A Celtic Witch (A Modern Witch Series: Book 6) (25 page)

He wanted to tell her the answer.  He wanted to rail against her not knowing.

Instead, he felt sympathy slinking in.  “When Morgan arrived, I didn’t want to stay.”  He pulled all the cooking utensils out of their canister by the stove, needing something to organize.  “Heck, it started earlier than that.  I came for a visit.  Stayed to help with Moira after her stroke.”  The Buchanan household had far too many slotted spoons.  “It took me more than a year to stop telling people I was just here for a visit.”

“How did you know?”

He wasn’t entirely sure.  “I guess it just grew on me.  And one day I wasn’t standing with one foot on the road anymore.”  Which sounded like a pathetic way to choose a life.  He looked over at his daughter.  “She helped.  A baby needs a good place to grow up.”

“This is a good place.”  The smile in her voice had him unable to look.  “And you love her very much.”

That had kind of snuck up on him too.  “Yes.”

“Do you miss your old life?”

And there, the gap between them yawned greater than the Grand Canyon.  The old Marcus Buchanan hadn’t been living.  He’d only been marking time.  “I thought I did.”  His big kitchen and his bathrooms—all three of them—with the heated floors.  “Sometimes I still miss the solitude.”

“Not much of that in a small village.”  She spoke with the sureness of someone who had lived it.

“No, there isn’t.”  A constant stream of humanity, dropping by and talking and borrowing anything he hadn’t nailed to the floor.  Except his slotted spoons, apparently.   He stopped himself from enumerating Fisher’s Cove’s many virtues.  Cassidy Farrell wasn’t going to change her life for the world’s best lobster stew.  “Perhaps it was what I needed.”

Cass stroked the edge of his well-worn counter, almost talking to herself.  “It isn’t at all what I imagined I needed.”

He had no idea what to say.

And no time left to say it.  The cheerful sounds of a returning child clattered in his back door.  Marcus went to rescue the eggs, feeling exactly like he had in the days right after Morgan had arrived—dazed, confused, and blindsided by feelings he’d thought long dead.

He reached for the bag Lizzie carried.  “What did you do, rob the pantry?”

“Nuh, uh.”  His food courier pulled off a mitten with her teeth.  “Uncle Aaron packed it.  There’s fried chicken and some kinda soup and grilled cheese sandwiches and brownies if we eat the rest of our lunch up first.”

He’d been in the inn’s kitchen not half an hour ago, and there had been no sign of Aaron, brownies, or fried chicken.  “You’re sure this is for us?”

“Yup.”  She plopped her coat down on top of her boots and wiggled wooly toes.  “He’s cooking over at Gran’s today because the oven at the inn is cleaning itself, and anyone who wanted anything to eat should mosey on down.  Didn’t you read the note on the fridge?”

Her babble melded into the dazed and confused layer in his brain.  Marcus took the bag to the counter, reaching inside.  It was exactly like the first days with Morgan.  One foot in front of the other.  Shell-shocked survival.

“Here, I’ll help.”  Cass moved in, reaching for the container of soup.  “Where are your bowls and plates?”

He’d never been this close to her.  Not once.

She was tiny.  He hadn’t expected that somehow.  Her curls frothed out in wild disarray at the level of his chin, smelling vaguely of something from Sophie’s potions.  He reached out a hand, touching the nearest of them.

Her eyes met his.  Searching.  Seeking.

“I can feed Morgan.”  Lizzie scooted by them, opening the door of the ancient, cranky fridge.  “Orange stuff or green stuff?”

The room tilted back to upright.  Marcus stepped back.  He had responsibilities, very real reasons he couldn’t just take a leap into vivid green eyes.  “Carrots, please.  I’ll feed her.”

Morgan was already toddling over to the sturdy wooden chair that held her booster seat, and Lizzie hopped up on a stool, awaiting her lunch.  Cass smiled and reached for his motley stack of plates.

It should have been the kind of interruption that dragged him thoroughly back to reality.

He looked down at the woman still a foot from his chin, busy divvying up grilled cheese sandwiches, and realized it hadn’t done that at all. 

There could be more days like this.

It was bad enough to feel that possibility vibrating in his own mind.  It was far worse to hear it echoing in hers.

Chapter 18

Ah, the joys of a kitchen full of women.  And the pleasant quiet that landed when they departed.

Moira watched as the village contingent got on their boots and headed out the door with cheerful waves.  One surprise party for Aaron underway, assuming they could keep all the chatter away from the ears of the man who had designated himself the quiet caretaker of Fisher’s Cove.

Sophie closed the door behind the last of the ladies and grinned wryly.  “Well, that was interesting.”

Nell, Witch Central’s lone, but very capable, representative, snickered and swept cookie crumbs into a neat pile on the table.  “Which part?”

It had been a bit of a rumble on all fronts.  A compromise menu that included lobster stew and Jamie’s world-famous spaghetti sauce, fifteen different ideas about how to keep the most connected guy in Fisher’s Cove in the dark, and a rather vocal debate about who should provide the entertainment.

Or rather, what they would do if Cassidy Farrell wasn’t around in two weeks to do the honors.

Sophie sat down at the table with a sigh.  “No one wants her to go.”

Nell dusted her neat pile of crumbs off the table.  “This might be a crazy question, but has anyone asked her to stay?”

For warriors, the world was so very black and white.  Moira cozied her hands around a still-warm cup of tea.  “I think she knows she would be welcome here.”

“That’s different from an invitation.”  Nell leaned back, frowning.  Tilted her head back and forth, studying her two companions.  And then started to laugh.  “Hold on.  You’re waiting for Marcus to ask her?”

They were, at that.

Their Berkeley witch had an attack of the giggle-snorts.  “Hell will freeze over first.” 

Moira smiled, well pleased with the nuggets of gossip tucked away in a quiet corner of her heart that said otherwise.  “It’s often quite chilly in these parts.  And I’ve faith in my nephew.”

Two sets of eyes looked at her, one wildly skeptical, the other afraid to hope.

Hmmph.  Moira stared them down, hiding her amusement.  “Men have asked such questions since the beginning of time.  I’m quite sure he can manage.”

Nell shook her head, unconvinced.  “Not the Marcus Buchanan I know.”

“Look more closely,” said Moira softly.  It was time for the world to open their eyes.  “You don’t think a man can change?  He’s a forty-eight-year-old bachelor who can change a diaper as well as anyone in this room.”

“Yes.”  Sophie nodded slowly.  “But that’s a far cry from asking a grown woman to be a part of your life.”

It was.  And yet…

Moira assembled her arguments.  First, for the healer.  Looking at Sophie, she reached out to cup the small bouquet of daffodils sitting by the window.  Delivered by Marcus and a wee smiling girl just this morning.  “He has new magic emerging.  A man halfway through his life.”  Magic just didn’t work that way.

Sophie touched a finger to bright yellow petals and exhaled.  “True.”

Moira found a small bud, not yet opened, and pushed a tiny trickle of power.  She smiled when it opened—these days, that was sometimes in question.  “And what does a plant require to bloom?”

Sophie frowned.  “Water, sunlight, good roots.  Or a touch of magic.”

Exactly.  “His magic blooms.  He’s found his water and sunlight and roots.”  Perhaps a little later than most, but blooming, nonetheless.

Sophie studied the flower.  And as she did, hope slowly came to life in her eyes.

Good.  One down, one to go.  Moira looked over at their warrior witch.  “And tell me, how is his gameplay these days?”

Nell blinked.  “He hasn’t been around Realm for months.  Well, except for the duel.”

Her students were slow today.   “And, what have you noticed in his dueling, then?”

“Huh.”  Nell was thinking hard now.  “I thought it was Ginia’s influence.  They’ve been a very creative team.  Adaptable.  Daring, even.  A lot of shifting gears on the fly.”

Precisely.  “And Marcus is allowing himself to be all of those things.”  Perhaps pushed and prodded a little by a partner who embodied the word “adaptable,” but her nephew was more than capable of digging in his heels.

That he hadn’t spoke volumes, at least to one old witch.

Sophie and Nell looked at each other and shrugged.  Considering.

Eyes half open—for today, that would have to be good enough.  “Give him the benefit of the doubt.  I think he might surprise us all.”

Nell looked down at her vibrating phone and grinned.  “Apparently I have my first chance to find out.  Gotta go.  Marcus and that rabble-rousing daughter of mine have been spotted near our team’s spell cache.”

Well, now.  Poking a stick at the warrior—quite the bold move.  Moira turned for the teapot, hiding a smile. 

She didn’t believe her nephew was done being bold just yet.  If they were very lucky, he’d only just begun.

-o0o-

Sophie sat at the table, not sure whether to stay or go.  And somehow hoping the wise woman who had always been her guide would make the decision for her.

Moira moved about her kitchen, taking care of the bits and pieces that company always left behind.  And said not a word.

So much for someone else taking charge.  Sophie sighed and refilled her tea cup.  “Am I the only one worried that he might ask and she might say no?”

The old woman’s motions stilled.  “No.”

“It takes two to bloom together.”  Sophie felt her worry deepen, even as she assembled the words.  “Cass wants to believe she’s a simple musician.  A traveler.”

Wise eyes met hers.  “Can you blame her?”

Not really.  And that was part of what had Sophie tangled.  “Magic comes with responsibilities.”   So did families and small-town lives, but it was the first that haunted their itinerant musician the most.  And that she acknowledged least.

“Aye.” 

And Cassidy might have a bigger helping of those responsibilities than most.  “Mike says he thinks she hears the planet.”

“Aye.”  Said more softly now.  “And those of us with small powers can’t ever truly understand the burden of those of you who hold something larger.”

Something clenched in Sophie’s chest.  “I’m just a healer.”

“No, my girl.”  Moira’s eyes ran over with love.  “You’re the strongest healer I’ve ever known.  The evidence of that lies inside my own head.”

Repairing the stroke damage had taken every healer the witching world could port on a moment’s notice.  “I didn’t work alone.”

“No.  You worked with the help of the child who will one day surpass you.”

Sophie gripped her tea—this wasn’t the oracle she’d come to consult.  “Ginia.”

Moira nodded.  “Our Lizzie will be a good healer.  She’s talent and training and a tough mind and strong heart.” 

But Ginia had all of those and deep, vast power.  All wrapped in a steadfast desire to be a ten-year-old who loved glitter and hijinks.  Sophie nodded, wondering, as she often did, just which way the teaching flowed.  “We all want to be something simple.”

“Exactly.”  An old hand reached out to touch her cheek.  “A young girl.  Or a woman who mixes potions on her stove.”  A touch of humor hit Moira’s eyes.  “Or perhaps even a grumpy old bachelor.”

The wise matriarch waited, and Sophie filled in the rest.  “Or a fiddler.”

“Yes.” 

Sophie considered the odd tapestry that threatened to weave the fiddler and the bachelor together.  “For someone who’s usually bent on matchmaking, you’ve been awfully quiet.”

Moira smiled into her tea.  “That I have.”

Sophie frowned—when a certain elderly witch chose, she could keep her cards very close to her chest.  “You don’t approve?”

“What on earth would give you that idea?”  Moira’s eyes fairly crackled.  “She’s a lovely Irish lass with a sturdy heart and magic in her fingers.  What could be more perfect for that boneheaded nephew of mine?”

It never paid to question the judgment of old witches.  “So why no meddling, then?”  Not even a good nudge that Sophie was aware of.

“We’ve meddled aplenty with Marcus.”  Moira stared off into the distance, pensive now.  “Each of us has a free will and we need to stretch and grow it, just like every other leaf and branch that keeps us healthy and strong.”

From oracle to wise one, all in one cup of tea.

“When wee Morgan arrived, our Marcus was still so very hurt.  A plant rent asunder from its soil, the roots dry, the petals withered.”

Marcus would have a fit at that description, but the healer in Sophie understood.  “He needed nursing.”

“Aye.  When a plant’s that close to death, it’s the gardener’s job to be making decisions.  My nephew still had some kick in him, but he needed good, strong hands showing him where the growing soil lay.”

“And now?”