The Legacy of Buchanan's Crossing (20 page)

She nervously rubbed her hands together. “Oh dear, I’m awfully sorry.”

“No, thank you. I needed a good laugh.” Cayden hugged his mom. “It’s truly a pleasure to meet you.”

His mom looked at him over Cayden’s shoulder, confusion warring with pleasure in her expression. “Do you know Darcy?”

“We’ve met,” Cayden said. “Can’t say I was impressed.”

“That makes two of us,” his dad said under his breath.

“Actually,” Clint said, “she’s the woman Darcy mentioned at dinner that night at Chez Louis.”

Cayden’s expression soured. “You made these nice people eat the insipid food in that dreadful place? Wasn’t it bad enough they had to endure Barbie’s company?” She took his mom’s arm and nodded toward him. “I didn’t know he had a cruel streak.”

His dad chuckled and slapped him on the back. “Not cruel. Asinine, maybe, but he seems to be getting over it.”

Clint’s stomach growled. It was at least partially due to the extra space in his gut created by relief.

His mom laughed. “Dinner will be ready in half an hour. Why don’t you two come inside while Lewis finishes the lawn?”

Clint’s eyes needed a minute to adjust to the softer light inside the house. It hadn’t changed much. The same old furniture was more shabby, the rugs more ragged, the TV in the living room so outmoded it could probably be sold as a novelty.

He waited for Cayden’s reaction. She was looking at the vase of pink and white flowers on the scarred dining room table.

“Bleeding hearts and lilies of the valley! Mrs. MacAllen, they’re beautiful. Clint mentioned you were a gardener, said you had a Green Man in the garden. Do we have time for a tour?”

“It’s Moira, dear.” His mom blushed. “That’s what I like about pot roast, everything’s in the oven. Though there’s not much in the way of a tour.”

“Mmm, pot roast.” Their footsteps on the small porch and the opening of the screen door covered the sound of Clint’s stomach growling again.

“There it is, with the jewelweed.” Cayden wobbled when her boot heels sunk into the grass as she hurried over to the mask staked in the flower bed.

Clint’s mom watched her, smiling, then said to him, “She’s lovely.”

“Yeah, she is. It took me a while to see it underneath all of that.” He pointed to Cayden in her outfit, bent over his mother’s flowerbed. “I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about it.”

“That goth business, you mean? Or is it that she’s not skinny as a rail?”

He squirmed under the sharpness in her expression. “A little of both, I guess. Pretty dumb, huh? Like Dad said.”

“Asinine is what your father said. It’s a harsher word than I would have used, but he’s not the only one concerned over this need you seem to have to prove…” She sighed. “We just want you to be happy.”

Cayden strolled up to them, eyes sparkling, her hands full of weeds. “I hope you don’t mind…Moira. They were crowding out the chamomile. You’ve a nice selection of medicinals. Not many gardeners keep jewelweed, when everyone should. Even if it wasn’t so useful, the flowers are different and charming. At the crossing, my gran…” Her face fell. “I’m sorry. For babbling, and for digging in your garden, and…”

“Her grandmother’s at Boston General. We were there this morning,” Clint said.

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear it, dear. I hope it’s nothing serious. You’re close to her, aren’t you?”

“It is serious, and Gran’s everything to me.”

“No wonder you needed to laugh, though it was completely unintentional on my part, and quite inexcusable.”

“No more inexcusable than dropping in unannounced for dinner. Besides, unintentional jokes are the best kind.”

His mom patted her arm. “I suppose they are. But just so you know, I appreciate you’re comfortable enough with me to speak your mind, and to pull weeds.” She grabbed a basket from the stoop. “You can drop them in here. I was hoping to get to it after dinner. Thank you for saving me the trouble. Did your mother teach you how to garden?”

Cayden choked. “Muriel? She’d die before letting a little dirt get under her manicured nails. No, Gran taught me. Buchanan’s Crossing has a fairly impressive herbal garden. Maybe you’d care to visit some time?” She glanced Clint’s way and must not have found what she was looking for because she followed with, “I’d be happy to bring you starters of anything you want. There’s an heirloom species of comfrey I believe would do well here.”

“Comfrey? I’ve tried several of the hybrids, but—”

“Don’t tell me, they grow fine, but end up not being good for much.”

“You recognized the jewelweed, too. You’re not just a gardener, are you? It sounds as if you’re…a bit of an apothecary, as well.”

“She’s a whiz.” Clint said, putting his arm around Cayden. “She gave me tea for my headaches. Got rid of them when nothing else worked.”

“Is that so? Well, you certainly look better than you did the last time I saw you.” She turned to Cayden. “Your grandmother sounds interesting.”

Cayden stumbled. Clint leaped to support her elbow, wishing he could save her from her worries as easily. “She’s interesting all right. Remember when I told you about the visiting professor from Edinburgh? The one who got me hooked on antiquities?”

“Oh yes, I recall. Buchanan, wasn’t it? I remember because it was a good Scots name. Like Sinclair.” Her head tilted.

Cayden nodded and grinned. “Said Moira MacAllen, married to Lewis.”

“A number of us settled in the area.” Something about the way she said it implied his mom meant more than Scots. “You said your mother didn’t garden. Did she prefer to work with tinctures, teas, and such?”

Cayden tilted her head too, leveling his mom with the same curiosity, or was it recognition? She appeared to choose her words carefully. “My mother rejected her legacy. Once it gave her what she wanted, that is.”

“I see,” his mom said.

He didn’t. He only had the distinct feeling the two of them weren’t referring to Cayden’s grandmother’s property.

Cayden shrugged. “We’ve gotten along fine without her.”

“I doubt she’s gotten along so fine without you.” His mom paused. “Or her…legacy.” Clint wasn’t sure why she’d said the last part, but she continued before he could worry about it. “A crisis can be an opportunity to reunite families who’ve grown apart, you know. I don’t mean to press, but as a mother myself… Well, give her a chance, won’t you? Blood is blood.”

Just when he was really beginning to wonder what the hell they were talking about, the screen door squeaked.

His dad stuck his head out the door. “Moira, love of my life, that roast of yours is smelling mighty good.”

“Oh dear, I’d completely forgotten. I hope it hasn’t cooked itself dry.” His mom bustled into the house. “Cayden, you’ll want to wash your hands, I’m sure. The bathroom’s at the end of the hall. Clint, you can wash yours in the kitchen, then set two more places at the table, please.”

He did as he was told and sat down at the battered dining room table. His dad sat across from him, having changed back into his Sunday mass shirt. That was another first for his old man.

On her way from the bathroom, Cayden went directly to the kitchen. He couldn’t hear what she said, but his mom said, “Well, they’ll be doing the dishes.” Then, “Oh, that’s sweet of you. If you could get the iced tea from the refrigerator?”

His dad whispered, “Hang on to that one.”

The sight of the two women carrying dinner in was almost as appealing as the pot roast itself. The conversation rolled along as naturally as if he and Cayden had been coming here for years, until he opened his mouth without thinking. “So who’s Muffy?”

Cayden put her fork down. “Where did you hear that?”

“Trip-the-Drip mentioned Muffy when you were talking about Todd. Her dad,” he explained.

“Trip-the-Drip, huh? My cousin,” Cayden said. “Muriel—”

“Muriel is her mom,” he told his dad, who’d missed the earlier conversation in the garden.

Cayden said, “She goes by Muffy. It’s embarrassing.”

His mom’s gaze flicked over Cayden’s outfit and makeup. Smiling, she said, “I see.”

This time he did see.

His dad cleared his throat. “Do your parents live in the area?”

She lowered her head and mumbled, “Wellesley.”

Holy shit, Wellesley. It registered then that she was at least passingly familiar with Chez Louis. It was worse than he thought.
Or better
.

No one other than he and his mom would have noticed his dad tense. Dad cleared his throat. “Pretty neighborhood. I’ve done some work up there.”

“Pretty awful. The neighborhood, I mean, not your work. I’m sure that was excellent, if what you’ve done around here is any example.”

His dad relaxed and smiled, then tilted his chin. “Sinclair. Todd Sinclair. I just put it together. I did some work for your father. Put in some—”

“I’m so sorry.” She reached across the table and touched his dad’s arm.

Clint was thankful Cayden hadn’t let him finish. He didn’t want to hear what lowly job his dad had performed for the Sinclairs.

“I never actually met him. The work was directed and paid for, quite generously, I might add, by his man.”

“Of course it was. Consider yourself lucky you didn’t have to meet him. He might be liberal with his money, but you can be sure it’s out of disregard, not a generous nature.”

“Spoken like a true Scot,” his mom said, trying to re-direct the conversation, Clint supposed. She’d always been good at sensing his discomfort with a topic. It had worked against him in childhood and his youth. Today he was grateful.

He thought Cayden’s smile was appreciative, too, if strained. “Can’t help it. I have it from both sides, though it mostly skipped a generation.”

“Well, you’re in good company, dear. I was a Bruce before I became a MacAllen.”

“Makes sense,” Cayden muttered. He must have looked at her funny, because she followed it with an almost defiant, “How come Clint’s so tall? He has your silky hair, Moira, and his father’s sexy eyes.”

She surveyed his parents, neither of whom were much taller than she was. His mom blushed and patted a wisp of hair from her face. His father’s ears were red again. “He must have nearly eaten you out of house and home.”

“The boy never did miss a meal. A great hulking lummox did pop up now and then on my side,” his dad said with a shake of his head, “more’s the pity. There was my Uncle Rob, if you’ll recall.”

His mom said archly, “I do. Your mother once mentioned a Viking sailor way back when.”

“Hmph,” was his dad’s reply when his mom was right and he wasn’t all that happy about it. Uncle Rob was considered handsome.

She turned to Cayden. “You wouldn’t have guessed it when he was a boy.”

“Downright scrawny,” his dad said.

“You must be proud of him, owning his own construction company.”

Clint accepted the bone and tossed it at his dad. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. I signed another contract with that developer. It’s going to boost Green Man to the top. Generous terms, too. Can hardly believe my luck.”

“You know what they say, son, if it sounds too good to be true…”

“Why is it, Dad, you always find it necessary to piss on my parade?”

“Clint, mind your tongue,” his mother said. “I’m sure it’s not luck. Clint’s worked frightfully hard, Lewis.”

“Hmph.”

“Did Clint tell you about the mall?” Cayden said. “It’s quite a coup for a green builder, a pioneering project. Only a few of them have been built, mostly in Europe. It will be the first of its kind here in the East. When will it be finished, Clint?”

He squeezed her thigh under the table in appreciation for her support. “Construction deadline is June twenty-first.”

“Midsummer’s Eve.”

He held his breath, praying she wouldn’t go on. Everything had been going so well.

Surprisingly, his mom said, “So it is. Are you planning a celebration?”

Cayden spoke a second before he did, “Of course.”

His words tumbled over hers. “I wasn’t… I’ll have to take the crew out, it’s tradition.”

Both he and Cayden sat back in their chairs, gazes locked. The clock on the dining room wall ticked. He couldn’t, for the life of him, come up with anything that would get him out of this unscathed.

Cayden’s laugh was forced, not at all as beautiful as her laugh outside had been. “It would seem that Clint and I aren’t referring to the same type of celebration. I should probably tell you I’m a—”

“An irresistible little minx is what you are. I’m not letting you anywhere near my crew, and I
have
to party with them. I’d been planning on taking you to, to…”

“I thought you’d changed your mind about that,” she interrupted his lie.

The last part of it had been anyway. The flash in her eyes and the sharp tone of her voice made it clear she was fully aware of it, and that he’d done it to prevent her from telling his parents she believed she was a witch.

They would assume she was talking about the celebration. She’d made the effort to do that, for him, he knew. Her phrasing assured him there’d be hell to pay for it later.

The smartest thing he could think of to say was, “Well, I suppose we should be getting back to Springfield.”

“Please let me help you clear the table.” Cayden stacked the plates and gathered silverware without a glance at him, and before his mom could offer protest.

“Thank you, dear. I’ll grab the rest. You boys can get started on the dishes.” She snatched the empty roast platter and the butter dish and followed Cayden into the kitchen.

Clint heard his mom say, “Why don’t we step into the bedroom for a minute before you leave. I have something I’d like to show you.”

He couldn’t have said why that gave him an even greater sense of apprehension than the imminent drive to Cayden’s apartment, which was sure to be unpleasant.

The silver amulet in the palm of Moira MacAllen’s hand was magic. While age had smoothed some of the design’s intricate lines, it had not diminished its power. Cayden could see it pulsing faintly.

“I should like very much for you to have this.”

“I’m not sure I understand. You’re terribly kind, and I wish… Clint and I, well, we’re not exactly…” She studied the amulet. “This is obviously a special heirloom.”

“It was my great-great-grandmother’s. And I think you understand well enough.” She pressed the silver Celtic knot into Cayden’s hand. “Don’t worry about Clint. I’ve never seen him look at any woman the way he looks at you. You’re too young yet to understand how attached men can be to their realities, how hard they’ll deny anything that refuses to fit into them. When it comes down to it, though, they’re not so different from us; it’s their hearts that rule them, not their minds.”

“I wasn’t certain. There was the jewelweed and the chamomile, and… You’re of the blood, as well as a practitioner, aren’t you?”

Moira smiled. “Not many are aware of the distinction. To answer, I’m Catholic, for the most part. I’ve only a bit of the sight; it comes to me in dreams. Your question answered the one I would have asked, you know.”

“As you’ve answered mine. That still doesn’t mean I can accept this.”

A knock at the door was followed by Clint’s voice, “We really should head out. The game will be over soon. I’d rather avoid the traffic.” His voice was strained.

Moira called, “Hold your horses.” She whispered to Cayden, “You must accept it. I’ve had two terrible dreams. The worst one is a great evil sinking its claws into my son. I think, I hope, you’re the answer to my prayers to The Mother, if the not The Father. I’ve asked Clint to carry it. He says he’ll not indulge my superstitions.”

That was Clint, all right. “What was the other dream?”

“It was strange, murkier. The same shapeless evil from the other dream is stealing a baby from his mother. When I woke up, I thought the babe was Clint. Going back over it, I’m not so certain.”