The View from Prince Street (26 page)

“If I could carry it, I brought it down. Though I did discover that too many lamps blow a fuse. It's a little disconcerting finding yourself in a dark basement all of a sudden at night.”

“You're not afraid of shadows?”

“And you're not?” I moved toward the clothesline, where I'd pinned up a collection of glass plate prints. They would dry for several more hours before I coated them with a fine sheen of wax.

He leaned in, studying the pictures, moving down the line slowly and carefully. To his credit, he seemed genuinely interested. “These are very good.”

“This is one thing I do particularly well.”

“You should consider having a show in town. The locals would love it. I'm sure Rebecca would help.”

“It's not quite that easy. It's a lot of work making inroads with the art dealers.”

“The D.C. market has a fair number of galleries.”

“I'd still have to create a portfolio and get my act together.” I sipped my coffee. “But you're right, I do have to do something. My gypsy days are over while Amelia is sick.”

He moved to the pictures of Jennifer. “Who's this?”

The quality of the negatives was poor. I had only just begun learning the art of coating the plate with chemicals, and consequently there were runs and untreated spots that would never develop. “I took those in high school. That's my friend, Jennifer.”

“She's pretty.”

“She was.”

A frown furrowed his brow. “Jennifer McDonald. Amelia told me about her. She died in a car accident.”

“We were seventeen.”

“That couldn't have been easy.”

I wasn't allowing self-pity today. “Never is.”

“These prints are not as polished as the others, but I really like them.”

“Thanks. My developing skills have grown, but I can only do so much with a novice's negative. I was thinking I'd give the prints to Jennifer's sister. She might like to have them.”

“I'm sure she would.” His watch beeped. “I've got to be in court in a half hour, so I've got to be leaving.”

“Thanks for delivering the good news. Let me know when I need to hit the streets.”

“Right. Will do.” He climbed the stairs and paused at the front door. “Would you like to have dinner?”

“Dinner? You mean like a business dinner or a date?”

“A date.”

“Wow.”

His hand on the door, he looked amused by my confusion. “You sound surprised.”

“It's been a while since I had a real date.”

“Then we'll keep it simple. There's a pub on Union Street.”

Considering all I had were jeans and maybe one nice sweater, it would have to do. Though pubs meant alcohol, I could be surprisingly controlled when I wasn't alone. “Sure. That might be fun.”

“I'll pick you up at seven on Saturday night.”

“Okay. Looking forward to it.”

When he left, I stood in the hallway, allowing the silence to fold around me. The moment's exhilaration faded and I was left with an overwhelming sense of guilt. I was going on a date. Living my life.

“If you back out of this date, I'll scream.”

“I'm not supposed to have fun.”

“Bull. You can have fun.”

“The deal was as long as you couldn't have fun, neither could I.”

“Who says I'm not having fun? I haven't seen you squirm like this in years.”

“Go away.”

“What, now? It's just getting interesting. No way.”

My Dearest Children,

The boys have long left. Hanna is betrothed to a young man in the city. He is a master carpenter and he hails from Scotland. Their wedding will be right after the harvest, and I spend most of my days helping her sew clothes that she will carry into her new life.

Mr. McDonald's wife rarely gets out of her bed now, and when Dr. Goodwin visits the farm, he leaves her with a fresh bottle of laudanum to help her with her pain. The wife is too sick to notice that the boys are gone and Hanna will soon follow. Both Mr. McDonald and I mourn the loss of the children. We speak fondly of the days when we had three lively children bustling about the cottage and of the nights we sat by the stone hearth while his wife read to us.

Unable to sleep, I prowl the nights often, and I fear with my long fiery red hair billowing about my shoulders under the moon that I do indeed look like the witch who many still believe me to be.

—F

Rae McDonald

T
HURSDAY
, S
EPTEMBER
1, 11:00
A.M.

H
ope doesn't go hand in hand with the McDonalds, and especially me. There was a time before Jennifer died when Hope and I were pals, but Hope had disappointed me one time too often, so I cut it loose after I gave Michael away. But when Susan accepted my invitation to the witch bottle presentation, I thought maybe we could be friends.

According to Margaret, the local media were very interested in her witch bottles and wanted to interview the surviving ancestors. We would all meet at the Shire Architectural Salvage warehouse tomorrow at four.

When the doorbell rang and I saw Zeb's truck in the driveway, I was oddly excited. I'm not sure why I walked a little faster toward the door, but I did. Maybe it was the break in the rain or the idea of seeing Michael again. Whatever the reason, it had been a very long time since I'd believed that life could truly get better.

Opening the door, I actually smiled. “Mr. Talbot. Thank you for coming so soon.”

He studied me an extra beat, clearly trying to figure out what had changed. “Dr. McDonald. Are you okay?”

“Yes, why wouldn't I be?”

“You don't usually smile like this.”

Did the smile make me look more than a little demented? It had been a long time since I actually tried smiling. “You can call me Rae.”

His head cocked. This
happy me
was not at all what he expected. “Call me Zeb.”

“Great, Zeb.”

He twisted his hands around a set of rolled-up engineering plans. “You've never called me Zeb.”

“Maybe it's about time.” I stepped back from the door. “Please come in.”

He paused and wiped his boots on the mat before entering. “You said you made a decision about the garage.”

“I did. I realized I've been overthinking it and need to stop worrying. Let's go ahead and build it with the apartment on the second floor. No need for an office or storage space.”

“Thinking about rental property?”

We stepped into the front parlor overlooking the site of the new building. It no longer looked like an angry scar but a sign of better things to come. “No. But you never know. It will be nice to have the space. Do you know when you can start?” I always forgot about his towering height until we stood side by side. He was solid, and perhaps that was what I'd always liked about him. I pictured him with Rachel. They certainly had all the makings of a successful match. They were the logical choice. And yet it didn't feel right. Hardly scientific, but I didn't question.

“We can start first thing next week.”

“Great.”

He held up the plans. “Do you want to go over them one more time? I actually have two sets of designs. One for an office and one for an apartment.”

“The apartment design is fine.”

“Let's just go over it one more time.”

There was no missing his hesitation. How many times had I said I'd known what I wanted and didn't? “Sure. One more time.”

He crossed to the conference table and spread out the plans. He reached for a tape dispenser, a small vase, a stapler, and the stone heart and laid each on a corner. “As you can see, we're still creating the two-car garage. And the upstairs will have one bedroom, a kitchen, a bath, and a small living area.”

Standing close to him, I felt energy snap. I recognized the feeling. It had been a long time, but I knew. It was sexual attraction. Clearing my voice, I smiled, and this time it felt a bit more natural. “It looks great.”

“It will be. And if you decide to rent, you'll get top dollar.”

“Good to know.”

He slowly removed the weights from the plans, pausing as he held the heart-shaped stone. “I hope you didn't take offense at this.”

“I did, but not anymore. I know I can be cold.”

“Not cold.” He closed his powerful hand around the stone, warming it. “Just reserved. Eric likes you and he's a good judge of character. The cookies were a big hit.”

“He's a good kid. You've done a solid job with him.”

“Thanks.”

“I can't assume credit for the cookies. Rachel has a magic touch when it comes to baking.” I dangled the fishing lure in the water. “She said her girls and Eric go to the same school.”

“Yeah, she's great. I've always admired the way she kept it all together after Mike died. She was like a little sister to me. Mike and I were pals in high school.”

Well, wasn't that something as I reeled in the fishing lure.

“I didn't know that.”

What the heck was I digging for? All the facts I'd listed regarding a match between Zeb and Rachel proved they would be a good fit. He
didn't act particularly interested in her as a partner, but then men didn't always know what was best for them.

The conversation was petering out quickly, but I wasn't ready for it to end. “Margaret is having a meeting with a local newspaper writer about her witch bottles,” I said.

“Eric and I hear a lot about those bottles whenever we're at the salvage yard. Margaret's passion for history is infectious.”

“She's doing a small presentation, and I thought you and Eric might like to come. It's a bit of a history lesson and well, it's different.”

He studied me a beat, still wondering what had changed. “Sounds good. When?”

“Tomorrow afternoon at four.”

“We'll be there.”

“Great.”

Carefully, he rolled up the plans and then straightened. “You've changed. And I'm not quite sure how.”

“I feel a little like I did before . . . before my sister died. You know, whole.”

His eyes darkened. “I can't imagine what you and your family went through.”

“It was a dark hole, but it's time to climb out. I know Jennifer would want it.”

He cocked a brow. “Think Margaret's witch bottle has anything to do with the change? Addie's aunt Grace swears their lives all changed for the better once her bottle was broken.”

“I think the McDonald bottle is still intact, unless Margaret dropped it and didn't say.”

“You would have heard the scream up and down the Potomac if she had.” Zeb chuckled. “She handles the thing like it's a child.”

“It's her baby.”

“Margaret's fun but she needs a life. Maybe you could make a match for her.”

“She asked me to make a match for Rachel. Wanted to know if I had any spare men lying around.”

He shook his head slowly and laughed.

The heat radiating from him warmed my face. “I think everyone expects me to have a full warehouse of specimens. Or perhaps mail order like the bakery.”

He twisted his hands tighter around the plans. “Hey, you might have something there.” His phone vibrated on his hip. Frowning, he unclipped the phone and checked the number. “Job site. I'll need to take this.”

“Sure, go ahead. I'll see you tomorrow?”

“You bet.”

•   •   •

Normally, when a patient was a couple of minutes late, I became irritated. But today, I couldn't cling to anything other than hope. The rains had stopped. The project was moving forward. And tomorrow I would see Michael. Life was looking up.

When the doorbell rang, I rose, walking down the hallway with a softer clip of my heels than usual. Opening the door, I found both Debra and Samuel standing on the threshold. They were holding hands. Smiling.

I returned the smile. “You two look very happy today.”

Debra grinned. “We bought a house.”

I stepped aside so that the two could enter. “The house on Prince Street?”

Samuel rattled the keys in his hands before tucking them in his side pocket. “That's the one. Houses like that don't come on the market that often.”

“You've bought yourself a lovely home,” I said. As hopeful as they looked, I feared they wouldn't be a couple in that house for very long. “I visited there several times as a child. And I'm amazed at the renovations.”

“We're paying for move-in ready,” Debra said. “We're too busy with our careers to tackle a renovation. The basement will need work, but we'll deal with that after the wedding.”

We settled into the front room. “So what has changed between you two?” I asked.

They smiled at each other and Debra nodded, giving Samuel the go-ahead to speak. “I was pretty mad at Debra when we left here. She wouldn't share her secret and it bothered me. I couldn't be with someone who wasn't forthcoming. So we spent some time apart.” He held her hand. “I really missed her.”

She smiled and clasped his hand. I understood body language enough to know she was still hiding a whopper and wasn't even willing to tell me. “I'm sure you did.” I hoped she would share more.

Debra's smile didn't quite mask her trepidation. “I love him. I want to marry him and have a family. So I went to see him and we talked. It wasn't easy.”

I wanted to dig deeper below the surface, suspecting she'd only slapped a small bandage on a wicked wound. But as I searched for the right question to delve deeper, I hesitated. I believed honesty was the best policy, but if Zeb and I became closer, could I tell him about Michael? It seemed that was exactly what I would be doing tomorrow at the salvage yard. My past and present would collide when Michael and Zeb met. I'd made a strong argument for truth, but really I feared what would happen. “And you two were satisfied with the conversation?”

“She told me everything,” he said. “I know all about the drugs she used in college.”

“Drugs,” I repeated. As much as I wanted to believe she'd been honest with him, I couldn't. The explanation was too easy and convenient.

“Yes,” Debra said. “I told it all to him. It was a bad time for me. I made a lot of foolish choices that I never talked about.”

“How do you feel about what you told him?” I asked.

She crossed her feet at her ankles. “I didn't like doing it, but I'm relieved to have this behind us. I don't want to look back. What purpose would it serve to dwell on it?”

Samuel nodded. “We're glad you made us look inside ourselves. There were clearly things between us that needed airing, and better now than later.”

Debra tightened her hold on his hand. “We love each other.”

And this, I believed. Debra wanted this to work, but she wasn't being forthcoming.

I only hoped the future would be kind to them and that they never were forced to look back. “I wish you two the very best. If you ever need me, know that I'll be here.”

Samuel straightened with pride. He was on top of the world. “We're good now, but thanks.”