Witches of East End Page 6

  Or else she would be shut out as she had been that morning. Did they think she did not notice? She was jealous sometimes, of the bond the sisters had between them, just as she had been jealous a long time ago of the easy relationship they had had with their father. Daughters. They could cut you with a look.

  She knew Tyler would never look at her that way. Tyler adored her and the feeling was mutual. Joanna now paid for him to attend a fancy children’s year-round preschool, and while his parents shared the morning drop-off it was Joanna who picked him up every afternoon with a snack or a treat in hand. After school they would go to the beach, where Tyler would spend the rest of the afternoon chasing birds and collecting seashells while Joanna watched him.

  There hadn’t been anything odd since the three dead birds a week ago, and Joanna was starting to relax. Maybe that nagging worry in the back of her mind was just a by-product of their history. Perhaps she was just seeing signs where there weren’t any. Life in North Hampton never changed; she herself had seen to that when she first moved into town.

  Oh dear, the pie had burned. She had forgotten to set the timer and now it was black and smoking. If she had been Freya, this would never have happened, but her magic was of a different sort. Tyler’s face crumpled, threatening an avalanche of tears. Lala had promised that there would be pie and ice cream.

  “I’m so sorry, darling,” Joanna sighed.

  “Pie,” Tyler said stubbornly. “Pie.”

  “We’ll just have to make another one . . .”

  “Pie.”

  Joanna put her hands on her hips. She had overheard her daughters talking that morning. Something about how Freya had made a love potion—of the three of them, Freya had always been the bravest due to her natural impulsiveness and daring. But if nothing had happened to Freya, then . . . well . . . wouldn’t it stand to reason that she could do the same? It would just be a simple flick of the wrist, one little incantation and all would be right with Tyler’s world. It wouldn’t use up that much energy, after all, and truly, the oracle had been silent for many years; who knew if the restriction even applied to something so small? . . . Joanna’s hands began to shake. She wanted to do this. She would do this. It was just a pie, after all, she told herself. It was just part of the baking process. Bake pie. Burn pie. Restore pie.

  “Don’t tell anyone,” she whispered. Recovery and renewal was her brand of witchcraft. She covered the burned pie with a dish towel, whispered a few words, and when she removed it, the crust was golden brown and perfect.

  Tyler’s eyes widened and he began to bounce on his heels. “You’re a witch!” he said with glee.

  “Shhh!” Joanna’s eyes danced but she looked around in fear. No one had called her that for centuries. It brought back too many memories, not all of them good.

  “Are you? Are you a witch?”

  Joanna laughed. “What if I am?”

  For a moment the little boy looked frightened and shirked away from her, probably thinking of witches in fairy tales, ugly hags who shoved children into ovens and baked them into pies.

  Joanna wrapped him in her arms and for once he let her hold him, let her soothe him with a kiss on the nape of his neck. The little boy smelled like baby lotion and sugar. “No, my darling. Never. You have nothing to fear from me.”

  chapter eight

  Gift Horse

  Excuse me, Ingrid? There’s someone here for you,” Hudson Rafferty whispered, coming into the back office. The junior librarian raised an eyebrow so that Ingrid would understand this wasn’t a usual patron with a question about toddler storytime hours or whether their library fines could be waived (the answer was always “no,” so why they even continued to ask, Ingrid could never understand).

  “Who is it?” Ingrid asked, taking off the spectacles she used to read the fine print in the design elevations.

  “I don’t know but he is quite fetching,” Hudson said in his usual understated way. He favored argyle vests, engraved cuff links, and bow ties, and was in his seventh year of getting his doctorate in Romance languages at Harvard. Hudson’s family practically owned the eastern shore, and truly he did not need a summer internship shelving books. The other librarians joked that he was the world’s oldest (he’d just turned thirty) and best-dressed intern; his suits alone cost more than their entire wardrobes. He was exacting in his work and moved very deliberately. One could not imagine Hudson running, for instance, or hurrying for any reason, or perspiring. He was a natural dilettante, with a breadth of knowledge on many subjects concerning the humanities and the arts, as well as a seasoned world traveler. Hudson was the one to ask if you needed to know, say, the price of a Ruscha lithograph, where to find the best tapas in Madrid, and whom to call if your hotel in Cairo suddenly “lost” your prepaid reservation. He had “fixers” and a network of acquaintances around the globe and happened to be one of Ingrid’s best friends, as they shared a love for theater, opera, and classical music.

  “Do excuse me, allergies are bad this year,” Hudson said, wiping his nose and coughing. “Well, don’t keep the gentleman caller waiting. Someone else might snatch him up.”

  For a moment Ingrid thought Hudson was talking about Matt Noble, and she felt irritated that the detective had come back so soon. Surely he couldn’t be done with that thousand-page book yet? But when she walked to the front desk the man waiting for her was not Matt.

  Killian Gardiner was leaning against the main desk. His gray T-shirt was pocky with holes and his jeans were slung low on his hips. Even in the heat, he was wearing a black motorcycle jacket. He looked like a movie star, with the gold-trimmed aviator shades and the five o’clock shadow. No, not a movie star. Like an icon. He had the kind of face that should be plastered on posters in every teen girl’s bedroom. When he saw her he took off his sunglasses and pecked her on the cheek.

  “Hi, Killian,” she said, trying to inject some warmth into her voice. Something about the younger Gardiner brother put her on edge. It wasn’t just that he was spectacularly good-looking; as a rule, Ingrid was skeptical and hostile toward pretty men—she found them vain and self-assured and selfish. Blake Aland had pretty much confirmed the fact on their first and only date. She preferred homely guys; not that Matt Noble was homely—far from it—which was probably why she felt annoyed with him, since she liked him despite his looks. Handsome men took female adoration as their due, and Ingrid did not take to people who assumed too much.

  Killian Gardiner was a vain peacock, and it was clear he knew exactly how good he looked, with that dark hair that fell over his eyes just so, and that lean, ripped body underneath the worn T-shirt and battered jeans. She could see the carved V shape of his hip muscles jutting above his waistband. When they had met at the party she had asked him what he did, and he’d been purposefully vague. Later she found out it was because he didn’t seem to do much of anything. She heard that Killian was a fly-by-night, that he moved with the seasons, he’d run a scuba-diving boat off the coast of Australia, worked as a galley chef on an Alaskan freighter. There were other rumors: that he’d gotten a girl pregnant, that he’d been in jail, that he was a drug addict. Whether they were true or not, Ingrid knew that a man that beautiful was definitely Bad News and she didn’t expect to hear anything that proved otherwise.

  “I thought you had left town already,” she said. Hadn’t Killian seemed bored and preoccupied at the party? “How can I help you?”

  “Actually I’m helping you,” he said, picking up an extra-large L.L. Bean tote bag and setting it on the table. In the bag were several rolled-up blueprints. “I overheard you asking Bran for them at the engagement party, and I thought I’d drop them off this morning.”

  “Oh—that’s so nice! I didn’t expect to get them so quickly! Bran said he had to get back to me—he wasn’t sure where they were or if they even existed. How wonderful!” She took the bag, handling it reverently. The library was setting up an exhibition of drawings from the collection that would showcase the design plans of all the
important houses in town. As the oldest and most prominent house in the area, Fair Haven was crucial to their catalog. Many architecturally important homes had blueprints lying around somewhere; the former owners kept them pristine for the new owners as part of a tradition of handing down a precious object of art.

  Ingrid clasped her hands and beamed at Killian, whom she regarded much more fondly this time. What he did with his time was no business of hers, after all. He was free to waste his life on indolence and apathy. “This is going to be so great!”

  “Glad to help,” Killian said. “I can’t wait to hear what you think. It’s a really interesting old house, there’s a lot of history there. If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to call.” He glanced at the wooden postbox Ingrid kept by the main desk for “Library Donations.” “What’s this?”

  She explained the situation: the city’s deficit, the library’s precarious fate at the hands of the city council.

  Killian frowned. “You’re not going to raise money by keeping a box by the door. You know what you should do, Ingrid, is get them to pay for something only you can provide.”

  “I’m not really sure I know what you’re talking about,” Ingrid said, slightly confused. “But thanks for the plans.” He really was so charming, she thought, getting the benefit of his megawatt smile. So thoughtful, too—to drop off the plans without being asked, and asking about the library as if he truly cared about its future.

  “My pleasure,” he said, waving a hand. “See you at the hoedown on Saturday?” A hospital charity was throwing a “barn-raiser” that weekend, complete with haystacks and square-dancing, the usual North Hampton summer theme party.

  Ingrid shook her head. Freya threw herself into the social scene, but Ingrid liked to stay home to knit, read books, and listen to old songs on her turntable. If she ventured outside the home it was usually with Hudson, two hens off to see a Truffaut revival. “I’m not going but I think Freya is.”

  At the mention of Freya’s name Killian perked up. “Is she, now?”

  Ingrid nodded. “So you’re staying then? For the summer?”

  “I think so.” Killian nodded. “See what kind of action I can get going around here.” He winked. “Don’t worry, I’ll be good.”

  “Guess we’ll be seeing you around, then.” Ingrid nodded.

  Killian bade a cheerful good-bye and roared off on his motorcycle, making a huge noise that rattled the windowpanes.

  When she returned to the back room, Hudson was waiting for her with his arms crossed. “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “Did the handsome young man invite you out? Or did the two of you just exchange phone numbers”—at this juncture Hudson made air quotes with his fingers—“for a future ‘booty call’?” His lips twitched with a smirk. Sometimes Hudson was thirty going on eighty with the way he faux-adopted the language of “the youth,” as he called it.

  “No!” Ingrid wrinkled her nose. “Course not! He was just dropping off blueprints of Fair Haven. You know, for the show,” she said, holding up the bag. “And anyway, he’s much too young.”

  “Oh.” Hudson looked disappointed. “Quel dommage. You looked so ecstatic for a moment I believed you had a date.” He went back to the card catalog. He had the thankless task of typing in all the archaic information into the computer. After resisting for many years, the library system was finally going digital. He began to type, hunting and pecking with one delicate finger.

  Ingrid shook her head. She checked on the drawing under the steam tent. Once she was done with it she would begin steaming the Gardiner blueprints. The exhibit was scheduled for the end of August, as part of the library gala that usually closed the summer season. The fund-raiser would be the library’s last hurrah, and all the proceeds would help offset the costs of moving, if it came down to that.

  Caitlin Parker, who had a desk next to Hudson’s, pretended not to hear their conversation. Unlike the others, Caitlin did not have a particular affinity for books or design and had fallen into the job almost by accident. She was pleasant and amiable enough, and never gossiped about anybody. Pretty and sweet, like a kindergarten teacher. Ingrid wanted to like Caitlin, there was nothing not to like, but she found her dull and insipid. Honestly, the girl was almost too nice; she always let patrons take out the rare books that were not allowed out of the reserve room and she never, ever collected late fees. It drove Ingrid crazy.

  The three librarians worked in silence for a while, until Hudson piped up. “So, have you seen her yet?”

  “Who?” Ingrid asked.

  “Stevie Nicks.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Right at that moment, Tabitha walked in. Her hair was long and loose. She was wearing a long T-shirt, a skirt that swept the floor, and some kind of drapey caftan-like cardigan. The entire effect was not unlike a seventies hippie chick at the beach.

  Hudson began humming “Landslide” under his breath.

  “What’s so funny?” Caitlin asked, looking up from her computer as Hudson stifled a giggle and Ingrid smiled broadly. “I don’t get it.”

  “I feel weird,” Tabitha admitted, looking self-conscious as she took her seat by the doorway.

  “No, you look great. Really,” Ingrid told her. She didn’t need a pentagram to see that there were no more traces of the silvery menace anywhere around Tabitha; her friend projected health and happiness. Unloosening the knots had done the trick. Already she could see the magic working its way through Tabitha’s body, weaving an invisible glow around her, opening her chakras, letting in the air, freeing the spirit, preparing her body and soul to create new life and bring it to the world. She would conceive by midweek.

  chapter nine

  Love the One You’re With

  Bran was back from his trip abroad and would arrive in North Hampton by ten o’clock that evening. Freya asked Kristy Hannagan, a bartender Sal had hired over the summer to pick up the slack, to cover her shift; otherwise she would have to work until last call as usual. Kristy’s family had worked the shore for generations, her father and brothers on the lobster trawlers, while her boyfriend fished for bigeye tuna they sold at auction to Japanese food vendors. She was a flint-eyed dame, with a sharp tongue and an easy smile, and had fast become one of Freya’s closest friends in town.

  “You don’t mind, do you, Kris?” Freya asked.

  Kristy shook her head and gave her a broad smile. “Not at all. If I had a guy like that I’d take off for the night, too. Go on, now.” Kristy was twice divorced and had four kids under the age of five. She likened her work at the bar to wrangling a bunch of toddlers. “I’ll man the ship.”

  “I owe you one,” Freya promised, bumping Kristy’s hip affectionately on the way to the ladies’ room so she could freshen up. Bran was going to walk into the bar at any minute. Freya splashed water on her face, to try to rub the guilt out of it. She was dreading seeing him but couldn’t put it off any longer. This was the first time they would see each other since celebrating their engagement. (And, boy, did she ever celebrate, she thought, thinking of Killian and kicking herself again.)

  He was waiting for her when she returned to the bar, sitting at his usual barstool, a newspaper spread in front of him, looking crisp and manly in his dark suit and red tie. “There you are,” he said, pulling her close and squeezing her waist. “Remind me never to leave you ever again,” he said as he ducked his head under her chin.

  She laughed and squeezed back. “I’m sorry you had to wait, but Sal’s not feeling well and I had to wait until Kristy’s babysitter arrived.” She was glad to find that upon seeing Bran, she felt exactly the same way: that same warm, solid love that had drawn her to him in the first place. It was still there. He was the one she’d been waiting for, all these long years. She nuzzled his head and pressed her body closer to his, liking the immediate jump in his heartbeat that resulted. It had been a very long time since she’d felt this way.

  “Is it serious? Poor Sal,” Bran asked, concerned,
tapping his gold ring with the family crest.

  “He’ll be all right,” she said. “He’s stubborn and won’t take his allergy medicine.”

  “Ha!” Bran nodded. Even if Bran had only recently arrived in town, Freya took it as a good sign that Sal had given him his seal of approval when they announced their engagement. Not only because Bran was the only one who professed to like Sal’s homemade moonshine, although it never hurt. “He’s a quiet one, your boy,” Sal had once told her. “One of those people that take a while to get to know. I like that. Not like all these garrulous meatheads who talk your head off and say nothing.”

  “How was the meeting? Is all the money gone yet?” she teased. His aim, he had told Freya, was to give away his inheritance to those who needed it more.

  “Almost.” He laughed. “Working on it.”

  “I guess we’re not Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy—carriages and Pemberley will not be a part of my future.” She sighed dramatically, as his hand around her waist inched a little below her jeans, rubbing the skin underneath, marking his territory, letting the world know she was his. Not so shy anymore, was he.

  “I hope it’s not too disappointing,” Bran said with a grin, as he already knew the answer. “What’s this?” he asked, picking up one of the new laminated cocktail menus.

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” she said, shrugging, even though she was proud of it. After her success with the Baumans, she had been emboldened to expand her reach. Her new cocktail menu at the North Inn bar was an immediate hit, and it was not difficult to see why. Love Potions, it announced in big pink letters, seventeen dollars ea. Sal’s only comment about the new menu was that if she was going to use top-notch liquor and fresh ingredients, she should charge for them.