Chapter Thirteen
Morgan pulled off the sunglasses and laid them on the kitchen counter. She’d hastily purchased them at the airport to avoid the stares. Being in Ruthorford had afforded her the luxury of familiarity. She’d forgotten what the flagrant stares and comments from strangers felt like. Suddenly, once again, she’d become an oddity. She’d felt herself withdraw, falling back on old patterns, pulling her bangs over her eyes and looking down. At the first kiosk she’d come to, she’d plunked down twenty dollars for the first pair of sunglasses she’d picked up, and had joined the anonymity of the masses.
She looked around. After the shop and the cottage, her apartment, which had been home for four years, felt barren. Of course, Mrs. T not being there to greet her opened a void in her heart as well. Maybe she’d go see how she was getting along. The place felt so empty. She stepped out onto the balcony. Her mom and dad had taken good care of her plants and they thrived. There were so few. She reached down and grabbed a tiny weed, just poking its head through the soil. The dill had gone to seed. She would have to replace it. A wave of sadness washed over her. She thought of all the plants in the garden at Ruthorford. Maybe she could take these back with her. A slight chill swirled around her. She shivered and glanced around for a violet outline. Seeing nothing, she realized that, up here, fall had arrived. She rubbed her hands up her arms and went inside, pulling the obstinate door in place.
Morgan wandered through the rest of the place, flicking on lights, resetting the thermostat. When she got to the kitchen, she pulled open the refrigerator door. A box sat on the shelf, a note taped to the top.
Sweetheart—I picked this up at the bakery today. Just a few seconds in the microwave should do it. Love, Mom
She grabbed the box. Her heart twisted. However, when she opened the lid, the sugar-dusted confections Dorian had teased her with weren’t nestled in Teresa’s special paper. A single bear-claw, a favorite since childhood, sat alone in the plain box. A tear trickled down her cheek. She gently put the box back in the refrigerator.
She went to her purse and pulled out the cell phone. After two delays at the airport, it was too late to call her parents, or anyone else for that matter. She hit the buttons. No new messages. Carrying the phone, she lugged the suitcase back to her bedroom and hefted it onto the bed. Setting the phone next to the bed, she started pulling clothes out of her suitcase. As she reached the bottom, the light seersucker robe appeared. She hung it neatly in the closet, grabbed a nightshirt, and stripped. Naked, she walked into the bathroom and started the shower. As she turned back to the sink, a tiny light winked in the mirror. Startled, she looked up to see the eyes of the owl catching the light. Her fingers brushed over it before she unclasped the fastener and laid it on the counter. It seemed to watch her. She reached out and touched it once more before stepping into the shower.
She inhaled. Basil and citrus rose in the steam. Not the lush lavender to which she had become accustomed. She felt a tug at her heart. Upset that she was becoming morose, she lathered and scrubbed until her skin tingled. Similar to what she felt when Dorian…
oh, good God.
She turned off the water and dried herself and her hair, put the necklace around her neck, and went back into the bedroom, only to stare at the small, plain, very empty bed. She had hoped that tonight they would share a bed. Morgan pulled the nightshirt over her head and snuggled into the bed, trying to grasp a vague scent of lavender, the shop, or Dorian, as an exhausted sleep overcame her.
Morgan followed the path to the grotto. She didn’t remember it winding so, or it being so long. It was darker than she remembered. Why wasn’t Dorian’s light in front of her? She felt the slight tingle at her back. Somehow, he had gotten behind her. That was okay. She smiled to herself. She could see in the dark. She would lead him this time. When she came to where the wall abutted, she turned to the left—and ran into a stone face. She stepped back. Reaching out, she felt the cold stones, following them back around. The bend was to the right. She turned and moved forward. The path continued to wind and seemed to take her down an incline. Then, the path narrowed, barely letting one pass, never two. She stubbed her toe on loose stone and realized she was barefoot. She looked down. She was wearing a nightshirt. When she looked up the path was opening to a large cavern. She listened for the sound of water. Nothing. She looked for the mist faeries. It was still dark. The tingling ran up her spine. This time it felt different. Sharper. Almost painful. She stepped away, careful that she not fall into the pool. She eased her feet forward slowly until she was in the middle of the room. She should be in the middle of the pool, except there was no pool. Morgan felt the current of his fingers run up her arms. She stilled. The current began to pulse. The room lightened. The colors were grey green, the glow putrid. She shivered. The pulse beat at her. What was he doing? She turned and large violet eyes stared into hers.
Morgan bounded up, hauling deep gulps of air into her lungs. Perspiration ran down her face and between her breasts. She turned on the light and blinked to adjust. She scanned the room. Nothing. It was a dream. She was in her own bed, in her own apartment. But, that…that thing. It was huge. It had to be as big as she was. Was it a Gulatega? In her dreams, it had never appeared so large. Evil. It felt evil. In her dreams, she’d been frightened, but because it was unknown. The dream in itself had never felt evil—until now.
She pushed herself off the bed, trudged into the bathroom and turned on the lights. Her face was flushed. Her skin glowed pink, as though she’d been sunburned. She felt her forehead. Was she coming down with a fever? Definitely clammy, but no fever. Just to be on the safe side, she grabbed a couple of acetaminophen and washed them down with cold water from the tap. As she closed the medicine cabinet door, her eyes reflected back at her in the mirror. They had deepened to a dark green, almost black. She dropped the plastic cup. It rolled around inside the edge of the bowl before settling over the drain. She blinked. Slowly her eyes returned to their brilliant emerald shade. She returned to bed but lay staring into the lighted room until day broke. She got up grateful not to have fallen asleep again.
Knowing Jenn would be up and about, Morgan went in search of her phone. She was exhausted. How Jenn could go on so little sleep baffled her. Somehow, she did and it worked.
“Wow, I was just thinking about you.” Jenn’s jovial greeting never failed to make her smile.
“I’m in town,” Morgan stated simply. It was met with silence.
“I got in last night.”
“You want to tell me what’s going on?” Jenn’s voice was low, careful.
“Yeah, I do, but not over the phone. I needed to get away for a while.”
“How far away?” Jenn’s voice sounded more chipper.
“Why?”
“Well, I was just looking at my schedule. With Meadow doing so well, I was thinking of coming down to see you. But, since you’re here…how about…” she drew it out, “we get away for a girls vacation? Spend some time together. Really catch up.”
“Really? You mean it?” It had been years since they’d done that. One or the other was always working. They had such fun together. It would give her a chance to fill Jenn in and maybe, just maybe, work out her thoughts and feelings about Dorian, and everything else, at the same time.
“Yep. I just
inked
you in. Not penciled, mind you, but with indelible ink.”
“Well, I’ll repack,” Morgan found herself laughing. “I’m going over to my parent’s for breakfast, and then I’ll meet you at your place, say, around eleven. Will that do?”
“Don’t you want to know where we’re going?”
“Nope. Surprise me,” she said and ended the call laughing.
****
As Morgan wound down the curving driveway to the home she’d grown up in, she felt a sense of relief, of welcome. This remained familiar. Nestled on two acres in the rolling hills just outside Williamsburg, the house was the classic Williamsburg cottage—a gabled, deep roofed, white clapboard, with twin brick fireplaces hugging either end. Built just after the Civil War, its bones were good. Her parents had covered the front steps with a small porch when she was in her teens. Her mother had complained about getting rain in the house for years. They’d studied many historical designs and finally found one in keeping with the classic architecture. They even had the classic picket fence and the customary garden in the back. Funny, Morgan thought, the garden had a similarity to the one behind the shop.
She climbed out of the car and looked over at the house. Her upstairs bedroom was on the end closest to the drive. One of the gables held the window seat where she’d sat on winter days, looking out at light dustings of snow and reading romance novels. Dorian’s image played across her mind. He would make one hell of a hero.
Her gaze caught the narrow windows on either side of the fireplace. In her room, they fit perfectly on either side of her bed. On nights when her parents had that fireplace going, her bed was warm and toasty. She saw a flicker of movement. Her mom waved from the window. Morgan waved back and headed toward the house.
The door flew open before she could touch the handle. Becky pulled her inside and into strong, soft arms. Morgan closed her eyes and sank into her mother’s embrace, hugging her tight. She inhaled the scent that was
mom
—warm vanilla with a hint of spice. She was never sure if her mother smelled so good from cooking and crafting or if she actually got it from a bottle. Over the years, Morgan had given her many scents. Okay, mostly experiments Morgan was dying to try out, but her mother always accepted them and immediately would touch pulse points. Funny, Morgan couldn’t remember her smelling of anything other than vanilla and spice.
Becky slowly stepped back, letting her hands run down Morgan’s arms until they were holding hands. Morgan blinked and her breath hitched as she looked at her mother’s aura. Her mother glowed. Spikes of color pulsed around her mother, just as it had around Meadow. She could hear her mother commenting but Morgan concentrated on the aura. It was vibrant and sharp, except for a small whitish area around her abdomen. Morgan remembered the hysterectomy. She held on to her mother’s hands a moment longer, taking one last scan before she released the grasp.
“You’re looking great, Mom,” she said, closed her eyes and stepped away. When she opened her eyes, her mother’s image had returned to normal, but she had a look about her eyes. She started to say something.
“Hey, don’t I get a turn?” Talbot grabbed Morgan in a bear hug. She slipped her arms around him and closed her eyes. He wore Old Spice. She would forever think of her father and Old Spice. She held on to his hand, stepped back and looked him up and down. His aura wasn’t as vibrant as her mother’s, but she’d never studied a man’s before. Its pulse was a little off as well. That scared her. His heart? She didn’t see anything murky or had any “feelings” like she’d had with Meadow. She rose on tiptoe and planted a kiss on the cheek. His skin felt warm and soft from his morning shave. She blinked and stepped back.
Her mother was watching her. She never missed a trick, Morgan realized.
“You feeling okay, Dad?” She asked, having smiled meekly at her mom.
“Funny, you should mention it. The doc changed my cholesterol medicine last week. I’ve been feeling a little off this week.”
She relaxed. “Well, you’d better call him. You know some people react differently to some of those. I thought you were doing great on the one you were taking.” It was more of a question than a comment.
Becky led them back into the kitchen. “You know how they are…” She pulled a pan of muffins out of the oven. “Still warm,” she said more to herself and brought them to the table in the bay window. Then she looked at Morgan, “Those doctors now have it in their collective heads that cholesterol should be even lower.” She waved Morgan into her seat, returned to the stove, gave the perfectly scrambled eggs a quick stir, dished them up and brought the steaming plate to the table. “Let’s eat,” she proclaimed and sat down. They took hands and closed their eyes in the blessing they’d said since before she could talk.
She inhaled. God, it smelled like home. She felt tears well up.
“Stop that.” Becky patted her hand. “You’re home now.”
“Eat,” her dad said, loading eggs onto his plate.
She glanced at her mother.
“I’ve put one yellow per two whites. I’m doing my part.”
Morgan smiled and picked up the crisp bacon.
“You seem different,” Becky commented.
The bacon broke between her fingers and fell to the plate. She looked at her mother, who innocently took a bite of eggs and purposefully didn’t look at her.
“A little, maybe,” she said.
“You love him?” Talbot slathered butter on a muffin. Becky took it away and handed him another one, unbuttered. He glared at her, or what appeared to be a glare, then nodded and smiled.