “Go ahead. Read."

  With sudden eagerness, Luke opened the book and carefully shuffled pages. Finding the numbered entry, he read
the black ink-scrawled words aloud.

  The fourteenth of December, 1689

  He glanced at Edna, who gave him an encouraging smile.

  Clearing his throat, Luke felt every one of his nerve endings jitter as he continued.

  We have birthed a son and call him Lucas. It be a good strong name and will carry him well. Liam knows not that Lucas be not of his blood but of William Samson's. Some would say he be a fruit of sin. Not I. In my heart I believe Lucas a promise of hope. He will do many good things, this I know. He will be loved.

  Luke's heart rapped against his chest and blood roared hot and hard in his ears. Emotion too powerful to ignore stabbed the backs of his eyes and swelled in his throat. “I can't ... believe this...” The words were a mere tremor past his lips, without breath, and they faltered.

  He'd spent the last twelve years worried, though in denial, about a curse that would never even touch him. He'd blamed a scorned witch for his uncle's death. Had resented the Honeywells ... until meeting Bianca. Even then, even after falling in love with her, Luke hadn't been able to trust her. Because of the Honeywell curse.

  This dull realization transformed itself. It became mounting excitement, almost elation.

  He was free. Finally. Free of Celia's curse. Liberated from tormenting himself over three hundred years’ worth of deaths because, frankly, none of those had resulted from a hanged witch's master plan. They'd happened as a natural course of life.

  He had to tell Bianca.

  Bianca...

  His heart dipped then pulsed wildly again because, damn it, Luke was in love with her. He didn't care about spells or poppets. It was like Edna said. Spells and curses only worked on folks who believed in them. What he felt in his heart for Bianca was more real than any spell or curse.

  Exhilarated by his new revelations and impatient to share them with the woman he was madly in love with, Luke leaned over the table. Grabbing Edna's hand he begged, “Please, would you let me borrow this diary? Just for a day or two? I swear I'll bring it right back to you, all in one piece, you have my word."

  She tilted her head to one side studying him with wide, contemplative eyes while Luke held his breath, his heart beating everywhere all at once. Finally she nodded. “Of course, dear. It's time for what's in that diary to be shared, I suppose."

  "Thank you!” he whooped enthusiastically.

  He gave her a zealous kiss on the cheek that made her flush and fan herself with one hand, stammering, “Oh my ... goodness..."

  "I have to go.” Luke jerked up from the table, beside himself with excitement. “I'm sorry, I wish I could stay, but there's someone I really have to talk to about this.” In his haste, Luke's hands fumbled with the diary as bits of paper fell at his feet. “Oh, shoot. I've got it,” he stammered, bending to retrieve them. “It's the drawings you mentioned."

  Luke glimpsed one he recalled seeing before. The picture of Celia.

  "No cameras back in 1695, you know,” she told him with a muffled laugh. Stretching her neck she surveyed the sketch in his hand. “Ah. Liam's lover. Rebecca knew about it, you know."

  "Really?” Intrigued, he stuffed the sketch of the beautiful dark-haired woman back into the diary. “She's got an unforgettable face.” Mysterious. Beautiful.

  "She was certainly lovely. It's no wonder Liam was bewitched.” Edna shook her head and clucked her tongue. “But Rebecca knew all about the affair. That picture of Celia was drawn by her.” A heavy sigh, then, “She talks about it in that diary. It's ... like she was obsessed. Kept seeing Celia's face in her head.” Eyeing him, she tapped a finger to her temple. “Rebecca was a little touched, if you know what I mean."

  Luke snatched up two more pictures from the linoleum floor. A young boy with wide dark eyes and ebony hair. Lips like Luke's. The drawing was sketched with soft, subtle shadings by, Luke suspected, Rebecca's loving strokes.

  "Lucas,” he breathed, staring at the picture. The child whose manifestation in Bianca's visions had started this quest for answers.

  "Yes. Lucas. That's right.” She nodded then eyed Luke. “Quite a resemblance between you two."

  Swallowing hard, Luke tucked the picture back into the diary. Bianca would want to see it. Absently he glanced at the last picture, about to stuff it into the book, until what he observed had him halting, shocked.

  He knew this man. He'd seen him.

  Finding his voice again, he demanded urgently, “Who is this?” He thrust the sketch in front of Edna's rheumy eyes.

  She craned her neck and peered at the tiny drawing. “Oh, that's Liam, dear. Haven't you seen pictures of him before?"

  He shook his head vehemently, heart beating in swift, tight snaps. “Not like this. Not with ... a beard."

  "He was younger there, I believe. That Rebecca sure was a good artist. For a crackpot, anyway."

  "I've seen this man,” Luke insisted. His voice was hollow and tinny in his head. Something icy and unsettling slunk into his stomach. “I've definitely seen this man."

  But when? And where?

  More questions that needed answers. This can of worms had suddenly turned into a whole barrel of them.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Something was wrong. And finally he realized what it was.

  The sketch of Liam Halestrom truly was a striking resemblance to the man Luke had seen the night before at the Clover Falls Inn. The cowboy from Texas who had needed change for the vending machines.

  Edna had Luke convinced that the cowboy was a Halestrom.

  The only living Halestrom man who had popped up in all of the research Luke had done resided in Texas. Why would a Texas Halestrom man be staying at the Clover Falls Inn? The cowboy was a long way from home. Was he there to investigate the curse, too?

  Luke wasn't sure, but his bad feeling translated into one huge concern. Bianca.

  He'd tried calling her from Edna's house, but unfortunately had been forced to leave a message on her machine. Without trying to alarm her, Luke had suggested that she stay with Miles or Fallon until he made it back to Clover Falls from Cambridge.

  He'd thanked Edna, promising to return soon. The fact was Luke looked forward to visiting the kind old woman again, knowing Bianca would love her as well.

  As he zipped along roads that wove through patchwork quilts of corn, bush beans, and other seasonally grown vegetables, Luke tried to set aside the niggling suspicion that something was wrong.

  But the niggling grew. It consumed him, making Luke tense, worried, cold with apprehension, and anxious to get to Bianca as fast as he could.

  He twisted the handle on his motorcycle and the engine responded, leaving the sound of metal thunder in his wake.

  * * * *

  Miles had filled Bianca's day with movie watching, dining and window-shopping, all in an effort to keep her mind off of Luke. When he dropped her back home that evening, she kissed his cheek and led him to believe that the distraction had worked, even if it hadn't.

  Exhausted, Bianca slipped into the shower then donned her favorite sleeping shirt. Dishing up a bowl of yogurt and homemade granola, she glanced at her answering machine. Scratching Flora behind the ears she counted how many times the little red light flashed. Eight. Probably orders for herbs and homeopathic remedies. She would take down those messages in the morning. Tonight she needed to spend time with Mother.

  Scooping Flora into her arms, she carried the cat on one hip. With the bowl of yogurt in her free hand, the spoon dangled from her mouth while her bare feet padded softly up the stairs, where she rarely went. Tonight it was what she needed.

  At the top of the stairwell were two bedrooms, one Mother's, the other Gran's. Both unchanged over the years because Bianca hadn't the heart. Not yet. In time, she would. For now there was no rush to remodel. Besides, when things weren't going well, Bianca found solace in visiting those rooms. There she felt a quiet hum of energy from the two women who'd meant the most to her.

  Tonight, she needed her mother.

  The door cre
aked as she forced it open, the hinges rusty and sometimes cranky. Once inside there was warmth and comfort, invisible arms that embraced her. There, Bianca was as close as she could be to Mother without hopping on an England-bound airplane.

  She plopped Flora on the bed atop the quilt Gran had made just a year before she had passed on. The quilt, with its patches of old familiar fabrics, brought Bianca the comfort she often looked for in Mother's room. The squares came together to form a patchwork of love, joys, sadness and life. A pale pink swatch from Bianca's baby blanket. A scrap of sunflower fabric from a dress she'd had as a toddler. Another of the wedding gown Mother would have worn the day she married Mark Halestrom. A square from great-grandmother's favorite yellow blouse. If the quilt could have spoken, it would have told a hundred stories about the Honeywell women.

  Bianca went to the vanity, the mirror cloudy, a thin veil of dust on the table. She took Mother's bottle of perfume and sprayed it twice so the room smelled familiar again. Then she lay on the bed with Flora. Closing her eyes, she sent a message out to the universe, intended for Mother, wherever she was. Mother would hear. She always did. It was a special connection Bianca shared with her.

  I miss you, Mother ... And my heart is broken...

  Bianca lay there for a long, long time on the quilt, cuddled with Flora, smelling the perfume. She imagined Mother's arms, soft and loving, embracing her. She heard the subtle hum of her voice, saying things would be fine. Broken hearts mended. Time healed. There were reasons things like this happened. Sometimes fate made no sense at all until later, when the ache had passed.

  Even the strongest walls sometimes fell. Bianca's tumbled around her, much like the tears that spilled from her eyes.

  When exhaustion took over, Bianca slept in Mother's bed peacefully, not knowing that, in the shadows, he was near.

  He had come for her and he wouldn't rest until he got what he wanted. And what he wanted was to see her burn in hell.