A Witch In Time

by Madelyn Alt

  “I just . . . don’t want to inflict them on you,” I admitted at last, my mouth drawing inward in a worried pucker.

  I felt the gentle pressure of his thumb lifting my chin, and I braved a peek at him. The warmth in his eyes, even in the darkening room, left me wishing he had left his phone on vibrate, too. Only then we would have been risking someone actually knocking down Marcus’s door.

  “Maggie. Do you think they’ll do something that will chase me away? Well, they won’t. This event is important to your family, right?”

  I nodded, even though I didn’t want to.

  “Then it’s important to me. Because you’re important to me.”

  And how could any girl find fault with that?

  “What about Minnie?”

  “She’ll be all right here for a while. We could close her in the laundry room or bathroom for safety’s sake, but I’ll bet she’d rather be where she can get comfortable.”

  No doubt. We left her sleeping in the middle of a puddle created by a soft wool throw on the sofa. Marcus reached down and grabbed one of my bags.

  The one with all the . . . goodies.

  “Oh, not that one.” Embarrassed, I tried to take it from him. “That’s just . . . stuff. I won’t need it.”

  Was it something in my voice that had tipped him off? His eyes lit up. “What kind of stuff?” He held the bag up just beyond my reach, the way my brother would have, growing up, when he was trying to get my goat. “What exactly do you have in here?”

  “Stuff stuff.” I was stretching, reaching for it with little bounces to add extra height. “Come on, we’ve got to go.”

  “Oh, all right. If you say so.” He bent to set the bag down again . . . then feinted to one side and peeked inside. “Why, Maggie O’Neill, what have we here? A brazen little kit of seduction?”

  If my face had turned red at all with the first tease, by now it must be scarlet. One of the downsides to having a fair complexion. The least bit of sun or embarrassment, and the whole world knew of your distress. “Maybe . . .”

  “Hmm. I’m flattered.” Before I could turn away and hide my face, he scooped me into his arms. “But you definitely didn’t need the extra oomph. We were doing pretty well on our own, don’t you think?” And he kissed me then and there just to prove it, blasting my senses with luscious heat and sensation. As my legs began to revolt, I was forced—forced, I tell you!—to hold onto him for support. Too bad we were out of time. Sigh.

  On the way over, Marcus stopped by Annie-Thing Good, Annie Miller’s sweet little hometown café. Not only did it have some truly diet-busting offerings that called to me every time I drove past, but Annie also served the best coffee outside of Enchantments (a girl has to show some loyalty!). Marcus left the truck running, and we both went inside.

  The café was overrun tonight by what appeared to be mostly rowdy high schoolers, with the occasional adult couple hiding away in the corner, or at least trying to. High school . . . looking at their fresh faces and big shows of false bravado, bubbling over with excitement about every little thing, I had to wonder, had I ever been that young? And yet it was only twelve years ago that I had graduated.

  How time flies.

  Marcus and I stood dutifully in line for our coffees, watching Annie and her counter help run back and forth like busy bees and listening to the conversations around us. Mostly the talk seemed to center around the intricacies of the preseason football scrimmage that Stony Mill High had just lost to a neighboring rival school.

  “Damn! We almost had ’em. You saw it too, right, Troy? Damn!”

  “What the hell happened? Our guys were lookin’ real good, then all of a sudden . . . ”

  “It was like something raised up in front of them, and they couldn’t go anywhere. Yeah. I was like, really?”

  Just another creepy day in Stony Mill proper, I’d say. If they only knew . . .

  Elsewhere I overheard a familiar voice. “Jordan Everett. Who’da thought, right, Charlie? I mean, the guy had everything going for him. And after everything he went through with Amanda Roberson—”

  “Don’t, Tare.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Just don’t.”

  I turned around just in time to see Charlie Howell shoving his hands in his jeans pockets and walking off toward the bathroom, while fellow Enchantments devotee Tara Murphy stared after him in confusion. Her shoulders lifted and fell again in a soft sigh before she turned my way.

  Putting my hand on Marcus’s arm, I told him, “Hold the line, I’m just gonna go talk to Tara for a sec.”

  He lifted his gaze in the direction I’d indicated. Spotting his younger cousin in the chaos, he raised his hand. I headed her off at the pass.

  “Hey, girl. I didn’t see you when we walked in.” It didn’t take a sensitive to realize she wasn’t really paying a whole lot of attention to me. “Hey. Tara. Anyone home?”

  “Oh. What? Sorry, Maggie,” she said. “I was just—”

  “Lost in your own little world? I noticed,” I teased. “Anything the matter?”

  She shook her head. “No. Not really. Well . . .”

  “You’re not arguing with Charlie again, are you?”

  “Not as such. He just . . . he got all weird just now when I mentioned Jordan Everett. You know, his old basketball rival?”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s dead, Maggie. We heard about it at the game; the news passed around like wildfire. It just happened tonight apparently. I guess he collapsed, or it was drugs or something. No one really knows what happened for sure. He was supposed to go off to college in a couple of weeks. IU Bloomington.”

  “That’s awful,” I said, frowning. I didn’t know Jordan, but I knew he’d gone through a tough time last year when his girlfriend had fallen prey to an older man on the prowl, an association that had proved fatal for both of them. Now Jordan, too, had fallen prey . . . to the curse that seemed to be plaguing Stony Mill. Or was that being overly dramatic? Tell that to his family.

  Tara nodded, her dark pixie hair moving prettily around her cheeks. “He went a little wild after Amanda passed, you know. A little crazy. A lot crazy. Moody and in-your-face. I mean, he was always a little high-handed with some people, a little arrogant even . . . but he’s an Everett. This was different, though. Maybe it had something to do with the crowd he’d started hanging with. Not the usual preps. Fast and dirty. Everyone thought it was a phase and pretty soon he’d be back to his usual self. Especially with college coming right around the corner. I dunno. Sad, really.”

  Charlie was heading back now, and Tara immediately clammed up, unwilling to press her luck. I said my good-byes to the two of them and slipped back through the crowd to Marcus’s side.

  “Everything all right?” he asked, his eyes on Tara.

  I nodded. “There’s been another death in town. A boy who the kids knew. Jordan Everett.”

  “That’s terrible. How did it happen?”

  “Don’t know. Tara doesn’t know either. Evidently it just happened today, in any case.”

  It was our turn to hit the counter next. Annie waited on us herself, as usual with the biggest, brightest smile on her face. She clearly hadn’t heard about Jordan. My hippie-dippy friend and N.I.G.H.T.S. cohort, Annie was a throwback to another era with her love of loose, flowing skirts, Earth shoes, and funny T-shirts. Today’s selection displayed a sassy, spindly-legged egg sporting a red leather jacket, white socks, and loafers, and wielding a wisk as a cane. Caption? “Just Beat It.” Yes, it was groan worthy. It was also totally Annie.

  “Hey, you two!” she shouted over the din.

  “Hey!” we shouted back.

  “What?”

  “Hey!”

  “What?!”

  Shaking my head, I grabbed her notepad and pen and wrote, 6 extra large coffees, please. On our way to hospital—Mel’s baby. Need sustenance. And then as an afterthought, Love the shirt! I handed her back her pad.

  Her freckled nose
crinkled in appreciation, and she winked at me. “Thanks!” And off she scurried to fill the order with an eye on the rest of the line still queuing up behind us.

  In no time at all she had brought back six giant cups of steaming, luscious-smelling coffee packed in a carrier. “Did you need anything else?” she shouted as Marcus tossed down a twenty on the counter. “Cookies? Brownies? Popovers?”

  I groaned. My stomach was growling, and there was a huge piece of chocolate cake calling my name. “Don’t tempt me!”

  “What?!”

  It was a lost cause. I had been thinking about asking whether she’d heard about the Everett boy, but with all the hubbub in the small café, she would never have heard me. Shaking my head again, I waved a good-bye, and Marcus and I swam our way to the door.

  “Whew!” I said once we were again ensconced in the peace and serenity of the old truck cab.

  “Whew is right. I don’t know how she does it.”

  “I don’t know, either,” I said, inhaling the coffee fumes, “but I’m very glad she does. This stuff is a lifesaver.”

  We hit the road, arriving at Stony Mill General a scant four minutes later.

  I knew from Jenna’s and Courtney’s births that the Labor and Delivery Department had its own private outdoor entrance for security and to make checking in easier for soon-to-be-mommies out of their minds in the throes of heavy-duty contractions, so we parked close by. Security measures required us to identify ourselves at the camera and then wait until “The Family” gave its approval for “Maggie O’Neill and guest” and we were buzzed inside. One elevator ride later and the doors opened onto a hallway adorned with a wall mural of Madonna and child in delirious swirls and happy pastel hues.

  “That would be my eldest daughter and her boyfriend.” My mother’s voice came drifting down to us from the general vicinity of the nurses’ station, just down the hall. “You might know him, actually—in an official capacity? Tom Fielding. Of the police depart . . . ment.”

  I could tell by the way her voice went all funny that she had caught sight of me . . . and more important, of Marcus.

  She hurried toward me, her eyes fixed on Marcus the whole way. I braced myself.

  “Maggie?” She transferred her attention from Marcus’s lean good looks to my frazzled form. Her brows stretched high, an open inquiry that demanded an answer.

  “Brought the coffee,” I told her, pressing one instantly into her hand.

  She ignored the coffee. I knew it was a long shot. “And who might this be?” she asked, inclining her head toward Marcus in a way that was surprisingly regal and demanding for a plain old small-town housewife.

  I opened my mouth to answer, but before I could utter a sound Marcus stepped smoothly forward and offered his hand. “Hello. I’m Marcus. Marcus Quinn.”

  “Are you?” She flicked her gaze back to me. “I didn’t realize you were bringing a friend, Margaret.”

  Marcus was now looking at me as well. I started to squirm. “Well . . . you see, Mom . . . this is Marcus. Marcus Quinn.”

  “Yes, he said that.”

  “He did? Oh, good. Well . . . Mom, you remember Marcus. He’s Marian Tabor’s nephew. You’ve met him before. Remember?”

  Her smile was pained. “Of course.”

  “Marcus, in case you don’t remember, this is my mother. Patricia O’Neill.”

  “A pleasure, Mrs. O’Neill. Again.”

  “Hm.”

  “Mom, what’s going on with Mel?” I asked quickly. “Any news?”

  Attempting to divert her attention away from me and Marcus was self-defense at its best. Anything I could do that would keep her from picking at me for the next who knew how many hours had to be worth the effort. Besides, I really did want to know.

  My redirection worked, because instantly, Concerned Mom switched places with Annoyed Mom. “Melanie wasn’t due until next week, but she went into full-on labor this morning. Everything seemed to be going fine for a while, but then something in the readings on one of the monitors made the nurses chase us all out of there, and they haven’t been able to answer my questions since then. I’ve been beside myself. Your father has as well.”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing they can’t take care of,” I reassured her. “Modern medicine works miracles these days. If anything looked out of whack, then I’m sure this was simply their way of ensuring a controlled environment for Mel and the baby.”

  “Yes, well . . .” Her gaze fell on Marcus again, and just like that, Annoyed Mom was back.

  “Let’s go find Dad.” I grabbed Marcus and tugged him in the direction of the sign that pointed the way to the family waiting room. “Okay, now. Prepare yourself. This may not be pretty. My family . . .” I winced, thinking about it. “My mom is only the half of it. My family can get on anyone’s nerves. Just let them have their say and ignore ninety percent of it, and you can’t go wrong.”

  “Maggie, I’ll be fine. Stop worrying.”

  Was I worried?

  The door to the waiting room was closed, and I knew Mom was hot on my heels, so I took a quick, deep breath and barged on through. A blast of extra-cool, air-conditioned air hit me like a wall of ice. It was incredibly welcome after the sultry heat of the great outdoors. My dad was there, or at least I thought I recognized those big, boatlike feet in the trademark loafers with the well-worn heels, one foot balanced toes-to-heel atop the other. He was otherwise hidden behind an expanse of newspaper spread wide in front of his face. Before I could press a hand down the middle to peek overtop, I was assailed by a familiar voice emanating from around the corner of the L-shaped room.

  “Hidey-ho, Miss Maggie-Oh! Come to witness the second virgin birth, have you? Oh, wait a minute. That should probably be the fourth, shouldn’t it?” Grandpa Gordon’s wonderfully expressive and craggy face popped into view before the rest of him—probably because he was leaning forward in his motorized scooter chair like Snoopy in vulture mode, ready and willing to swoop forth on any unsuspecting victim. His chair rolled smoothly toward me, stopping just short. He eyed Marcus up and down. “Hey now. Who’s the hunkarooney?”

  I leaned down and looped my arms around his neck in a loose hug, giving his leathery cheek a resounding smack. “Grandpa G, you are incorrigible and up to no good as usual, I see.”

  “I’m up to a lotta things your mother doesn’t know about, and that’s just the way I like it, missy.” Grandpa G cackled, slapping his knee hard enough to jar his bones. “But you haven’t said. You’re going to force me to be a rude bugger and ask him myself, and you know how she hates when I do that.”

  “Well, I’d hate to be the one to get you in trouble with Mom,” I said, giggling. “Grandpa G, meet Marcus Quinn. Marcus, this is my grandfather. You have to watch him—he’s trouble with a capital T.”

  “Hell, honey, I invented the word,” Grandpa G drawled, quite pleased with himself, as he shook Marcus’s proffered hand. He sized Marcus up with a squint, not letting go. “So, what’s the story with you, young feller? You courtin’ my favorite granddaughter?”

  I was about to clue him in that it’s not called courting anymore when Marcus nodded, his expression comfortable and open as he looked my granddad square in the eye. “I certainly am, sir.”

  It was the strange mix of the casual seriousness of his voice, the absolute unrepentant confirmation that took me aback. Courting . . . was that what he was doing? “Courting” to me implied putting on one’s best clothes and behaviors, operating on the assumption that one had to put one’s best foot forward in order to captivate. Which left all of the less attractive features conveniently hidden away. What was so wrong with truth? It certainly made it easier to remember everything you put out there.

  I shook my head. It was only a turn of phrase. I was being too sensitive. Probably because of all the confusion I’d gone through with Tom. Not that Tom had been intentionally trying to mislead me. I didn’t think. Or maybe he was. Maybe that was the trouble all along. A sad lack of truth. Maybe i
f he’d been able to tell me like it was, we’d have saved ourselves a lot of trouble and heartache along the way. Or maybe if I’d been brave enough to air my own issues. Neither of us had been very . . . open to that, I don’t think.

  “I like this one, Maggie my girl,” Grandpa G was telling me with his usual lack of a filter. “How come we are just finding out about him today? And whatever happened to that other feller you were cozying up with?”

  Leave it to Grandpa G to spew a pointed question without worrying about offending. I guess when a person gets to a certain age, he figures he doesn’t have a lot of time to waste, so he says whatever’s on his mind. Spits it out. Cuts to the chase. Doesn’t worry about upsetting the applecart, because the bulk of the apples are sad, shriveled little fruits anyway.

  The door behind me snicked shut. A chill ran down my spine, and it had nothing to do with the air-conditioning vent I’d been cooling my overheated sensibilities beneath.

  “There you are, Patty. Have you met Maggie’s young man yet?”

  The look on my mother’s face should have turned me to stone. I was surprised to find myself still drawing breath. “Yes, Dad. I met him outside. In the hall. Just a short moment ago, in fact.” She sat down by my father, who still hadn’t lowered the newspaper. “I was surprised, of course, but I suppose it’s too much to ask these days for one’s own daughter to keep her mother informed of the comings and goings of important people in her life.” She sighed the long-suffering sigh she was famous for, the one that said, If only I could get my children to listen to me, to see the guiding light of my wisdom, to hear my cautioning words and take heed. “It’s a shame, isn’t it, Glenn?”

  She waited for my father’s response. When it wasn’t forthcoming, she cleared her throat and repeated, “Isn’t it, Glenn.” Less of a question, more of a demand.

  Still there was no response.

  With another long-suffering sigh, she reached out a hand and peeled the widespread newspapers back at the corner. There was my dad, eyes closed behind his glasses, chin down on his chest. No wonder he hadn’t said anything when I walked into the waiting room. For a moment I thought my mother was going to wake him, but at the last minute I saw a gentle smile touch the corner of her mouth and she shook her head. “Silly man. Spending half your nights puttering about that workshop of yours. Is it any wonder you fall asleep sitting up these days?”