He knows how much I like them and he isn’t stingy in giving them to me. In all honesty, I’m a little surprised at how small the vase is this time. He usually spoils me with huge bouquets. The soft blue glass is pretty on my antique-white table. The three white lilies are gorgeous in their simplicity and grace.
I close my eyes at the reminder of his thoughtful and generous nature. Searching the interior of my mind yields no relief, but I refuse to move. Unfortunately, the floor begins telling my butt that it’s too hard to continue slouching here. I pull myself up and go slump in the window seat, as far away from the vase of flowers as possible. A few minutes after staring out my window, I see Rook’s truck pulling down the drive.
Knowing I can’t see him again tears a hole in me and I glance down at my chest expecting to see the gaping wound where my happiness use to reside. Of course I don’t actually see the injury, but I feel it acutely. I’m also aware of the horse hair and the lingering scent of Rook on my riding clothes. With the utmost care, I tuck my mom’s journal under one of the window seat cushions and then go shower and change.
A cloud of raspberry coconut scented steam pours from the bathroom as I wrap a towel around my head and walk back into my room. My converted attic space isn’t the largest bedroom in the house, but it’s more space than one person needs. I have everything I need up here and thanks to the roof deck and the outside stairs, I wouldn’t even have to visit the rest of the house if I didn’t want to. But I know Aunt Ivy would be disappointed if I didn’t show up for breakfast and dinner, so I pretend I don’t have my own living quarters. I check on Estella, my chinchilla, and see that she’s asleep, so I don’t give in to the urge to pet her silky fur. Then I wonder where Basil is. He tends to wait for me at the barn, but I didn’t notice him when I came back from my ride with Rook. With the thought of my incredibly loyal, if somewhat quirky, Basset hound/retriever mix, I hear him announce his presence with a small woof. I turn the doorknob and he squeezes into the room before I barely have time to open the door.
“Basil, my cute pup,” I say as his tail thumps against my leg. “Where were you, champ? I could have used a kiss earlier. Now I’m all shiny and clean. Oh no you don’t,” I say as he begins to rub his furry body against my clean flannel pajama bottoms. The distinct odor of barn lifts off of his fur and begins to fill the room.
“To the shower, young man.” He lowers himself to the floor and starts G.I. Joe crawling toward his dog bed. “Uh-uh,” I say, and point to the bathroom.
Basil decides that he’s of an independent mindset today, and continues to slink away from me defiantly. I try a different tactic. The one that never fails. “You know the rules. If you’re going to roll in the manure you have to take a shower. Now get in that bathroom and you’ll receive your treat as soon as you smell as nice as I do.”
Basil rises to his full height, all twelve inches of his doggy manliness, and trots off to the bathroom. It’s true that I have some amazing abilities to work with animals, but I’m not foolish enough to think my dog understands everything I tell him. I know very well he comprehends about five percent of the words coming from my mouth. The two words I guarantee he knows are “bathroom” and “treat.” The rest of this apparently amazing compliance from my filthy dog is the result of endless hours of training, repetition, and his undying love of pumpkin and bacon biscuits.
With the use of a simple cleaning charm on the scrub brush and the flexible shower nozzle, my wooly hound—I did mention my dog is hound and retriever—is clean in a couple of minutes. I set the towels to work on him while I continue the charm on the shower until it has finished cleaning itself.
Basil actually grins at me when I hand him his cookie. With the pumpkin snack gobbled up in a microsecond, we settle onto the window seat moments later. Basil must have had quite the day. He stretches out next to my leg and is snoring in seconds. I, on the other hand, can’t stop staring out the window wondering about what Rook said to my aunts and also wondering if I will ever see his truck making the return trip down the long drive.
The sun is low on the horizon and the hue of the evening light casts the end of the day glow over the distant treetops and across the paddock. I glance at the sea beyond the far cliffs at the edge of our land and watch the golden highlights on the crest of every swell and ripple across the ocean. This is my life. Looking out the window of this big house and wondering if I’ll be alone forever like all the Morgan witches that lived here before me.
We’re really not alone, but on days like today, it feels that way. I mean, I’m completely free to date and sleep with whoever I want. Who in the world wants the responsibility of a long term relationship weighing them down and making them accountable to someone for a lifetime? Blah! Why would I want that?
The self-talk isn’t working. Neither is the sarcasm and cynicism. It’s only serving up the very familiar plate of sadness about my predicament. Why did my mother even have me? She knew what I would have to endure.
It’s time, I tell myself. I reach under the cushion and pull out her journal.
∞
I startle from a deep sleep thanks to a rattling sound surprisingly close to my ear. When I open my eyes, I’m even more disturbed by the sight of a dark, wet nose snorting and chortling in my face. Basil’s snores cease abruptly and his droopy lids part to display inquisitive brown eyes. A long pink tongue begins to lap at my face. His good morning kiss runs from the side of my mouth to my left nostril and keeps going toward my eye. Basil is a poor substitution for Rook.
“Basil…I love you, but ewww.” I sit up and wipe the dog slobber away.
Apparently, I never left the window seat last night and now I’m paying for it. The towel that was wrapped around my head falls to the floor and I realize I had used it as a blanket, along with my dog and a half dozen pillows from my window nest. It’s not exactly the same comfort that my big cozy bed affords, but it could have been worse. The last time I fell asleep reading by the bay window I woke up when I rolled onto the floor, so I should be grateful I didn’t have that repeat performance.
I reach over and flip off the light that was left on all night, or should I say all morning. It was super late by the time I actually fell asleep. Turning back to my reading nook, I search for the journal and find it right next to Basil.
His eyes are trained on me. What does he want? A belly rub, probably another pumpkin dog treat, and then to be let outside to do his morning business and check on the barn. Then he’ll find Aunt Ivy for his gourmet breakfast. I oblige him, but not with another cookie.
He jumps down and we both pad across the throw rugs to the roof deck door. Through the stained glass window I notice I have a guest.
“Oh, curses,” I mutter, and slink out of sight before he sees my shadow through the colored glass. I hug the wall and stare with longing at the far side of my bedroom—the shady side without any windows. Why is Rook here? I saw his outline in the chair. It had to be him. Even through the beveled and warped glass I could easily recognize his profile.
I’m about to make a mad tip-toeing dash across the floor when Basil gives me his hallooing alert that he’s done waiting to be let out. As luck would have it, Basil inherited his father’s voice box and has the loud bellowing troll voice of a Basset hound.
I give him the stink eye of betrayal for ratting me out and then crack open the door. Maybe my bed-head and dog hair covered flannel will help Rook realize I’m not the bootylicious babe he thinks I am. I leave the door ajar and catch the morning sea breeze mixed with the smell of the dew burning off the grass in the fields. It smells fresh and cleansing, but does nothing to settle my nerves.
Across the room I spot my navy blue sweatshirt lying across the chair by Estella’s cage. I hurry over and grab it. My chinchilla is eyeing me about the same way Basil just was, so I drop a few food pellets into her dish. She looks at the pellets and then back up at me.
“Don’t beg, Stel,” I say in my most motherly, I know what’s best for you voice. “I promise I’l
l bring you something special later.”
She seems to accept my word and hops over to her pellets and begins munching. I grab my sweatshirt and pull it over my head, covering up that fact that I was sleeping in one of Rook’s T-shirts. How am I going to handle this? And what does he want? I broke up with him not even twenty-four hours ago. My mixed up ideas about him take over the rational side of my brain for all of a second before I shake it off. This is Rook. He’s not unstable. He’s the most reasonable and level-headed person I’ve ever known. But the reassurances don’t stop my heart from pounding as I slip out the door and come face to face with him.
There are tiny lines of strain around his eyes that aren’t usually there, giving him the appearance of not having slept very well. If at all. He’s unshaven and that increases his ruffled appearance. Of course, this only serves to make him look sexier, like the way I’ve seen him in the morning after staying the night.
He doesn’t speak and neither do I. Other than the tired look around his burnished copper eyes, he appears as relaxed and at ease as he usually does. I work my somewhat dry lips together and try not to spill my guts to him. If I hadn’t broken it off with him, I would be gushing at the seams telling him the highlights of what I read in my mother’s journal. But now we are two separate entities and I can’t allow myself to share the intimate details of my life. The cords between us have been severed. The frayed ends are obviously on my side and that’s where they need to stay.
A tiny smile lifts one side of his mouth as I approach the patio table where he’s been waiting for me. I hug myself and turn to my spare pair of work boots that had been accidentally left outside so I don’t have to make eye contact. I hate breakups. Yesterday I would have been snuggling up on his lap and nibbling his earlobe as we discuss what the best breakfast juice is. Now I’m overly self-conscious and afraid to say a single word because I’m completely frazzled by the state of my emotions. And it’s cranberry, by the way, no matter how many times Rook insists on orange juice as the morning fruit juice of choice.
From the corner of my eye, I see Rook slide a folded sheet of cream colored stationary across the table. I slip my feet into my mud boots and think about Snowdrop and Perry waiting for their hay. The angle of the morning rays across the yard, and the fact that the sun is already warming my rooftop balcony, lets me know that it’s much later than normal for my morning chores. I glance toward the barn and see my shaggy Bassett hound rounding the corner of the building, probably in search of a fresh pile of manure to roll in.
My feet squash down into cold, soggy boots. I grimace and let my own stubbornness keep me from pulling the boots back off. If I’m going to make ridiculous mistakes like leaving my boots outside to be rained on, then I’m going to have to pay the consequences. This is only half the truth, of course. I don’t want Rook to see me squealing with repulsion as the rainwater squishes between my toes. I’m already embarrassed enough by the state of my hair and lack of refinement. I brush a hand over my head and know it’s useless as soon as I touch the rat’s nest I call a hair style.
With as much dignity as I can muster, I hold up my head, and squelch across the deck. His gaze flicks to my mane of tangles and I actually see a hint of humor twinkle in his eyes, but he’s quick to cover it up. He says he likes my hair and how it’s always doing something unexpected, much like the woman beneath, but I suspect he’s only the product of a decent upbringing and knows not to say anything to a woman that isn’t complimentary.
We’re still holding our silence and I wonder if it’s becoming a game. When I refrain from speaking first, Rook glances at the paper, and then back up at me.
I decide to play along. At least for another minute, and then I’ll have to go feed my horses. I pick up the note and unfold it. One simple line written in Rook’s neat handwriting graces the top of the page.
Will you join me for breakfast?
I let myself make eye contact with him for a very brief second and then back down at the paper. Staring at the message with uncertainty, I hear something slide across the table. He passes me a pen.
I write, Maybe. When? And then push the note and the pen back across to him, keeping my face unreadable. I’m still not sure what he’s up to and I’m not sure how I feel about this tween-aged behavior of passing notes.
He writes something quickly and pushes it back my way. I take a seat on the edge of the chair across from him and feel the water inside my boots shift uncomfortably. Trying to ignore the discomfort between my toes I read the next message.
Now.
I continue this mildly absurd and somewhat charming communication by writing. I can’t. I have to go feed.
He writes, I’ve already taken care of your horses.
Scowling at the paper, I scrawl, You shouldn’t have done that. I’m perfectly capable.
It’s okay to have one morning off. Your aunts said you needed some rest. Snowdrop and Perry were pleased to see me.
I shake my head slightly. Not sure if I should be angry or grateful. I begin to rise to my feet with the intent to go check on my animals anyway, and put an end to this unscheduled meeting.
Half out of my chair I write, I can’t go out to breakfast right now, and then pass the final message to him.
He takes a look at it as I move away from the table.
That’s when I become fully aware of the power in the air. The magic is tangible, but that’s not unusual when two witches are together. I should have been paying closer attention, but it wasn’t a concern to me. Magic is usually in the air around my house like most homes have the lingering scents of cooking food. We have the food smells too, but residual magic is an extra current that tickles my senses and isn’t found just anywhere.
I can’t help but glance over at Rook. A nice spread is laid out before him. There’s cranberry juice in glass tumblers, a tea service, a covered tray of scones, croissants, and nuts braids, and a bowl of fruit. In addition to the food, he’s brought dishes and silverware.
Still not communicating verbally, I return to the note paper, and scribble, You could have sent me a text. This is the twenty-first century. I fold it into a tight little square and toss it at his chest. I don’t appreciate him taking my stomach hostage and I want him to know it.
But, darn! I’m starving and the damned English tea is more than I can resist. Especially after the late night I had last night. The caffeine is singing a love song that is melting my heart on the spot. I only resist for another second because I’m headstrong and obstinate. That, and the paper that just sailed through the air and tagged my shoulder.
I’m so tempted to leave it abandoned on the deck, but I keep going with this strange game.
It says, You don’t have your phone.
Pointing out the obvious only serves to heighten my irritability. Rook must sense the rise in my blood pressure because he promptly leans forward and pours two cups of tea. He adds some cream and two spoonfuls of sugar and sets the spoon to stirring as he places a croissant and some melon on a plate. Then he places the mug of tea and the food across the table as an offering.
I didn’t eat dinner last night and I’m absolutely starving. The foods he brought are all my favorites and he knows it.
I plop down into the chair and take the croissant, savoring the first bite and then basically shoving the rest in my mouth. Washing the warm buttery pastry down with swallows of tea almost brings enough peace of mind to actually make me relax, but I can’t totally let go.
“Thank you,” I say and then realize I spoke first. I hate that I forgot to win the game, but it’s too late. I slice my melon and glance up to see Rook biting into a blueberry scone.
“You’re welcome, Aspen,” he says after he finishes chewing. “Starting to feel any better?”
“Yes,” I admit grudgingly. “But only because caffeine is a mind altering drug.”
“You were not supposed to know my ulterior motives behind the pot of tea.”
“And I’m not responsible for my action
s when someone so recklessly gives an addict her drug of choice.”
“Fair enough,” he says with deadly serious eyes, but the hint of playfulness at the corner of his sculpted lips doesn’t escape my notice.
The laugh bubbling up in my chest feels full of glitter and lights and butterfly kisses. I suppress the feeling and chew on the cantaloupe as I try to return to my former state of brooding.
“I want to apologize for my behavior yesterday.”
I nearly choke on this statement.
His brows knit with concern, but relax as I decide choking isn’t in my best interest. I stop gagging.
“There really isn’t a need to put pressure on you. I was thinking narrowly because of what I saw in my inner sight and because of my upcoming internship. I’m now aware that other arrangements can always be made.”
“Rook, I don’t think you’re fully grasping the situation between us.”
He interrupts before I can go on. “I’m positive that I am not one hundred percent informed of the circumstances that surround you and your family. I can also add a few things up for myself.” He lifts his cup and takes a drink of his tea.
“I don’t think we should be talking about this,” I say with legitimate concern.
“Please, Aspen, I don’t want you to put yourself, or your family, in jeopardy.”
His sincerity is heartfelt, but it pisses me off. I grab my mug and begin to rise again. Our breakup is inevitable. I can’t speak about my problem with him and I don’t want our splitting up dragged out until we’re both miserable and broken beyond repair.
“Don’t run again,” he says quietly, laying his hand on the table. “Hear me out. I’m not here to quarrel with you or talk of marriage.”
Pausing allows me to refill the mug, and gives me an excuse to stay and find out what he came here to say. I only hope this doesn’t shatter me more. After the things I said and an all-nighter reading the private inner workings of my mother, I feel fragile. Like the smallest upset could tip me over and break me into a million pieces.
Heart of the Secret: A Witches of Lane County Novella Page 4