“Now Moira Jo, you quit that snubbin’. Tears ain’t gonna fix what’s gone wrong with the world.”
Wiping her tear-stained face on the sleeve of her t-shirt, Moira stepped back, taking him in. Noting the things that hadn’t changed: his smile, his scent—tobacco and leather and salt and the sun—and the things that had: his dwindling frame, the dimming shine of his coal black eyes and inky hair, shot through with more silver than she remembered.
“How did you get here?” she asked. “Where in the hell did you get that boat?”
“Well, I’ll tell you, he said, steering her toward the center of the deck, where a ring of aluminum lawn chairs was set up around an oil drum from which flames leapt and danced.
That, not ten feet away, there was a ring of padded seats around what looked to be a propane powered faux fire pit, Sal hadn’t seemed to noticed.
“This is quite a set-up,” she said, pointing to the drum. “But is it safe? I mean, the deck is made of wood and all, and it looks like they already built a—”
“None of that fake fire for me, please and thank you.” Sal’s chest puffed as he rose to the fullest extent of his lanky height. “I’ll take the real stuff and the danger that comes along with it.” He indicated one of the lawn chairs for Moira to sit in and slouched down in the one opposite. From a battered red cooler wedged between the chairs, he plucked a long silver beer can and offered it to Moira.
Why the hell not, she figured. For old time’s sake.
She popped the top and took a swig, tasting the roasty grain as Sal popped open two for himself. Were they back on the bayou, Sal would have doctored it with salt and lime until it tasted something like citrus sea water.
“So how’d you come by this boat?” she asked. “And what are you doing all the way in Port Townsend?”
Uncle Sal’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he drained the last of his beer and belched through his nose. He crushed the can and threw it in the drum before turning to Moira. “It’s one hell of a story.”
“I’m listening.”
Uncle Sal was in his element now, a country raconteur of the first order. He sat forward in his seat, his face becoming animated as he prepared to relay the details in all the vivid color he could paint.
“So there I was, sittin’ behind the counter of the bait shack, when in walks this big city feller in a fancy suit.”
Moira’s stomach death-rolled like a gator.
“What did he look like?” she asked.
“Kindly like he thought his shit would smell like potpourri and he’d never been told no in his entire life.”
“Whisky colored eyes? Sandy brown hair?”
Uncle Sal looked genuinely piqued. “How’d you know?”
“Just a guess. Go on. Tell me the rest.”
“Well, of course I asked him if he was lost, cause he sure as hell didn’t look like he belonged there.” Sal reached for another can and slurped, his protuberant Adam’s apple bobbing up and down within his skinny neck.
“What did he say?” Moira asked.
Uncle Sal leaned in, the barrel fire playing orange in his black eyes. “It’s a good thing you’re settin’ down, cause this is where it gets real strange.”
Real strange had become a much harder target for stories to hit just lately.
“He told me he wanted to buy my bait shack for five million dollars!”
Moira’s head felt simultaneous hot and light as all the blood drained away from her face. “Why the hell would he do that?”
Uncle Sal sat up straighter, a look of wounded pride on his brow.
“I guess he knew a valuable piece of real estate when he saw it.”
The real estate in question was a shack the size of a postage stamp on rickety stilts slicked with decades of moss. On a good morning, the seagulls haunting the local garbage dump one bayou over would serenade you with their cries before 9:00 a.m. On a bad morning, the dump trucks would.
“I suppose so,” Moira allowed. “You used the five million dollars to buy this boat?”
A crafty gleam lit Uncle Sal’s eyes. Moira had seen this look before. Usually when he’d just gotten $10 for a $2 bucket of worms from some unsuspecting tourist. “That’s the best part. I traded him my pontoon for this here boat straight across. You believe that?”
Frankly, she didn’t.
Nicholas Kinsgwood parting with five million dollars in cash and a yacht for a bait shack and a pontoon that didn’t so much have a motor as it did a souped-up can opener.
“Well, it sounds like one hell of a deal,” Moira said.
“And you ain’t even seen the half of it.” Sal grasped Moira’s hand in his leathery palm and tugged her to her feet. “C’mon. I’ll give you the dime tour.”
A dime might have been generous, upon further consideration.
“The pool looks a little muddy,” Moira said, regarding the scummy brown surface.
“That ain’t a pool, it’s a noodlin’ pond. The pool’s over there.” Sal pointed to a sunken seating area, which he’d covered with tarps and filled in with water.
“Ohhh,” Moira said. “I see. You brought catfish with you all the way from Stump?”
“Well, yeah,” Sal said, looking at her like she’d just asked him if grass is green. “And they ain’t the only thing!”
As if on cue, the door to one of the lower cabins opened and out tumbled a sweaty elbowing tangle of cussing, sunburnt redneck flesh.
Moira’s heart lurched within her ribcage. “Red! Mookey! Little Earl!”
She greeted them one by one, her nose stinging with both unshed tears and the spicy scent of grain alcohol, sweat, and Old Bay seasoning—which Red insisted worked as good as baking soda on a toothbrush.
Little Earl with half his face grinning, the other half having been paralyzed from the stroke that felled him from a bar stool in the late 70’s.
Mookey, with his pot gut and t-shirt tan—shoulders whiter than a fish belly, forearms damn near the color of brick roux.
Red, lanky as a scarecrow, his whisky-bloomed nose a livid illustration of the color whose name he bore into the world.
“Speakin’ of leaving Stump when did you?” Moira asked once they’d made their re-introductions. “How did you know where to find me?”
“I don’t rightly know,” Sal admitted, scratching his head. “Last thing I remember, me and the boys was sitting on the deck, havin’ us a celebratory ‘shine. Next thing I know, we’re here. I wandered out hopin’ to figure out where I’d ended up, and I seen you.”
Moira smiled, certain now that supernatural forces originating with a particular immortal asshole of her acquaintance had been at work here. “Show me somethin’ else.”
The highlights included: the engine room, which Mookey had converted into a makeshift ‘shine still. The stateroom, which had become a skeet shooting gallery with Little Earl’s careful help. And the movie theatre, which Red had turned into a dedicated goat den.
“Ain’t that somethin’?” Red wondered aloud, looking fondly over the heard of nannies and billies slowly stripping the seats of their red velvet upholstery.
“It’s somethin’ all right,” Moira said, pressing her hand to her empty stomach. Traipsing up and down the spacious decks had given her a powerful appetite.
“You hungry, darlin’? I got me some pickled chicken livers down in the kitchen. And the fixin’s for sloppy joes. They always were your favorite.”
Moira tried to conjure a time when the prospect of ground meat—typically of dubious origins—drowned in tomato sauce served over a starchy bun had filled her with delight.
Truth was, her palate had grown a little more finicky in the days since she’d left Stump Bayou. No longer did she pass the carcass of an animal on the side of the road and wonder how fresh it might be. And it had been ages since she’d ingested any kind of rodent.
“How about we get us something in town?” Moira suggested. “There’s a few places that still let you pick up things to take home
with you.”
“Oh, no,” Mookey insisted, lifting a trucker hat bearing the words Camel Towing… Wedged in Tight, We’ll Pull it Right. He replaced it after wiping the sweat from his forehead with a stained red bandana. “I don’t trust none of them fancy restaurants. Last time I ate at one of them places I wound up with hemorrhoids the size a radishes.”
“You idiot,” Little Earl said, delivering Mookey a sound clap upside the head. “I told you you c’aint get hemorrhoids from eatin’ fancy food. They’re the Lord’s way of punishing you for doin’ that butt stuff.”
“That ain’t it either,” Red insisted. “You get ‘em from that cheap toilet paper you’s always buyin’ at the A&P. Rather wipe my ass with a corn cob.”
Moira winced, even as a feeling of inexplicable fondness filled her chest with a drift of warm sand. This kind of good-natured wrangling had once been the sound of days and nights. Her fondest memories. Her home.
Though she was tempted to share what Tierra had taught her of the miraculous effects of fiber and probiotic smoothies, Moira decided she might have more straining matters—so to speak—in mind.
“Does that mean y’all ain’t coming?” she asked, turning her shoulders toward the door.
“Nah,” Little Earl, self-appointed statesman of the group said, a meaty hand scratching the back of his thick neck. “We’ll stay here. Give y’all a chance to get all caught up.”
“Suit yourself,” Sal said. “I don’t want to hear no bellyachin’ when I get back.”
“How does fish and chips sound?” Moira asked as they crested the deck.
“All right,” Sal agreed, eyes narrowed. “But only if you let me pay. Turns out, I have me a windfall at present.” He produced a wad of money from his overalls, throwing it up in the air like green confetti.
“All right,” Moira agreed, threading her arm through his. “You pay. Just don’t throw any more of that stuff around, okay? It’ll last longer that way.”
They had barely reached the gangplank when Sal stopped abruptly.
“Hey!” he said, pointing a bony finger toward the dock. “That’s him.”
Moira looked up, afraid she already knew what she would see.
She both was and wasn’t disappointed.
There, standing on the dock with the sunset at his back, was Nicholas Kingswood.
20
How it was possible to feel both touched and horrified, Nick did not know.
Touched at the name.
Horrified at the manner of its application.
Big, dripping hand-painted letters on the side of his yacht. Or the yacht that had been his, before he traded it to Gomer Pyle in act of contrition.
An act he wasn’t yet certain had actually had the desired effect.
He watched Moira descend the plank on her uncle’s arm, trying not to think how it might look if she were clad in billowing white, and he, in a tuxedo. More helpful to focus on the ghost of the terrible pain she’d wrought in his crotch.
“Hey,” Nick said when he was certain they were within earshot.
“Hey yourself.” Moira’s face bore its usual smirk. A maddeningly inscrutable expression that suggested she knew some secret thing about you that you didn’t want her to know, but which amused her greatly.
Not exactly the untrammeled amazement for his generosity or undying ardor Nick had been hoping for. But not out and out dislike either.
Progress.
“Wait a minute.” The yokel thumbed the straps of his overalls, aiming a querulous look his niece. “You know this fella?”
“Sometimes,” she said.
Nick was encouraged by her sly smile. A smile that remembered, and not altogether unpleasantly, the more intimate details of their acquaintance.
“I know why you’re here,” Sal said.
“You do?” Truly, Nick had to try to keep his face empty of surprise at the suggestion that a man like Salvador Malveaux could know anything.
“Sure do. And just so you know, the answer is no.”
“No?” Nick bit down hard on the surge of rage driving up from his belly. Only two people had ever dared tell him no over the course of his long life, and they were both standing in front of him.
“No, you can’t have Moira Jo.” The man draped a possessive arm around his niece and squeezed.
Nick brought his hand to his eye to stop the sudden twitching. “I don’t think that’s your decision to make.”
“Of course it is. She belongs to me and now that we’re together, I’m keepin’ her.”
Nick glanced at Moira, shocked that she’d endure such patriarchal posturing without complaint. “Don’t you think she should have a say in this?”
“Why the hell would she get a say?” Sal asked. “I mean, she’s purty, but it’s not like she has a brain.”
“You listen, and you listen good,” Nick said, grabbing Sal by the front of his bib overalls and shoving him against the dock railing. “Moira Malveux de Moray is one of the smartest, most cunning, most wickedly clever women I’ve ever met, and believe me, I’ve met a lot. If you dare insult her intelligence in my presence again, so help me gods, I will strip the skin from your bones and wear it like a Brioni suit. Do you understand me?”
“Oh I understand you, all right.” But far from the fear and cowering Nick had expected, Sal broke out into a smile that took over his whole face.
“What?” Nick said, releasing him. “What are you grinning about?”
Sal’s shoulders shook, rhythmically jerking toward his ears with a hyuk hyuk hyuk sound before he doubled over, slapping his denim-clad knee. “You were talking about Moira Jo the person. I was talking about Moira Jo the boat.”
Nick glanced at Moira, and from the half-pleased, half-amused expression on her face, gathered that she had known what both men were referring to the entire time.
“Right.” Nick smoothed his tie and cleared his throat. “Of course. I knew that. We made a deal and I have no intention of reneging on it.”
“Good,” Sal said. “We have an understandin’. Now point me in the direction of the nearest grub shack. I’m starved.”
Siren’s gastropub wasn’t the nearest, but it was the nearest they could come to a compromise on. With Sal insisting that he couldn’t eat “none of them fancy vittles on account of it gave him the galloping squirts” and Nick insisting that he’d not set foot in an establishment where at least two kinds of top shelf scotch weren’t on offer, the upscale gastropub seemed to be the best option.
What followed was sixty-seven of the most painfully awkward minutes in Nicholas Kingswood’s life. And considering he’d been present at the Lisa Marie and Michael Jackson kiss at the Grammys, that was saying something.
Moira said little, folding and refolding her napkin, focused on feeding French fries to the pig-formed familiar hunkered between her and her Uncle’s hips.
The aforementioned pig-familiar mostly glared at Nick, aggressively chewing scraps in his general direction.
And Sal Malveux, determined to make small talk, asked Nick a series of utterly inane and irritating questions.
Examples of their pained exchange:
Sal (wiping tartar sauce from his chin with the back of his hand): So what is it you do, young fella?
Nick (while sipping his scotch): I’m in acquisitions.
Sal: Of companies and such?
Nick: Of kingdoms. Of countries. Of continents. And occasionally the will to live.
Moira (clearing her throat, staring daggers across the table): He’s kiddin’.
Sal: So how did y’all two meet?
Nick: A cosmic collision of forces destined to bring about the end of the earth as we know it.
Sal: Wait a minute. You’re talkin’ about that Tinder thang, ain’t you?
Nick: Sure.
Sal (around a mouthful of crispy battered fish): Shooee is this good! What’s your favorite thing to eat, Nick?
Nick: Your niece’s—
Moira:
Nick: —fried chicken.
Sal: Boy howdy, don’t I know it. We sure have missed Moira’s cooking back home. If you like her fried chicken, you ought to try her biscuits. Lighter than an angel’s poot. Why, it seems like only…
The epistle continued, but Nick was no longer listening.
The unexpected jolt of pain from Moira’s judicious flip-flop had somehow found its way all the way from his shin to his cock, which made an impromptu and inconvenient tent of the linen napkin in his lap. He shifted in his seat, drawing a knowing grin from Moira.
For the first time, he realized what an appropriate choice of venue this was for their meeting.
Sirens.
For that’s what she was to him. A water witch with the power to draw him toward the rocks that would be his ruin.
And how well she knew him.
Well enough to slide her foot up the inside of his calf. Between his knees. Up the inside of his thigh.
Bare toes pressed against him. Nails painted the absurd red only used for very expensive cars.
He remembered that color.
It was the color of their first meeting. Her whole, improbable self in the first class seat he had reserved. Her feet stretched against the back of the chair in front of her, her long legs still burnished tawny from the low country sun. Breasts and hair and lips and hips. A composite he had scarcely considered before deciding he would have it. That he could have it. They way he’d always had everything he’d even half wanted.
Looking at her now, he wondered at his own ignorance. The ignorance still shared by every male within groping distance of her now.
They saw her, but didn’t see her. Her native wit. Her unfailing gentleness. Her resilience. The simple joy she took in living.
Immortal that he was, he had been on this planet past recall and past time. All those centuries, attempting to carry out what he thought was his purpose. And still he was not finished.
Not even three decades had Moira lived on this planet, and already she had changed its trajectory irrevocably for good or for ill.
Which Witch is Willing? (The Witches of Port Townsend Book 4) Page 11