Making Magic: Books of the Kindling, Book 3

by Donna June Cooper

  Thea took a careful step backward, freeing herself gently from his grasp. “No, not really. This bug is kicking me in the teeth. I haven’t been able to shake it, with the case and everything.” She made a vague gesture at the executive suite doors down the corridor. “I need to go home and rest. It might be a while.”

  Home. I’m really going home. A sob lodged in her throat, but she turned it into a cough.

  “That’s too bad. If your father’s not taking you out to celebrate, I had hoped to do the honors.” He made an exaggerated pout. “But I suppose I can go home with you and feed you miso soup at Althea’s instead of eggplant cannelloni at Farmicia.”

  Swallowing hard to calm herself, Thea pasted on a thin smile. “No, I’m definitely contagious and not very sociable at the moment, but I’ll take a rain check.”

  Greg’s square jaw tensed, then he smiled and shook his head. “I have a rather large collection of those. Someday I’m going to redeem them.” He reached for her arm again, but Thea sidestepped as the elevator doors opened behind her.

  “Why, I’m certain I have no idea what you mean, sir,” she said, with the exaggerated Southern accent he loved so well.

  It had the effect she’d hoped for as his stiff smile softened. “You know, it’s not good PR for the daughter of the CEO of one of the most powerful pharmaceutical companies in the world to have a bad cold.”

  Thea stepped back into the elevator. “I know. Ironic, isn’t it? Synprex-D does nothing for me,” she singsonged, as the doors started to close.

  “I’ll call you,” he said with desperation, the little indentation between his eyebrows deepening with concern.

  She nodded at him as the doors closed on his clean-cut face. She straightened herself and hoped she looked a lot better than she felt. Just a little while longer. Her silk shirt was sticking to her skin, her blunt-cut bangs clung to her forehead and, to top it all off, the pencil skirt was hanging sideways on her hips. Either the damn safety pin had broken or she had lost more weight than she thought over the last few weeks.

  At least she hadn’t lied to Greg. The bug that she hadn’t been able to throw off seemed to be settling in with a vengeance. But when the elevator doors opened, she stepped out into the lobby with a sense of freedom she hadn’t felt in years. She was going home. She could rest on the rich cool loam of the forest floor, listen to the music of the mountain, play along on her flute—and finally mourn for those she had lost along the way.

  The thought bolstered her through the glass doors and out into the July heat shimmering over the sidewalks of Philadelphia. Despite the heat and her miserable cold, she felt as if she could breathe freely for the first time in years.

  I’m going home. Home!

  “I’m heading home, Jake!” It was Rita’s cheerful call from the front of the shop. “You gonna be all right on your own for closing?”

  “Sure. I’m ready to work up front.” Jake had already gathered his tools and the pieces he needed to work with onto his small workbench. He switched off the lights in the workshop and rolled the workbench into the front of the store. “All set.”

  While he recovered from his gunshot wound, Jake was managing Donnie Lowe’s woodcrafting store at the same time that Donnie was giving retirement a try. It gave Jake a chance to test out his own dream of creating and selling musical instruments.

  Rita Mullins smiled at him, her dark eyes twinkling. “I can’t wait to see those dulcimers finished and hear them as well.” She fished her purse out of the bin behind the cash register. “I think we have a couple of Trail hikers headed this way and…I saw your mom drive by a while ago.” Her smile dimmed a bit.

  “Okay. Thanks.” Jake pulled the stool around and positioned the workbench in the light so that people passing by the windows could see him at work in the shop. Watching him carve sound hole inlays or string and tune the instruments, as well as play them, was a surefire draw, especially on a Friday night. A few folks always strolled the sidewalks this time of day in the summer, when the sunshine lingered and the evenings were balmy.

  “I know you’re going to sell all of them.” Rita nodded to the small display of his smaller stringed instruments—the mountain dulcimers, psalteries and dulcitars hanging on the wall. “Especially those three beauties in the back that you’re finishing up. And you’ll have all kinds of orders from the festival next week. It’s so exciting!”

  It was hard not to grin at her enthusiasm. “Thanks, Rita.”

  “Well I told Donnie he should sell you the place sooner than later. You can gradually change the stock over to focus on instruments and leave him a corner for the carvings he can create in his spare time,” she said. “He’s enjoying this ‘trial retirement’ too much. And you were meant to make those lovely things.”

  “We’ll see,” he said.

  “Could do worse for this world than to fill it up with song, I say,” she said.

  Jake smiled. “Yes, ma’am, I believe you’re right. You have a good night and I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”

  The bell on the door rang cheerfully as the couple Rita had spotted on the sidewalk came in. The young man held the door for Rita as she left.

  “Welcome to HeartWood,” Jake said. “Let me know if I can help you with anything or answer any questions.”

  “I adore your accents down here,” the young woman said with a distinct New England accent of her own. “They are just yummy.”

  “Hey!” Her companion poked her playfully.

  “Why thank you, ma’am,” Jake tipped an imaginary hat to her. “But what accent would that be exactly?”

  At first they seemed surprised, then the young man laughed. “Oh, I get it. We’re the ones who have accents,” he said.

  “I suppose we do,” the woman added. “Do you have hand-carved chess sets? I mean, made here? Not in China or anything like that?”

  “Made right here in North Carolina. We have a great set over here that’s all cherry, another one in black walnut and this mixed one of walnut and maple. All of them have handmade walnut and maple boards.” Jake went over and pointed to the chess sets Donnie had carved, then backed away to let them browse.

  The bell on the door rang again. Jake straightened, and turned back to his workbench just as his mom walked in.

  His dad had assured him that Marilyn Moser had been quite a beauty once upon a time and Jake had seen enough pictures of her back then to believe it. If you looked closely, even now, you could still see the lovely girl she had once been under the scars that grief and age and alcohol had left behind. As always, she was dressed impeccably, with every ash-blonde hair in place and diamond studs in her ears.

  “What’re you doing in town tonight, Mom? I thought you had a meeting in Asheville.”

  “I don’t need them anymore. It’s always the same stories, over and over. I’m past all that now,” she said, glancing over at the couple checking out the chess sets.

  Jake leaned in closer to her. “I think they say you never really get past it, Mom.”

  “I’m not here to talk about that. I’m here to find out when you are going back to work. Everyone keeps asking me when you’re going to put on your badge again.”

  Jake clenched his jaw. It wasn’t her fault. She couldn’t help it if people who weren’t brave enough to ask him directly went to her instead. He turned to check on his customers.

  “We’ll ship anywhere,” he said, loud enough for them to hear. The young woman looked up and nodded in acknowledgment. Probably hiking the Appalachian Trail and taking a breather in Patton Springs. Or they had timed their hike to be here in time for the music festival. Either way, they wouldn’t want to lug a chess set on the Trail. He turned back to his mother.

  “It’s none of their business when or if I go back,” he said in a low tone.

  “But they’re saying you have PTSD or something. Like you’re afraid to
go back.” She sat on the stool beside his bench. “I don’t like it when they talk about you like that.”

  He hated it when her voice took that petulant tone.

  “Mom, I don’t have PTSD.” Not the way you think, anyway. “And I’m not afraid of getting shot again, other than the way any sane person would be. It has nothing to do with that.”

  “It certainly looks like it to everyone.”

  And how things look is so important to you, isn’t it, Mom? “I’m sorry they think that.” He pulled the other stool up to his bench and laid out all the sound hole inlays he needed to finish carving for the three hammered dulcimers he hoped to finish this week.

  She gave a dramatic sigh. “I wish you would stop all this.” She gestured around at the shop. “Managing this little store while Donnie’s off fishing. It just isn’t right. A Moser has been sheriff in this county since—”

  “Maybe ‘this’ is the way I want to make my living. Maybe ‘this’ is something I’ve loved since I was a kid. And—” he raised a finger when she started to object “—maybe following in Dad’s footsteps wasn’t such a great idea.”

  That was a low blow, but it stopped her cold. Having your son follow in his father’s and grandfather’s footsteps to become one of the youngest county sheriffs in the history of North Carolina had been quite a feather in her cap, but having her son shot in almost exactly the same kind of stupid domestic dispute that had killed her husband? The only differences were that this had been in public—and Jake had survived. His mom should be happy that he was considering putting the badge down for good. Instead, she seemed more concerned that his decision would reflect badly on her.

  She patted her hair then rubbed at her eyes. “How are you feeling? Are you… Do you still have to take medication?”

  “It still aches now and again and I’m still working on building muscle strength, but I’m off the pills,” he said.

  “Good.” Her voice was weary. “Good.”

  No, Mom. I’m not Becca. I’m not going to get addicted to the damn things.

  Jake tried to lighten the mood. “Besides fussing at your favorite son, what brought you down here?”

  She sighed. “I came to talk to Sister Sarah again.”

  “Dammit, Mom—”

  “Don’t you swear at me, Jacob Owen Moser,” she said firmly, glancing over at the customers to make sure they hadn’t heard him. “She makes me feel better about things. And she can talk to my Ron and to Becca. I need—”

  “Mom, you know she’s a fake. She’s a grifter, a con artist. Chief Meade has a file on her a foot thick. She can’t talk to Dad. In fact, he wouldn’t—”

  “I don’t care. She understands. And she knows what’s going on in this town. Up on that mountain.”

  Jake blew out a breath. Not this again. Tinfoil hat time. He picked up a disk of wood and checked the design he had drawn on it. Almost too intricate for handwork, but he could handle it.

  “Are you listening to me?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He tried not to sound exasperated, but it wasn’t easy. “You’re afraid of something up on Woodruff Mountain. But since you don’t go anywhere near the place, then it shouldn’t be a problem.”

  He barely remembered when Marilyn Moser had been a sweet-tempered and fearless mother and a supportive and loving wife. That had been before the alcohol, a long time ago. Now Becca was gone, Eric had fled and Sheriff Ron Moser had died on the floor of a double-wide up in a mountain hollow. At least his mom wasn’t drinking anymore, as far as he could tell.

  “You know that’s not what I mean.” She waved at the street outside the shop window. “It’s those Woodruffs and the kind of people they associate with.”

  Jake frowned. “You mean the people that stay at the cabins? Or the folks who buy their herbs? Or me? I associate with—”

  “It’s those people. Like the ones who visit in that RV. And that new girl.”

  “The one Daniel Woodruff’s marrying next week? That girl?” He had to work hard not to let his frustration creep into his fingers and ruin his carving.

  “Yes, that girl.”

  “Her name is Mel, Mom. And those people in that RV are her parents,” Jake said in a resigned tone. “I’ve met them. Nice folks. Good people.”

  “They’re not normal.”

  “Which ones? The Woodruffs? Or the Nobletts?” Jake asked, no longer being as careful with his tone. “Or is it the whole damn bunch of em?”

  “There is no need to swear at me!”

  The couple considering the carved chess sets looked over and Jake grinned back with his best good-old-boy smile. This was probably going to cost him a sale.

  “There is something strange going on with them and you, of all people, know what I mean.” She lowered her voice. “How many times have you gone up there in the past few months and found people waving guns around and shooting at each other?”

  Jake grimaced and shook his head. “Mom, the Woodruffs were innocent bystanders both those times. The Taggarts were the ones cooking meth up there. Hell, the Taggarts had been on the wrong side of the law for so long I’m surprised Dad, or even Granddad, didn’t catch them at it a long time ago. And those Italian guys got a little over enthusiastic about some kind of industrial espionage that Mel was writing about. She’s a journalist, Mom. It’s a coincidence that it all happened in the past year.” But before that, there had been Logan Woodruff—the Woodsman—whose death hadn’t really been accidental.

  “I don’t believe in coincidence,” she huffed. “Those Woodruffs have always wanted their old home place back. Is it a coincidence that the Taggart boys are in jail now and Annie Taggart is missing? And they can walk in there and take the Taggart place without so much as a by-your-leave? And they’re building fences and bricking things up—”

  She’d been listening to Sister Sarah again. Sarah Rae Scott, who called herself Sister Sarah, had been thick as thieves with Old Annie Taggart right up until Old Annie’s disappearance. “It’s the Woodruff’s house. It’s their property. The Taggarts only lived there because of the Woodsman’s generosity and his father’s before him. Hell, they own the damn mountain.”

  “Jake Moser—”

  “Look, I’ve got a lot of work to do, Mom.” Jake held up his hand to put a halt to any more complaints about his swearing, then ran it through his hair. Part of him was tempted to yank some out. “I don’t have time to listen to all this again. Go on and talk to Sarah. Maybe she’ll give you her ‘easy mark’ discount.” She was trying to buy forgiveness. Forgiveness for things she couldn’t even remember.

  He watched as her mouth pressed into a straight line. She stood and shook out her dress. “I’m just trying to protect you.” She leaned over to brush a dry kiss on his cheek. “You stay safe.” She went quickly out the door.

  Ever since the car accident his mom had ended conversations that way, like some superstitious ritual. He watched her cross the street toward Sarah’s shop, where a simple neon sign sputtered “OPEN” underneath a fancier one that flashed “Psychic” over an unblinking neon eye.

  Jake jumped as the young man spoke up at his elbow. “We’re going to think about it,” he said.

  “I’m buying him a few beers at that Tavern down the way, but we’ll be back,” the young woman added with a wink. “Don’t let anyone buy that mixed set.”

  “Try the Pisgah Pale Ale. It’s the best,” Jake said as the bell rang and they were gone, arms linked and laughing. Life’s one big adventure for them. He followed them and propped the door open to catch the soft evening breeze.

  Returning to his work, he thought about how he was going to spend his Friday night. Six sound hole inlays to finish and stain and glue in place. Then he had to string and tune the three instruments he had ready. And tune and play and tune again. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to get much sleep the next few days, other
than the workshop’s futon. There was only a week until the festival.

  On top of running the store, he still had the extra practice sessions with the band, a gig that had to come off like clockwork, and finishing the hammered dulcimers. It was going to be close. But he was determined that any instrument with his name on it was going to be a unique and beautiful piece that he would be proud to own and play himself. If he sold them all, he would make the down payment on this place.

  He glanced south into the green dark where Woodruff Mountain reared her beautiful peaks and ridges into the sky.

  Unlike his older brother, he had never considered leaving here, even to get away from their dysfunctional family. He still couldn’t imagine it. Sure, Eric had found mountains of his own, but those over in Washington State weren’t anything like these. These mountains had ancient roots that reached the heart of the planet, peaks that touched the stars and a song that hummed through your soul until your fingers itched with the need to play it.

  As he leaned over his workbench, he thought of others who had left these mountains behind. There weren’t many. People born up here stayed if they could. Families endured. Some families like his and the Woodruffs had history going back to the beginning, back to the first settlers and even to the native tribes, right here in these mountains. Even when some of them did leave, like Grace and Daniel Woodruff, they tended to come back. And then there was Thea Woodruff.

  She was another one, like Eric, who had escaped as soon as she could, although he never understood why. It had been Becca’s death that had been the final blow for Eric. Eric had only come back to town once—for their dad’s funeral. Hell, between his dad’s death and his mom’s struggle with alcohol, Jake had been tempted to skip town himself. But he was the one who stayed.

  At least Eric was still playing his guitar. From what Jake had heard after the Woodsman’s funeral, Thea wasn’t even playing anymore. Another thing he couldn’t imagine—Thea without her flute.

  He couldn’t imagine not playing. His instrument of choice was a bit more unwieldy to carry around than a flute or guitar. It was even harder to describe to your average music lover, but he had finally come up with a description that worked for him. “The hammered dulcimer is like a guitar with no neck, a much bigger soundboard, a lot more strings and two sound holes. And what makes it more fun? You play by whacking on it with tiny hammers.”