Magical Memories

by Donna Fletcher

  He smiled. “She hugged me all the time. I remember trying to squirm out of her grasp, though I didn’t try very hard, not even when the smell of liquor overwhelmed me. I’d help get her into bed at night and tuck the covers around her. But no matter how much she drank she was still up at the crack of dawn ready to go to work. She’d make certain I ate a good breakfast, was dressed decently for school, gave me lunch money, then hugged me fiercely, and told me how much she loved me before she dropped me off at Mrs. Garcia’s apartment. Mrs. Garcia was a friend and neighbor who walked me to school along with her five children.”

  Tempest knew the story did not have a happy ending. She felt his pain, sorrow, and the loss of a mother’s love as if it were her own, and she held back her tears.

  He shook his head. “Ironically, a drunk driver hit and killed her on her way to work one morning. I was eight years old, and I became the state’s responsibility, since my mother had no relatives. I was shifted from one foster home to another. Some weren’t too bad and others were nightmares. The last home was brutal. The man was nasty and violent, though he never took a drink. He was just plain mean. He beat the hell out of me more times than I care to remember. Six months into my stay there I turned sixteen and decided I’d had enough of a system that just didn’t really give a damn. I ran away. I lied about my age, which was easy since I looked older than I was. I signed onto a freighter, and I’ve been sailing the high seas until about six months ago when I decided to explore Scotland.”

  Tempest realized how very much his mother had taught him in the short time they had together. But now was not the time to comment. It had cost him dearly to share a part of himself that he had locked away far too long, and a part of him that had never healed. Words of solace or understanding would do little good right now, so she wisely chose to change the subject.

  “Why Scotland?”

  He seemed relieved. The taut muscles in his face relaxed, and his tense hands calmed as he planted the last of the mint seedlings. “My travels brought me here several times. I had the opportunity to explore and found myself fascinated with the land and its people. Aberdeen has a mystical quality about it. Edinburgh is a blend of the old and the new. The various isles haunt the eye, and the mist-shrouded hills leave you breathless. And then there are the people, warm and welcoming.”

  He laughed. “And never at a loss for advice, and good advice at that.”

  “How long do you plan on staying here?”

  He shrugged. “I’m not sure. It may sound strange, but I feel the need to be here. I’m not certain why. I just know here is where I must remain until...” He shrugged again. “Until whenever.”

  Tempest patted the fresh soil around the repotted asparagus fern. “Well until then, those mint seedlings are yours to take care of. And there are seeds that need planting for spring and a few plants that need trimming and repotting.”

  “You trust me?” he asked doubtfully.

  “You’ve handled yourself well so far, and I think I see ...” she said, poking at his soil-covered thumb, “a bit of green sprouting right there.”

  He looked at where she pointed and she smiled. “You see, you do believe, and that’s all it takes.”

  He smiled himself, feeling good, feeling relaxed, feeling drawn to this mysterious woman who had appeared out of nowhere in a snowstorm and whisked him away.

  “We’ll finish working here, and then you can rest or help me in the kitchen making an apple pie for this evening’s dessert.”

  She touched his hand with the concern of a loved one. “I don’t want you doing too much, so please don’t hesitate to tell me if you are tired and need rest.”

  “I’ll be a good patient,” he said, his own hand reassuring her with a comforting pat.

  They worked well together for the next hour. He was an apt student—asking questions, following instructions and learning.

  But then she learned as well, growing aware of his intelligence, his ability to learn easily, and his need to connect and care for something, anything... anything that would stop the loneliness that was so much a part of him.

  They were both hungry by the time they returned to the kitchen and while Michael availed himself of the bathroom, Tempest used her magical powers to set the table. He would insist on helping her and she thought he needed rest, so instead of arguing the issue she settled it with a wave of her hand.

  Vegetable beef soup was ladled into deep bowls and thick slices of pumpernickel bread waited on the table along with a cucumber salad.

  Michael hobbled into the kitchen, cast a glance at the set table but before he could protest he got a whiff of the vegetable beef soup. Without delay he took his seat. By the time Michael finished his third bowl of soup and the last slice of bread, he was yawning.

  “Time to rest,” she said.

  “What about helping you with that apple pie?” Another yawn attacked him.

  Tempest had cast no sleep spell over him and knew his own body was alerting him to the fact that it required time to sleep and time to heal. “I can manage on my own.”

  “I should help,” he insisted, standing and reaching for his empty bowl to help clean off the table. He wobbled slightly and wisely placed the bowl back down.

  Tempest reached out and braced her shoulder under his arm, allowing his arm to drape over her opposite shoulder. Her arm went around his waist. “I’ll help you to the couch.”

  This time he didn’t protest and followed her lead. He was soon carefully deposited on the big soft couch in the living room, a chenille throw draped over him.

  Tempest added another log to the dwindling fire, returning the protective black iron mesh screen in front.

  “Don’t let me sleep long,” he said, his eyes drifting shut.

  “Sleep as long as you need to,” she whispered and tiptoed out of the room. She went to the closet beneath the stairs and took out her long, white wool cloak, and her white boots lined with lamb’s wool. She put both on, grabbed the heavy white wool gloves from the pockets of the cloak and quietly slipped out the door into the swirling snow.

  Two hours later Michael woke with a start. He thought he heard the front door open and close, but that didn’t make sense. Tempest certainly wouldn’t venture out in this storm. He must have been dreaming.

  It was almost completely dark, the fire’s light lending a soft glow to the room, and he found himself not wanting to stir. He had forgotten the feeling of a home, a good solid home filled with warmth and love, and he wanted to soak in as much as the atmosphere as he could. He’d be on his way as soon as his ankle healed. Where to he didn’t know, but he doubted it would be as welcoming as this place.

  He spotted his crutch by the chair and forced himself to get up. He should have helped her after lunch, but there was still supper. He yawned away the last of the sleep and hobbled to the kitchen. It was empty, though the scent of a baking apple pie permeated the air.

  He turned and entered the sitting room, stopping only inches in through the archway. Tempest sat on the pale-green couch with its array of tapestry pillows spread along the back. Her hands stretched out toward the fire as if attempting to warm them.

  Her honey-gold hair with its bold red streaks appeared to glisten as if wet and her cheeks were flushed as though from the cold. He grew concerned.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, making his way to her side.

  She jumped, startled by his appearance. “I’m fine. Feeling chilled, that’s all.”

  He sat down next her, resting his crutch next to him, and took her hands in his. “Your hands are ice-cold.” He rubbed them with his own. “Don’t tell me you’ve been foolish enough to go outside?”

  She could not be dishonest with him, but how did she tell him she had been outside talking with the forest fairies?

  Chapter Five

  Tempest shivered, silently admonishing herself. She could easily have cast a protective spell around herself to ward off the cold, but she had been in such a hurry, she had co
mpletely forgotten. And that concerned her. She always took precautions.

  Why hadn’t she this time?

  She had cast a glance at the woodpile to make certain her supply was adequate, though the fairies had made it known that the storm would end by morning and spring would arrive early this year. But at least her glance had given her a reasonable explanation.

  “Wood,” she said with a quiver. “I checked the woodpile.”

  He looked at her oddly, his hands pausing briefly in their vigorous rub. “Not a wise choice in a snowstorm. Unless...are the fireplaces your only source of heat?”

  She shook her head. “No, I have an efficient heating system.” Though she had always preferred the fireplaces. She had allowed too many years to pass before she had updated the cottage to present-day standards. It wasn’t that she objected to modernizing the place. She supposed it was nostalgia for a certain period in her life. A period that was better left to memories, as she often reminded herself.

  Michael cast a glance around the sitting room, and spying a pale-green and beige wool throw on a chair, he stood. “Stay put,” he ordered and without the aid of the crutch he hobbled over to get it.

  He returned and wrapped the warm throw around her. “I’ll fix you a cup of tea.”

  “It isn’t nec—”

  He silenced her with a pointed finger. “Objections are useless, and besides, I make a mean cup of tea.”

  “Really?”

  “You bet,” he said and reached for his crutch. He turned his face close to hers and caught the quiver of her lips and heard the slight chatter of her teeth. He shook his head, warning himself not to, telling himself he shouldn’t and cautioning himself against being stupid, but then who the hell ever said he was smart.

  He leaned closer and pressed his warm lips to her chilled ones. When she made no objections he nipped lightly along the bottom one until it plumped against his own. He moved to the top lip and heated that one pleasantly warm, and then he ran his tongue in a delicate line over both before giving her a kiss that caused both their lips to flame hot.

  When their tongues started to mate and his body began to respond, he knew it was time to end the kiss before he found himself wanting what he definitely couldn’t have. He reluctantly drew away after depositing several faint kisses across her lips.

  “Tea,” he said as though reminding himself and leaned heavily on the crutch as he walked out of the room.

  Tempest dropped back against the couch with a sigh and a smile. She certainly enjoyed that, and her body was still experiencing the tingling aftermath. She felt warm right down to the bone.

  She giggled. His kiss worked faster than a cup of tea. She hugged herself and indulged in the pleasure. It had been too long since her last kiss, but then that was her own fault. She had kept a distinct distance from men, not trusting them or perhaps not trusting herself. She allowed no man to get close because she herself did not want to get close, commit or even love. If she was truthful with herself she would admit that she was fearful of falling in love, fearful of getting hurt, fearful of his return.

  She glanced toward the fire and whispered a name that had not crossed her lips in several hundred years. “Marcus.”

  Had he returned? Had the spell been set in motion? A single tear spilled down her cheek. She could do nothing but wait and be patient. All would be revealed in time, and only Marcus himself could break the spell. And if not? She would lose him and their love forever.

  Tempest wiped the tear away as she heard Michael approach. Surprisingly, he managed to carry the mug of tea and make use of his crutch without any difficulty.

  He handed her the mug before easing off his crutch. “Be careful—it’s hot.”

  She took it carefully from him. “Thank you. I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

  He sat beside her, his crutch left to rest on the nearby chair. “You’ve taken good care of me; no reason I can’t return the favor. I searched your cabinets for brandy but couldn’t find any. It works wonders in chasing away a chill.”

  “And numbs pain besides helping to soothe restless sleep.” She smiled. “And sometimes it’s nice just to enjoy a brandy in front of the hearth.”

  He grinned. “So are you going to tell me where you keep your brandy so I can enjoy a glass?”

  “In the pantry off the kitchen. You’ll find brandy, scotch, vodka, gin and a variety of wine.”

  “Your liquor supply surprises me. Tempest.”

  “I use it to cook with, serve to guests and enjoy myself. I am not a prude, nor do I abuse its enjoyment.”

  “Neither do I,” he assured her. “Though there was a time I almost did. I think memories of my mother kept me from going over the edge, and I was able to keep my drinking in perspective.”

  “And smoking?” she asked.

  He grinned. “Only under pressure do I light up.”

  “I guess the pressure of being hit by a car would tempt you to have a smoke.” She hugged the mug, relishing the heat that permeated her hands. “I want you to know how sincerely sorry

  I am for running into you with my car.”

  He didn’t want her apology, didn’t need it. And he couldn’t stand the thought of her feeling badly over the misfortunate incident. “Don’t worry about it. The snowstorm was blinding.

  There was no way you could have seen me on that road.”

  Tempest disagreed. “I should never have attempted to drive in such hazardous conditions. I don’t have enough experience.”

  “You got us here, didn’t you? I’d say you handled yourself well enough. The accident was simply that, an accident. Unpredictable and unintentional. Besides, you have graciously seen to my care. What more could I ask for except perhaps a ride to the nearest village when I’m healed?”

  Tempest produced a shaky smile.

  Michael took her half-filled mug from her hand. “Let me heat that for you while I get a glass of brandy. You’re still chilled.”

  She didn’t pay attention to his chatter as he left. She heard something about help and supper but her mind was busy considering the mistake she had made when she’d returned the car to Rasmus Castle instead of sending it here to her home. Of course he would assume she had a car. How else would she have gotten him here? Another blunder and one that disturbed her greatly. She did not make mistakes. Mistakes could be costly, and she had learned centuries ago not to make them.

  She could transport the car here, but that would be rude without speaking with Dagon and Sarina and asking their permission. She had no doubt it would be no problem, and they would gladly lend it to her, but of course Sarina would expect an explanation. Dagon, on the other hand, probably would not question her, though he would tell Sarina. They didn’t keep secrets—a good way to start a marriage. Well, she had time yet, not to worry now and needlessly. She would speak with Sarina soon enough.

  Tempest shrugged off the wool throw and decided to join Michael in the kitchen. He couldn’t possibly handle a tea and brandy along with his crutch, and besides, supper needed starting and the apple pie needed looking after. And she enjoyed the thought of his company while she prepared both.

  He had found a small serving tray which he was about to make use of when Tempest entered the kitchen.

  “I thought you might need help, and I needed to check on the pie.”

  “It smells good,” he said and handed her the mug of tea.

  Their conversation turned casual after that. Michael took a seat at the table and sipped his brandy while Tempest worked on supper, and the apple pie cooled on a wire rack. It was a scene of domestic bliss that both seemed to enjoy and that flourished through the evening meal, but quickly changed when Michael entered his bedroom for the evening and discovered the closet and bureau full of clothes.

  “Tempest!”

  Tempest had barely slipped on her pale pink flannel, ankle length nightgown when she heard her name echo through the cottage. She rushed to button the three pearl buttons that connected at her breasts
and she ran her fingers through her tousled hair, little good that it did.

  With her feet bare and her hair messed, she peeked around the door into Michael’s room. “Something wrong?”

  “Where did these clothes come from?”

  Another blunder. She couldn’t be dishonest with him, so what in heaven’s name was she to tell him?

  “Don’t tell me,” he said caustically. “You believed I needed them so you willed them here.”

  “There’s a thought,” she said with a smile that faded quickly when his dark eyes warned he was in no mood for humor.

  She chose to remain silent. Sometimes it was necessary to leave mortals to their own rhyme and reason.

  He was blunt. “Do they belong to a special friend of yours?”

  His words insinuated that she had a lover and while they did not all disturb her; his annoyance over the fact amused and fascinated her. And given that the clothes actually belonged to him, she could answer honestly, “Yes, they do.”

  “Won’t he mind sharing them?”

  Tempest entered the room, her bare feet hurrying to stand on the nearest wool rug. “He’s a decent man who shares when necessary.”

  He obviously fought to contain his annoyance. “Will he visit anytime soon?”

  “He’s where he needs to be right now.”

  He practically snapped at her when he spoke. “I have my own things, I don’t need his.”

  She shrugged. “Wear them if you wish to or not. The choice is yours. I just thought you may need a few extra things during your stay here. Your own clothes are among them.”

  His temper eased. “I appreciate the thought, but my own clothes should be sufficient.”

  “If not, please feel free to help yourself,” she said calmly. “Now, is there anything I can do for you before I retire?”

  “No,” he answered gruffly. “Good night.”

  “Sleep well,” she said and before turning to leave she hurried to his side, kissed his cheek and wished him, “Pleasant dreams.”