A Little Magic

by Nora Roberts

  She dropped the basket and rushed to him. And Hugh, sensing a game, began to race in circles around her.

  Conal watched from the doorway. The tea was steeping in the pot, and he'd been about to call to her. Now he simply stood.

  Sheets billowed like sails in the wind. He caught the clean, wet scent of them, and the drift of rosemary and lemon balm from the herb bed she'd weeded that morning. Her laughter lifted up, bright and delighted, as she raced with the dog.

  His tattered old jeans hung on her, though she'd hacked them off to above her ankles. She'd rolled up the cuffs, pushed up the sleeves on his sweater, but now as she ran around with Hugh, they'd come down again and fell over her hands. She hadn't put on her shoes.

  She was a joy to watch. And when, he wondered, had he stopped letting joy into his life? The shadow of his fate had grown longer with each passing year.

  He'd huddled under it, he thought now, telling himself he was standing clear.

  He had let no one touch him, let nothing be important to him but his work.

  He had estranged himself from his father and his home. Those had been his choices, and his right. Now, watching Allena play tug-of-war with the big dog in a yard filled with sun and sailing white sheets, he wondered for the first time what he'd missed along the way.

  And still, whatever he'd missed, she was here.

  The pendant was here.

  The solstice was closing in.

  He could refuse it. He could deny it. However much this woman called to his blood, he would, at the end of that longest day, determine his own fate.

  It would not be magic that forced his destiny, but his own will.

  He saw Allena yank, Hugh release. She stumbled back, clutching something to her chest, then landed hard on her back. Conal was out the door and across the yard in a single skipping heartbeat.

  "Are you hurt?" He issued one sharp order to the dog in Gaelic that had Hugh hanging his head.

  "Of course not." She started to sit up, but Conal was already gathering her, stroking, murmuring something in Gaelic that sounded lovely.

  Loving. Her heart did one long, slow cartwheel. "Conal."

  "The damn dog probably outweighs you, and you've bones like a bird."

  "We were just playing. There, now, you've hurt Hugh's feelings. Come here, baby, it's okay."

  While Conal sat back on his heels and scowled, she hugged and cuddled the dog. "It's all right. He didn't mean it, whatever it was. Did you,

  Conal?"

  Conal caught the sidelong glance the dog sent him, and had to call it smug.

  "I did."

  She only laughed and kissed Hugh's nose. "Such a smart dog, such a good dog," she crooned. "He found my bag and brought it home. I, on the other hand, am a moron. I forgot all about it."

  Conal studied the oversized purse. It was wet, filthy, and now riddled with teeth marks. That didn't seem to bother her a bit. "It's taken a beating."

  "I must've dropped it in the storm. Everything's in here. My passport, my credit cards, my ticket. My makeup." She hugged the bag, thrilled to have her lipstick back. "Oh, and dozens of things. Including my copy of

  Margaret's itinerary. Do you think the phone's working now?"

  Without waiting for him to answer, she leaped up. "I can call her hotel, let her know I'm all right. She must be frantic."

  She dashed into the house, clutching the bag, and Conal stayed as he was.

  He didn't want the phones to be working. He didn't want that to break their bubble. Realizing it left him shaken. Here, he thought, at the first chance to reach out of their world, she'd run to do it.

  Of course she had. He pressed his fingers to his eyes. Wouldn't he have done the same? She had a life beyond this, beyond him. The romance of it had swept her away for a while, just as it had nearly swept him. She would get her feet back under her and move on. That was as it should be. And what he wanted.

  But when he rose to go after her, there was an ache inside him that hadn't been there before.

  "I got through." Allena sent him a brilliant smile. She stood by the counter, the phone in her hand and what appeared to be half her worldly goods dumped on the table. "She's cheeked in, and they're going to ring her room. I only hope she didn't call my parents. I'd hate to think they'd Margaret! Oh, I'm so glad you're andquot;

  She broke off again, and Conal watched the light in her eyes go dim.

  "Yes, I know. I'm so sorry. I missed the ferry and and"

  Saying nothing, he moved past her and got down mugs for tea. He had no intention of leaving her to her privacy.

  "Yes, you're right, it was irresponsible. Inexcusable, yes, that, too, to leave you shorthanded this way. I tried to andquot;

  He saw the moment she gave up, when her shoulders slumped and her face went carefully blank. "I understand. No, of course, you can't be expected to keep me on after this. Oh, yes, I know it was against your better judgment in the first place. You were very clear about that. I'm sorry I let you down. Yes, again."

  Shame, fatigue, resignation closed in on her, a dingy fog of failure. She shut her eyes. "No, Margaret, excuses don't matter when people are depending on you. Did you call Mom and Dad? No, you're right. What would have been the point?"

  "Bloody bitch," Conal muttered. They'd just see how Margaret liked being on the other end of a tongue-lashing, he decided, and grabbed the phone out of Allena's hand. The buzz of the dial tone left him no victim for his outrage.

  "She had to go," Allena managed. "Schedule. I should Excuse me. andquot;

  "No, damned if I will." He took her shoulders in a firm grip before she could escape. There were tears on her lashes. He wanted Margaret's neck in his hands. "You'll not go off to lick your wounds. Why did you take that from her?"

  "She was right. I was irresponsible. She has every reason to fire me.

  She'd never have taken me on in the first place without family pressure."

  "Family pressure? Bugger it. Where was her family concern? Did she ask if you were all right? What had happened? Where you were? Did she once ask you why?"

  "No."

  A tear spilled over, slid down her cheek and inflamed him. "Where is your anger?" he demanded.

  "What good does it do to be angry?" Wearily, she brushed the tear away. "I brought it on myself. I don't care about the job. That's the problem, really. I don't care about it. I wouldn't have taken it if I'd had a choice. Margaret's probably right. I bungle this way on purpose."

  "Margaret is a jackass."

  "No, really, she's not." She managed a wobbly grin. "She's just very disciplined and goal-oriented. Well, there's no use whining about it." She patted his hand, then moved away to pour the tea. "I'll call my parents after I've settled down a little, explain oh, God. andquot;

  Pressing her palms to the counter, she squeezed her eyes shut. "I hate disappointing them this way. Over and over, like a cycle I can't break. If I could just do something, if I could just be good at something."

  Shaking her head, she went to the refrigerator to take out last night's soup to heat for lunch. "You don't know how much I envy you your talent and your confidence in it. My mother always said if I'd just focus my energies instead of scattering them a dozen different ways, I'd move beyond mediocre."

  "It should have shamed her to say such a thing to you."

  Surprised by the violence in his tone, she turned back. "She didn't mean it the way I made it sound. You have to understand, they're all so smart and clever and, well, dedicated to what they do. My father's chief of surgery, my mother's a partner in one of the most prestigious law firms on the East

  Coast. And I can't do anything."

  There was the anger. It whipped through her as she slammed the pot on the stove. Pleased to see it, Conal folded his arms, leaned back, and watched it build.

  "There's James with his glossy practice and his gorgeous trophy wife and certified genius child, who's a complete brat, by the way, but everyone says she's simply precocious. As if precocious
and rude are synonymous. And

  Margaret with her perfect office and her perfect wardrobe and her perfect home and her perfectly detestable husband, who won't see anything but art films and collects coins."

  She dumped soup into the pot. "And every Thanksgiving they all sit around patting each other on the back over how successful and brilliant they are. Then they look at me as if I'm some sort of alien who got dumped on the doorstep and had to be taken in for humanitarian purposes. And I can't be a doctor or a lawyer or a goddamn Indian chief no matter how hard I try because I just can't do anything."

  "Now you should be ashamed."

  "What?" She pressed her fingers to her temples. Temper made her dizzy, and fuzzy-headed, which is why she usually tried to avoid it.

  "What?"

  "Come here." He grabbed her hand, pulled her into the living room.

  "What did you do here?"

  "About what?"

  "What are the things you did in here?"

  "I and dusted?"

  "To hell and back again with the dust, Allena. Look here at your flowers and candles and your bowl of broken shells. And out here."

  He dragged her to the door, shoved it open. "Here's a garden that was suffering from neglect until the morning. Where's the sand that was all over the walk that I didn't even notice until it was gone? There are sheets drying in the wind out back and soup heating in the kitchen. The bloody shower doesn't drip now. Who did those things?"

  "Anyone can sweep a walk, Conal."

  "Not everyone thinks to. Not everyone cares to. And not everyone finds pleasure in the doing of it. In one day you made a home out of this place, and it hasn't been one in too long, so that I'd all but forgotten the feel of a home around me. Do you think that's nothing? Do you think there's no value in that?"

  "It's just and ordinary," she said for lack of a better word.

  "I can't make a career out of picking wildflowers."