Spellcrossed (51 page)

The minister stands before the sundial. The white stole atop her robe is embroidered with a motley assortment
of religious symbols. Apparently, this means that she is qualified to unite people of many faiths. Her welcome is pleasant but brief. Then Alison and Chris step forward. Maggie and Biff take their appointed places as maid of honor and best man.

It seems so…unceremonious, so lacking in the ritual that should mark this occasion. But I forget about that as Alison and Chris speak their vows. Her expression is as soft as it was in the photograph that Jack preserved. His is earnest, and he recites his words breathlessly, as if he cannot believe this is really happening.

Their love fills my spirit with joy, as does Maggie’s tearful smile. I wonder if she imagines the two of us standing before our friends, speaking the words that will bind us together in the eyes of the world.

Janet assures me it will happen. She has even offered to arrange everything with the “acquaintance” she retained the last time she changed her identity. I would merely have to sell one of my first editions to pay for the false papers this person would procure. I had hoped to avoid that, to pretend I was an illegal immigrant and eventually earn a green card and then full citizenship. But even illegal immigrants have birth certificates and driver’s licenses and credit cards. Don’t they?

I wish I could seek Chris’ advice, but that would mean more lies. And how can I put him in the position of honoring such confidences as my lawyer and withholding damaging information from Alison?

My concern for Maggie has absorbed me for the last six weeks, but soon, I must take steps. The board is preparing next year’s budget. Even if I wait until May to sign a contract and receive my first paycheck…

A burst of applause interrupts my daydreaming. The ceremony is already over and Maggie is hugging her mother. I wait with Alison’s friend Sue at the fringes of the small crowd to allow family members to greet the new couple first. As I step forward, Chris pulls me into a hard embrace. Alison shocks me by doing the same.

We troop into the living room where the caterers have set out hors d’oeuvres. I am—as Maggie would say—underwhelmed. But the others are too happy to notice what they are eating. And after several glasses of champagne, even I can look charitably upon limp asparagus spears wrapped in prosciutto.

I gravitate helplessly toward the children. A feast for the eye and the spirit. I approach them with caution, but their parents seem delighted by my interest, so I calm fretful babies and play horsey with the toddlers and try to nod intelligently as the older ones demonstrate the wonders of their handheld computer games. I am more comfortable when a little girl shoves a crayon into my hand and demands that I help her color two gremlins with the improbable names of Bert and Ernie.

I look up to discover Maggie watching me with that same quiet smile. I wish again that I might give her a child, but it is too soon to discuss that. For now, I will anticipate the birth of the newest member of the Crossroads family. According to Catherine and Javier, he—or she—will arrive shortly before the equinox. What more perfect symbol of spring could there be?

As Alison and Chris go upstairs to change, I abandon my selfish indulgence of playing with children to guide Sue onto the patio. We chat about Alison and Chris, but her mother’s death shadows her happiness. I use my power to drive some of the shadows away. Perhaps before Maggie and I return to Dale, I will be able to do more.

Maggie runs out of the house and exclaims, “Hurry! They’ll be leaving any moment.”

As we rush toward the front porch, she orders me to grab a fistful of rose petals from the dish by the door. Rice, apparently, is no longer de rigueur.

The vista from the front porch is far more pleasing than the one from my bedroom. Although the houses are still lined up like soldiers, the tree-lined street soothes my senses. There are only a few golden leaves among the
green. Autumn has just begun to touch Wilmington, while back in Dale, the fall foliage is nearing its peak.

A shout goes up behind us. Alison and Chris scamper through the crowd. We throw our rose petals and shout good wishes and wave as the car pulls away. It seems impossible that they will share dinner tonight in the Bahamas.

I doubt I will ever see the beautiful blue Caribbean. I would have to be carried off the plane on a stretcher. But I never thought I’d survive this trip, so perhaps there is hope for me yet.

In the meantime, there is still the beautiful gray Atlantic. Maggie has hinted that we might leave early and stay for a night at the Jersey Shore. I pray it is nicer than the Turnpike.

The guests disperse. The caterers pack away the leftovers. Maggie kicks off her shoes and collapses onto Alison’s rock-hard settee with a grunt.

“Never wear new shoes to a wedding,” she says, crossing her ankle over her knee to massage her foot.

“Let me do that.”

She takes the precaution of stacking pillows at the end of the sofa; the carved wooden arm of the settee looks as comfortable as a shillelagh. Then she leans back and swings her feet into my lap. The slippery feel of her stockings sends a shiver of desire through me. As I dig my thumbs into the ball of her foot, she purrs like Iolanthe.

“I’m a foot rub whore.”

“That’s all right. I’m a grocery store whore.”

She laughs. “At least foot rubs are sensual. You’re the only man in the world who finds grocery shopping an erotic experience.”

I close my eyes, happy to surrender to these memories, to exchange the light and music of Faerie for the glare of fluorescent bulbs and the soft drone of pop songs. Perhaps grocery stores are as alluring to the Fae as Faerie is to humans.

Shelf upon shelf of brightly colored boxes and cans. Fancifully named breakfast cereals like Count Chocula and Lucky Charms, which Maggie refused to purchase. Towering cumulous clouds of paper towels and napkins and toilet paper. Slabs of meat glistening beneath plastic wrap. Mounds of shrimp peeping out of the ice like buried treasure. Geometric stacks of apples—green and red and gold. Leafy vegetables reclining under a misty spray. The mingled aromas of fresh-baked bread and ripe bananas, coffee and cocoa, floor wax and fish.

And that deli department…

Earthy cheeses and salt-cured meats. Briny olives and phallic pepperoni. The lascivious pink of the hams. The plump curves of the roast beef. Whole chickens weeping thick tears of barbecue sauce as they revolve in basted bliss upon a spit.

It was all so beautiful, so bountiful, so…arousing.

We barely survived the short car ride home. I was too excited to be queasy—or to control my power. We dropped the groceries by the doorway, wrestled off the necessary clothing, and went at it on the office floor. Maggie was still laughing when she climaxed.

She laughs again as her toes investigate the bulge in my pants. “Someone’s thinking of naughty things,” she chants in a singsong voice.

“Someone wants to do naughty things,” I chant back.

“Later. I’m too contented right now.” She sighs. “They looked happy, didn’t they?”

“Yes, they did.”

“I can’t remember the last time she seemed so happy.”

“Did she ever tell you why she changed her mind?”

“Nope. She just announced that they were getting married and told me if I acted smug and self-satisfied, I wasn’t invited.” Maggie’s smile is entirely smug and self-satisfied. “Sometimes, a little push is exactly what people need. Look at Alex and Debra.”

“They’re not at the altar yet. Debra’s not even in Dale.”

“She’ll be there next week to prep for
Murder at the Mackenzie Mansion
. A little murder. A little mystery. A little Cratchity Christmas cheer. Who knows where it might lead?”

I serenade her with a brief rendition of “Matchmaker.” Her hand flails briefly, but I am safely out of range of her intended smack.

“Know what I think?” she asks.

“That Debra came to the Crossroads to find Alex.”

“No, Mr. Smarty Pants Faery Man. I think Debra came to the Crossroads because she needed all of us. What we have there. Our family. Alex was just the cherry on the sundae.”

Her expression softens. Is she recalling the morning she awoke to find Janet and Reinhard and I at her bedside? And the others crowding in behind us, their faces filled with such love, such relief?

This after the long vigil in the apartment. Lee prowling around like a caged animal. Mei-Yin snapping at everyone. Hal alternately weeping and declaring that it would be all right, that it had to be all right. Catherine and Javier making food that no one ate because they had to do something other than sit there and wait.

Janet’s energy resonating with the same fear that had screamed through her the night of Helen’s heart attack. Alex so bowed down with grief that he suddenly seemed an old man. And Reinhard who silently stitched her wound and bandaged her hands and wrapped her wrist. Only when he was certain that she was safe in mind as well as body did he leave the apartment—and return a few minutes later, his eyes reddened from weeping.

I shared their love, their anguish, their fear, their relief—and they shared mine. And in that night and that day, I became part of their family, as blood alone had never made me. The unexpected gift that came from that ordeal.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Maggie asks.

“Just thinking about family.”

Maggie yawns hugely. “Better stop with the foot massage before I start snoring.”

“We could always take a nap,” I suggest casually.

“Yeah, yeah. I know exactly what kind of a ‘nap’ you have in mind.”

“Well, you’d nap afterward.”

“Mmm…let’s wait until later. We can snarf down leftovers, watch a cheesy movie in the rec room, and make out.”

My spirits brighten. We have often made love, but never made out. I understand it involves extensive foreplay.

“So what
would
you like to do?” I ask.

A look of determination crosses her face. “Let’s go for a walk.”

“On your sore feet?”

“Sucker. I just wanted a foot rub.”

We change into comfortable clothes and walk toward the towering buildings of downtown Wilmington. Then Maggie turns back. I wonder if she has forgotten something at the house, but we continue past it.

I let my hand brush against the trunks of the trees we pass. Their roots wreak havoc with the sidewalk, but their energy feeds me more than any of the food I consumed.

The houses on our right give way to an open tract of land. A pretty little brick church with a gambrel roof sits upon it. According to the sign, it is older than I am. I find it oddly comforting to find another relic of the past here, thriving in the shadow of the skyscrapers.

Beyond it, I glimpse a hillside of trees. I am so engrossed in them that I fail to notice the sound of rushing water until we reach the end of the street. I knew the Brandywine was close to Maggie’s childhood home, but I never imagined it was only two blocks away.

Her good spirits have evaporated, and I realize that this is a test for her.

We take our lives in our hands as we dart across the roadway, dodging cars that are traveling far too fast. We follow a narrow canal that parallels the river—the millrace, Maggie informs me. The path is crowded with pedestrians, eager to enjoy the crisp afternoon. Dogs strain at their leashes as I pass, but a flick of my power deters them from further investigation.

Maggie has lapsed into an ominous silence, but when I take her hand, I receive a quick smile.

Although her mood worries me, my power swells in relief as we walk among the trees. Opening the portal drained me and my concerns about Maggie’s recovery prevented me from spending September at the cottage as I usually do. Perhaps when we return home, I will go there. Maggie will be working. I can use the time to finalize the script for
A Christmas Carol
and still return to her every night.

We cross a small footbridge. I smile as my boots sink into the soft grass. So good to feel the earth beneath my feet again. Beyond the river, I spy a parking lot, some sort of statue, and an allée of cherry trees that must be glorious in the spring. When I notice the picnic tables, I realize this must be Brandywine Park.

“That’s the zoo,” Maggie says, pointing to some stone structures half-hidden among the trees. Her finger moves left. “You can’t really see the monkey house from here. Not until the leaves fall.”

But I
can
see a steep expanse of grass, which must be Monkey Hill, where she and Jack chased fireflies.

We have spoken of him only once. The morning she awoke, I reassured her that he was safe. She wept because he had left without the photograph; even the reminder that he still had the other two failed to console her.

I expect her to talk about him now, but we merely retrace our route. Instead of turning up the street to her mother’s house, she leads me toward a terrace of white stone overlooking the river. I lean against the railing, my
senses cheered by the water eddying around the rocks in the shallows.

Maggie’s anguish rips through me.

My hand automatically reaches for her. She is standing as still as a statue, gazing across the river. I cannot imagine what has upset her. Then I notice a partially uprooted stump clinging precariously to the bank.