by Bailey Cates
I stood. “Radical Trust might have worked for Dana Dobbs and her husband, but I just can’t see how it would work for most people.” And remembering Nate Dobbs’ face when his wife had been regaling the public with private details about their marriage, I didn’t think it had really worked for them, either.
Margie let out a big sigh. “You’re right. Like I said the other night, the whole thing seemed a little heavy-handed. But since she’s gone now, I thought I could at least give it a try.”
“Out of respect?” I ventured.
“Uh-huh.”
That was a first: follow bad advice as a way to honor the dead.
“You are a sweet thing, Margie Coopersmith. But you know darn well that Redding loves you and those kids like crazy.”
She sniffled. “Yeah.”
“He’s a proud man, though. And now he thinks you don’t trust him. You need to go back over to your house and let him know that you do.”
One last honk on the tissue, and she stood. “You’re right.” Her shoulders straightened. “I’ll fix this if it’s the last thing I do.”
I smiled at the dramatic statement, but I didn’t stop her as she marched out the door. When it closed behind her, I turned to see Declan had ventured out of the kitchen.
“Is it safe?”
Nodding, I moved toward him. “Now, where were we?”
Chapter 16
Ben had been both right and wrong about the filet mignon on the menu. Declan had made beef Wellington—simple enough, but decadent as all get-out.
“I’m impressed,” I said, peering into the oven at the small tenderloin roast smothered in duxelles and wrapped neatly in puff pastry. “And hungry!”
He looked relieved. “Good. I was afraid that whole business with Margie’s marriage falling apart might have affected your appetite.”
I looked at the ceiling and shook my head. “Not a chance, darlin’. And for the record, I don’t think she and Redding are in any serious trouble. Just a little misunderstanding. It happens.”
He gave me a wry look. “Yes, I seem to recall that.”
“Now, is that any way to talk tonight?” I gave him a playful grin. “Since you’re all buttoned-down this evening, and in honor of the magnificent meal you’ve made, I really think I’d better put on something a little better than my usual garb. Maybe cover up this knee, while I’m at it.”
Concern entered his eyes. “How are you feeling?”
“Bah. It’s nothing. Be back with you in a jiff.”
“Don’t cover up too much,” he called as I went into the bedroom.
At least I’d given a bit of thought to what to wear as I’d driven home. Twin armoires served as my closet, and one was entirely taken up with the clothes I liked to wear to work. The other offered a sparser selection, but there were a few surprises Declan hadn’t seen. Mungo sat on the bed and watched as I donned a skirt inspired by a swirly chiffon number Bianca had worn to a spellbook club meeting. A short skirt was covered with a longer sheer handkerchief skirt in shades of purple and blue. The combination managed to subtly show off my legs at the same time the bandage on my knee was nearly hidden. I topped it with a silky spaghetti-strap tank in rich violet and turned to look in the mirror.
“Not bad with this crazy hair, huh?”
Mungo made an approving noise.
I ran my fingers through my short dark red locks and tucked them behind my ears. The small pearl earrings I had worn that day would do, but the chain with the amulet Steve had given me caught my attention. I’d worn it for most of the year without even thinking about it. Tonight, however, it somehow seemed wrong.
Slowly, I unclasped it and let the chain dribble through my fingers into my jewelry box.
Mungo made another noise of approval.
My neck felt naked, though, and more important, I felt suddenly unprotected. But thinking back, how much good had it really done me? I’d almost been killed more than once while wearing it. And really, what could possibly happen tonight?
Slipping my feet into open-toed sandals with higher heels than I usually wore, I spared a thought for the idea that I really ought to invest in a fancy pedicure one of these days. In the bathroom, I applied a bit of plum eyeliner to accent the green in my eyes and added a quick swipe of pink lip gloss. I switched out the bulky gauze bandage on my knee for a small Band-Aid, gave myself a nominal nod of approval in the mirror over the sink, and went back out to see what Declan was up to.
I stopped dead in my tracks when I saw what he’d done in the short time I’d been getting dressed. The two wingback chairs had been moved to one side, and the Civil War–era trunk I used as a coffee table in the living room was pulled away from the couch and set for dinner. A rough woven tablecloth set off my simple old Fiestaware dishes. A small vase of red roses sat in the middle. And there were candles, a mixture of white and red, on the trunk, on the shelves, set on the floor around the periphery of the room, and on all the windowsills. I even saw a few flickering in the kitchen. Miles Davis’ “All Blues” played low on the stereo.
“You look amazing.” Declan moved from where he’d been standing by the French doors to where I stood gaping.
“Th . . . thank you,” I stammered.
He slowly ran his fingertip along my throat and jaw, then tipped my chin up for a kiss.
A really long kiss.
Finally, he said, “Sit down, and I’ll bring you a glass of wine to sip while I finish up.”
“Can’t I do anything to help?” I protested.
“Shh. No, you can’t. Sit.” He indicated a plush cushion on the floor.
Obediently, I sat.
He grabbed our supper plates off the table and went back into the kitchen. The rich scent of roasted meat became stronger. The oven door rattled, and I heard the clink of the plates. Mungo sat in the doorway, watching with covetous eyes. Suddenly he took off for the corner where his place mat sat, and I knew Declan had served the little dog his own feast.
I love that man.
Which reminded me of the card. Quickly, I scrambled up to retrieve it from the tote, which I’d taken into the bedroom. I regained my seat just before he carried our plates in and set them on the table.
“Madam,” he said, trying for a British accent but unable to hide the smooth lilt of his Savannah upbringing. “Dinner is served.”
“Thank you, Jeeves,” I said, leaning forward and closing my eyes to inhale deeply. My stomach growled, and I cleared my throat to cover the sound.
He settled on a cushion across from me. “On the menu tonight is beef Wellington with béarnaise sauce, potato and celery puree, and roasted broccoli with pecans.”
“Ohmagod. That is stunning, Deck.”
“And for dessert . . . some kind of chocolate cake made by the woman of my dreams.”
I smiled and didn’t correct him as to the provenance of the cake. Instead, I lifted my glass. The reflection of candle flames danced on the curved surface of the glass.
“To the chef.”
He lifted his own. “To us.”
I nodded and smiled. “To us.”
We each had a sip, and turned to the delectable goodness in front of us.
As I cut into the tenderloin and crunchy puff pastry, I marveled. “I had no idea you knew how to make béarnaise sauce.”
“Scott taught me on our last shift together.”
“Aha. That’s why he looked at me so funny this morning. There’s been a conspiracy behind my back.” I shook my finger at him. “Very sneaky.”
He’d obviously been planning this for a long time. Declan was a bit of a romantic, but this was over-the-top even for him. Then again, we’d never had an anniversary before, so maybe this was something I should expect every year.
“It’s hard to keep a secret from a witch.”
“Apparently not that
hard.” I took my first bite, closed my eyes, and couldn’t keep from moaning. “Oh, Lord. That is good.”
When I opened my eyes, he was grinning at me. “I love it when you do that.”
Feeling my face redden, I turned my attention back to my plate.
“You’re not wearing your necklace,” he said after a while.
My hand flew to my neck. “No, not tonight.” I’d never told him where it came from, or the purpose it served.
His lips curved. “Maybe you need a new piece of jewelry.”
I shrugged. “I’m not much of . . .” I trailed off, realizing it was a hint. “Yeah, maybe I do.”
Pushing aside thoughts of Dr. Dana and Angie and murder suspects, I immersed myself in the exquisite meal, the fairyland of flickering lights, and the small talk and long looks between us.
When we were finished, we donned jackets and went out to the patio to finish off the meal with coffee laced with Baileys Irish Cream. Mungo, who had discreetly stayed in the kitchen during supper, trotted out with us and curled up in his bed. Within seconds, he was snoring like the contented pup he was.
Declan reached over and took my hand. “Did you find out anything at the radio station this morning?”
“I . . . do you really want to talk about this right now?”
“Maybe later.”
“Yeah.”
“Ben said Steve Dawes is back in town.”
Thanks, Ben. I shrugged and looked over at him. “I ran into him when I was, er, running an errand.”
Declan was silent, for which I was grateful. I definitely didn’t want to talk about Steve tonight.
“I start my forty-eight tomorrow,” he said.
“Which is why we’re celebrating our anniversary tonight.” I circled the back of his hand with my fingertip. “I figured that out.”
He opened his mouth, then shut it again, searching my eyes.
“What is it?” I asked, feeling like I could stay submersed in that blue gaze forever.
“I have something for you.” He dropped my hand and stood.
“Oh. Right—I have something—”
“Stay there,” he demanded, then took a breath. “Sorry. Please stay.”
I sank back from my half-standing position. “Okay.”
I’d thought he was going inside to get my gift, but instead he pushed his chair to the side and took something out of his pocket. Then he dropped to one knee in front of me.
“Katie, you are funny and fascinating, beautiful and smart, talented and just crazy enough. You’re the woman I’ve been waiting for my whole life, and I want to be with you the rest of my life.”
“Declan,” I gasped in shock.
He opened the box he held in his hand and removed a ring from it. The silvery metal filigree caught the moonshine, seeming to absorb it into its own glow, and the royal blue sapphire set deeply into the middle of it echoed celestial magic.
“Katie Lightfoot, will you marry me?” He held out the ring with a nervous smile.
“Oh. Oh, gosh. Deck, I . . . Oh.”
Mungo went crazy then, yipping and bouncing and running in circles. Then he did it again.
All the while Declan kneeled in front of me with the ring in his outstretched palm.
I wanted to offer my left hand, to let him slip it on my finger. I wanted to see him smile, and my heart ached with the thought of how much thought and love he’d put into his proposal.
I wanted to, but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.
“Deck,” I whispered. “Can we talk about this?”
His smile had become more and more tentative, and now it dropped altogether. Awkwardly, he came to his feet and brushed off his jeans. “I guess I shouldn’t have expected a tearful yes out of some romantic comedy.”
“Can’t we just—”
“I jumped the gun.” He gently put the ring back into the velvet-lined box and placed it on the table. “You wanted to take it slow, and we have been. But I know this is what I want. You are what I want. Forever.”
“Deck, this is just such a surprise. I mean, we hadn’t talked about getting married at all. I have to—”
“Think about it,” he finished for me. “Okay. I’m going to leave you alone to do just that.” He began walking into the house.
“You’re leaving?”
He paused in front of the French doors and nodded. “The rest of the evening is going to be pretty weird after this. Sorry. I knew there was a possibility you’d say no, but I didn’t really think through what would happen after that.” He smiled, but it was tinged with sadness. “I had a very good idea about what would happen after you said yes, though.”
I leaped to my feet. “I’m not saying no,” I protested. “I need time, though. You know what happened with Andrew.”
“I’m not Andrew,” he said sharply. “I’m not going to back out on you.”
“Of course you’re not.” I walked up and put my hands on his chest, snagging his gaze, trying to make him understand. “My life was much different then. I didn’t know my true nature—as a witch, but also as a person. I got engaged thinking that being married would fix things in my life. It wasn’t until I moved here that I realized it never would have. Never could have.”
His hands came up to my shoulders, and the look he gave me was full of so much tenderness it almost brought me to my knees. “You’re right. You don’t need to be fixed. I don’t want to fix you, and I don’t expect you to fix me. I want to build our lives together. And that’s a different thing altogether. Don’t you see?”
I stared at him, wide-eyed.
He turned and walked inside.
I hurried after him. “Wait. I got you a . . . card.”
Lame. I felt tears welling. I swallowed them back and retrieved the envelope from where I’d slipped it under the cushion by the coffee table, ready to give to him over dinner. I handed it to him and looked away.
He opened it, then nodded. “Thank you. I’d like to take you to meet my family.” He kissed me, sweetly and yet with a trace of bitterness.
“Please don’t go,” I whispered.
He laughed. “It’s okay, Katie. Really. But if I stay, what are we going to talk about?”
I tried a sly smile. “Maybe we don’t have to talk.”
He acknowledged my attempt to flirt with an appreciative look, but he turned to go anyway. “I know you think better when you’re by yourself. And I really want you to think about saying yes.” He opened the front door and turned back. “I want to marry you. I know there are always complications, but that is the simple truth, and we can figure all the other stuff out. If you decide you want to marry me, that is.”
“Deck,” I tried one last time.
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
The door closed behind him and a few seconds later I heard the engine in his truck roar to life. I was left with a sink full of dishes, a roomful of half-burned candles, and a ring sitting in its box on the patio table. My feet hurt, my knee hurt, and my familiar was glaring at me from the corner.
I sat down on the edge of the couch, grabbed the bottle of wine still sitting amid the plates on the coffee table, and poured myself a dose of comfort. Mungo stopped glaring at me when I started to cry.
Chapter 17
It wasn’t that I never wanted to get married. I wasn’t afraid of commitment. Once before I’d been engaged, but I hadn’t been the one who’d backed out at the last minute. Declan was right—he wasn’t anything like Andrew. I knew I could trust him. That wasn’t the problem.
The problem was that I loved my life so much. It was a nice problem to have. I loved my job, even if it meant long, sometimes crazy hours. I loved practicing hedgewitchery with Lucy at the Honeybee. I loved my friends, and the city, and the somewhat new knowledge of just who the heck I was. More important, the knowledge th
at I was doing what I was supposed to be doing. It felt like a gift I’d been given less than two years ago, and I honestly wanted to revel in it for a while longer.
I looked around the room, now lit only by the fringed floor lamp next to the couch. Declan had helped me pick up both of them from an ad on Craigslist. Brought them over in his pickup. Gave me the patio set and the little hibachi that was still my only grill. He’d helped me cut the garden beds out of the expanse of back lawn, rototilled, and helped me plant.
All that only made me love the tidy carriage house more. But if I married Declan, I’d have to give it up. The thought brought tears to my eyes all over again. I reached for the wine bottle, then stopped.
Wine with dinner. Baileys with coffee, even if I only finished half of it. Wine again.
Not a good idea.
With a sigh, I wiped my eyes, gave Mungo a kiss on the forehead, and stood. I changed into yoga pants and a tank top and got to work storing leftovers, loading the dishwasher, moving the furniture back into place, and gathering the candles. The last I took up to the loft. After consolidating two bookshelves into one, I piled the candles into the empty space. The whole time I worked, my mind had gnawed on Declan’s marriage proposal. Now I was feeling jittery and not a little afraid. What if I’d ruined everything? Was I going to lose the man I loved?
My altar stood nearby. It was housed inside a secretary’s desk that Lucy had given me, closed against casual attention but easily accessible. Lowering the cover, I sat down and took a deep breath.
My nonna had knitted the lace shawl that served as my altar cloth. She’d been a witch, too, and since I’d learned of my heritage, her spirit had even stepped in a few times to help me from the other side of the veil. The items placed upon the cloth were variations on magical tools and reflections of the four elements. My chalice was a small swirly glass bowl I’d found at the flea market. A worn, antique kitchen knife was my idea of a ritual athame. There was a collection of smooth stones that I’d gathered over the years, and an Indian arrowhead my dad had given me. A small amethyst geode nestled beside a brilliant blue jay’s feather that had drifted into the gazebo.