A Witch In Time

by Madelyn Alt

  No, I don’t imagine that he did. Somehow that made me feel even worse for our problematic almost-but-not-quite relationship. But better to cut our mutual losses than to draw it out when the magic just wasn’t there.

  “Wonder what she’s doing back here?” Marcus mused, turning just enough that he could surreptitiously watch her disappear inside the house once more. My gaze snagged on Tom, across the way. In my mind, the answer was pretty obvious.

  Well, whatever had brought her back, it was perfect timing for Frannie and her family. In the days to come, they were going to need a bit of handholding from someone who knew them well.

  We were quiet all the way back to the truck, our mood somber and reflective. Marcus helped me in. I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t even realize where he was taking me until he turned down the hill off Main onto River Street.

  “Liss made me swear I wouldn’t come in today!” I exclaimed.

  He shrugged with a silly smirk. “She didn’t make me promise I wouldn’t bring you in. Besides,” he said, “I thought you could use some energy recoup time, after the events of today. And yesterday. And the day before that.”

  I laughed. “Maybe I can, at that. And a cup of iced fresh-brewed Roobikoos tea might be nice, too.”

  He parked in an empty customer space in front of the store, hurrying around the beat-up old truck to help me down to the curb. “We won’t be here long enough to worry about taking up a spot reserved for customers,” he assured me even though I’d not said a word.

  The displays in the front windows were the same—I’d only been gone a day and a half—so why did I feel so much like the prodigal daughter returning home at last?

  It wasn’t often that I entered the store through the front door. The brass bells tinkled sweetly overhead as I clumsily crossed the threshold with a clatter and a bump. Instantly my nose was assailed by the familiar scents of cinnamon and tea, coffee beans and vanilla, all underscored by notes of paper and linen and a million bulk spices and herbs all blending into one sweet symphony. Yes . . . this had become home to me, in so many ways.

  “Maggie O’Neill! What on earth . . . didn’t I tell you not to come in today?” Liss rushed forward to place an arm solicitously and securely around my waist as I thumped across the old, creaky wooden floorboards, as though she expected I might collapse forward at any moment.

  I stopped a moment to get a better look at her—ah, the Edwardian clothing styles were her choice for today: wasp waist, peplum jacket, and a narrow skirt that dropped to her ankles. Definitely not a crutches-friendly outfit. Well, I’d be lucky if I could walk in that skirt even without crutches. They didn’t call it a hobble skirt for nothing.

  “What is it, dear?”

  I shook my head and leaned my cheek against hers. “Just that it’s good to be here,” I said with a relieved sigh and then kissed her on said cheek for good measure. “It’s been a heckuva day.”

  Liss aimed a measuring stare at Marcus. “Didn’t I tell you to keep her home today?” she fussed as I made my way over to the ribs-high counter, which made a fine brace to help me turn myself around and back into a stool.

  “Have you ever tried to make Maggie do something she doesn’t want to do?” he countered.

  “Well, I can’t say I’ve ever had to.” Smiling with her eyes, Liss glanced over at me, and I shrugged as if to say, I don’t know what he’s talking about. “Hm. I do see what you mean, I think.”

  Marcus waved Liss off the moment she headed for the counter. “You sit down. I’ll do it.”

  “You folks got room for one more?”

  I turned on my seat to see a big, sweet face peeking around the corner from the back room. Genevieve Valmont was a member of the N.I.G.H.T.S., a former nun of a certain age who had given up living a life for the church out of the blue one day; no one knew the full story as to why. Now she lived a life of simple pleasures running a bait store on the lakes north of town. She might be big and burly, but the rough exterior hid a heart the size of all five Great Lakes put together.

  “Gen popped in yesterday morning right after I heard the news about your ankle,” Liss explained, “and since the girls started back to school on Monday, she volunteered her services here at the store until we get you up and running.”

  “Running. Ha. That might take a while,” Marcus teased. He ducked when I threw a to-go packet of organic honey at his head.

  Gen came forward and gave me a big bear hug. “One of the benefits of being retired,” she said, brushing aside my words of gratitude. “But don’t get any ideas about me staying or anything.” She pulled with discomfort at her sedate sweater and black slacks. “I’m not exactly used to dressing up anymore, ya know.” Leaning conspiratorially toward me, she whispered, “I much prefer my overalls. The epitome of comfort. But I suppose they don’t do much to help sell high-end stuff like what Enchantments has to offer, huh?”

  I gave her a reassuring pat. “I like them just fine.”

  “So, what brings you in today,” Liss asked as Marcus slid a steaming cup of lemongrass tea in front of her, “in defiance of direct orders?”

  “Well,” Marcus said, clearing his throat, “I did it, actually. Don’t blame Maggie. She was off in her own world until we got here.”

  I took a sip of my iced Roobikoos (he remembered!) and wrinkled my nose at him from over the rim of my cup. “I was, a little. So much has happened.” And from there I had to share the whole sordid tale, from beginning to end. Babies, weirdness, a broken ankle, a missing husband, a murder, a confession, and all. Marcus helped me fill in the details as he knew them. Between the two of us, it didn’t take long.

  “Well, now. That was some trip to the hospital,” Gen said when we were done. “New babies are always exciting, but . . . wow. When you do it up, you really do it up. And two more deaths in this town . . . Lord have mercy. What on earth are we to make of all this? That’s what I’d like to know.” She shook her head. “I know Harold Watkins. Not well, but . . . I always thought he was a good man. Salt of the earth. Makes me wonder what could have happened to get him riled up enough to ... kill someone.”

  Marcus nodded in agreement. “He is a good man; at least, I’ve always thought so. I know my Uncle Lou thinks so, too. But they say we all have it in us. To kill, I mean. For the right reasons, of course.”

  What would those reasons be, I wondered? I tried to think of anything that could induce me to take another person’s life. None of the usual motives, certainly. Not power, not greed, not ambition. I didn’t roll that way. But to protect someone I loved with all my heart, whose very existence was in danger? Depending on the circumstances, yes, I liked to think that I would find the courage within myself to rise to the occasion if said occasion dictated the need. As with most areas of life, there were no blacks and whites, no absolutes. Each situation had to be judged on its own merits, or lack thereof.

  But I wasn’t kidding myself. I knew not everyone thought the same way. Not even another “good guy.” The question was, what would induce Harold Watkins to kill? And how was Nunzio related to all this?

  I couldn’t help but think it must have something to do with Frannie.

  “I can’t get it all out of my head,” I confessed to all. “I keep running through my time there at the hospital. From beginning to end. I feel like I’m forgetting something. Missing something. Something big. Something that might be important.” Marcus reached out and linked fingers with my own.

  “Like what, darling?” Liss asked. “Something that you saw? Something you heard?”

  “I don’t know.” Frustrated, I rubbed my forehead hard with the heel of my free hand. “Maybe it’s silly. Maybe I’ve gotten so used to having been in the wrong place at the right time, maybe I just expect that to come into play this time, too. Whether it’s divine guidance or intuition, or just plain dumb luck doesn’t really matter in the end, does it?”

  Marcus took my hand. “You can’t feel responsible for not having the answers, you know
. You can’t be in sync with everything. No psychic is a hundred percent. And sometimes, what you do tune into is accidentally misinterpreted. A miscue.”

  “Not everything, no.” Not that it mattered, because I wasn’t even a true psychic. Not really. Not like Evie. Not even like Liss. Just enough that I knew that something I couldn’t quite put my finger on from the last few days was important, and that whatever it was, it wasn’t forthcoming.

  “You’re trying too hard,” Liss observed. “Intuition simply cannot be forced. Have you never noticed that the connections are easiest when you occupy your thoughts with something mindless and menial, allowing your intuition to work its magick behind the scenes?”

  I frowned, not immediately understanding. “Something menial.”

  “Some task that doesn’t take a lot of brain capacity. One that allows your body to work on autopilot,” Liss elaborated. “Oh, you can sit in front of your black scrying mirrors and crystal balls, certainly, but it’s so much easier to simply get busy and let your mind empty itself. And that’s when your Guides start dropping the real whiz-bang-doodles at your feet.”

  Hm. I’m not sure I’ve ever been the actual recipient of a whiz-bang-doodle in any way, shape, or form . . . but I would take her word for it.

  Gen offered, “I’ve always enjoyed sitting on the end of the dock, fishing for whatever wants to come up and take a nibble.”

  “I’ve always been partial to scrubbing the floor,” Marcus said. And when we girls looked at each other and giggled in spite of ourselves? “What? It’s very methodical and soothing.”

  I didn’t know about Liss or Gen, but the last time I had come across Marcus scrubbing the floor, he was on his hands and knees wearing his black leather pants. The ones that had very early on emblazoned themselves in my mind’s eye because of their habit of stretching ever so impressively across some very attractive parts of his anatomy. Still grinning, I patted his hand. “You do have very clean floors.”

  “Thanks.” He looked at me askance through blue eyes sparkling with good humor. “I think.”

  “Never mind that, ducks,” Liss told me. “You go home and take a long, hot bath tonight, and see where that gets you. You’ll be surprised what comes around.”

  Skeptical to the end, I glanced pointedly down at my ankle, which was once again complaining about dangling in midair. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed . . .”

  Not to mention the pain meds that made my head spin just the littlest bit mixed with hot bath water sounded like a killer combination.

  “So? I’m sure Marcus can come up with something to keep your cast dry.”

  The absolutely scandalous level of interest Marcus suddenly displayed at the prospect of helping me with the intricacies of my bath made my heart skip a beat.

  And with that suggestion planted securely in his mind, Marcus seemed all the more eager to get me home. To ... rest. Yeah, that’s it. Rest.

  “Oh, wait a moment! I nearly forgot.” Liss disappeared behind the velvet curtain that led to the back office, returning a moment later with a small box. “For Melanie, dear. Just a little something witchy that no new mummy should be without.”

  I took the box from her. “Something witchy, huh? Um, nothing that Mel will see as ... scary, right?”

  Her laughter tinkled through the air, pure and perfect lightness of being. “Do I look like the type of person who would gift a woman whose body is being ravaged by invading hordes of hormones with something designed to set those very invading beasties on fire with fear?”

  “Hm, good point. You’re far too civilized for that.” I hefted the box in my hands. “Dare I shake it?”

  “It’s a pretty little mobile crafted out of the most beautiful crystal beads. Very good energy. Protective and very soothing. I would have purchased two, you know, had I known in advance of the impending arrival of twins. I’m usually spot-on as far as expectant mums go, so that rather surprised me, I must say.”

  Join the crowd. “Protective and soothing sounds perfect. Especially with Greg gone missing.”

  “Poor Melanie,” Liss tsked. “I take it she was caught unawares by her husband’s discontent?”

  “She was in denial.”

  “The more open she is to change, the easier the next months will be for her. Resist the energetic tides, and she will find herself powered along by forces much stronger than she could ever be. She needs to use this time to go inward, to grow strong and bolster her sense of self. How she deals with this will determine the next grand design in her life.”

  I gazed with surprise at Gen, who didn’t usually offer much in the way of metaphysical insight. Thanks to a lifetime of hiding her ability, Gen was far more circumspect than that. Seeing the dead . . . that couldn’t have been a popular motif among her peers. Certainly at St. Catherine’s we had been taught that the dead should stay dead, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. “Thanks, Gen. I’ll tell her.”

  “Melanie will be fine, dear,” Liss said reassuringly. “She’s a strong girl.”

  That I could agree with. Melanie had always come out on top. Granted, her life up until now had been one shining gold moment after another, but it didn’t matter. She had always possessed an innate sense of trumping right over anyone who might stand against her. Despite her moment of vulnerability at the hospital, something told me the outcome of this current hiccup in her life would be no different.

  Greg would be smart to watch his back.

  Marcus took me home (where there was a full bag of clothes waiting for me on the porch—thank you, Steff!), and after seeing me safely ensconced on the edge of the bed, he went into the adjoining master bath to run a tub full of hot water. I could tell that Liss’s suggestion had really seized hold of his imagination, because he seemed to have little else in the forefront of his mind. Lifting my cast up onto the bed with a sigh, I settled back on my elbows to watch him as he adjusted the knobs, set out fresh, fluffy white towels, and—be still my heart—lit a couple of candles.

  “Wow,” I told him as he came back into the bedroom, drying his hands on a towel, “you really go all out.”

  “For you, yes.” He put his hands on his hips and leered down at my prone figure. “Although, if you’re going to display yourself so invitingly, I might have to rethink the whole bath idea. Or at least postpone it.”

  There is nothing like coming into one’s own power as a woman, of knowing just what effect every movement has on her man. Feigning a yawn, I stretched my spine and rolled my shoulders, all the while watching him through lowered lashes.

  But then there is nothing like a man who knows his own power over a woman, either. Not in an aggressive way, but in a way that leaves no doubt as to what is going on in his mind. Especially when he leans in ever so slowly like a jungle cat, leveraging his body over yours. Taking you with his energy without touching a single part of you.

  “Especially,” he whispered, allowing himself a brief nibble at the base of my throat, “when you do something like that.”

  I was breathing much faster when he just as slowly peeled his energy and his body away, leaving me to wonder who was the victor in that all-too-brief tussle of the sexes. He extended a hand and pulled me to a sitting position.

  “Bath first.”

  Well, at least that left the evening open-ended. I got to my feet and reached for my buttons... and froze, suddenly shy as I realized he was intently watching my every movement.

  It wasn’t that he hadn’t seen bits and pieces of me in all my, erm, glory, but I had never actually purposely . . . undressed... in front of him. This was new territory.

  So much for claiming my feminine power.

  If he’d noticed my hesitation, he didn’t say anything. Instead, he got up and headed for the door, calling back, “You go ahead while I get you a fresh cup of tea. Your robe’s on the end of the bed.”

  Robe. Yes. I slipped out of my clothes in a heartbeat and reached for it, grateful for its deep folds. Marcus was back before I had even had a chanc
e to sit back down. He set the mug of steaming tea (chamomile by the scent wafting upward on the vapors) on the vanity, then stepped aside to let me through into the bathroom.

  It hit me then. There was no way around it. I would not be able to lower myself into the tub without assistance. Not without risking life and limb. Both lower extremities, and my neck, to boot.

  While my mind worked a mile a minute figuring all of this out, Marcus it seemed had already made the same calculations on his own. I felt his fingers tug at the knotted belt of my robe. Almost at the same moment, he leaned in and gently kissed me, effectively stifling my embarrassment.

  Had I been embarrassed? Really? At that precise moment I couldn’t imagine why.

  His hands grasped mine as he backed away and slowly, irrevocably, he lowered me into the bathwater, maintaining eye contact with me the whole time as he took care to keep my casted ankle from slipping over the edge. The temperature of the water was perfect, hot enough to make me tense up as my skin became accustomed to it, but not hot enough to make me yelp and try every possible movement to prevent scalding the whole of my backside. I forgot my moment of modesty as a boatload of bubbles and a wave of water closed around my body. Leaning my head against the angled back of the tube, I closed my eyes with a blissful sigh.

  “Oh, wow. This feels... fabulous. What a good idea.”

  “I’ll say.”

  I slitted my eyes open to peep at him. He was standing at the end of the tub, a folded towel held forgotten in his hands and a light of naked interest glittering in his eyes that sent an arrow of longing straight through me. When he realized I was watching him back, he cleared his throat and carefully, solicitously lifted my ankle in order to place the towel as a cushion beneath it. Then he rose again, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and said, “I’ll just ... give you your privacy and wait out here.”