metal-framed glasses. The minute he slipped them on, her stomach clutched.
Oh, man, she thought, an incredibly sexy geek.
“I’m going to take notes,” he explained. “Back up the tape. How’s the soup?”
“It’s Nell’s,” she said simply.
“Yeah.” He began to eat. “She saved my life the other night when I lost track of time. I found a container of chowder in the freezer and nearly broke down and cried. Your brother’s a lucky man. I met him yesterday.”
“So he said.” She began to relax, thinking that as long as he made small talk, the clock was ticking. “They’re great together.”
“I got that impression. How old are you?”
“What?”
“Your age—for the record.”
“I don’t know what the hell that has to do with anything. I turned thirty last month.”
“What day?”
“Fourteenth.”
“Sagittarius. You know the time of birth?”
“I wasn’t paying a lot of attention at the time.” She picked up her wine. “I think my mother said it was about eight at night, after sixteen hours of sweating in the Valley of the Shadow and so on. Why do you need that?”
“I’ll input the data and run an astrological chart. Give you a copy if you want.”
“That stuff’s totally bogus.”
“You’d be surprised. You were born on the island?”
“Yeah, at home—doctor and midwife in attendance.”
“Have you ever experienced any paranormal activity?”
She didn’t mind lying, but she hated the fact that it always made her throat feel tight. “Why would I?”
“Do you remember your dreams?”
“Sure. I had a doozy the other night about Harrison Ford, a peacock feather, and a bottle of canola oil. What do you think that means?”
“Since a cigar is sometimes just a cigar, sexual fantasies are sometimes just about sex. Do you dream in color?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Always?”
She moved her shoulders. “Black and white’s for Bogart movies and art photography.”
“Are your dreams ever prophetic?”
She nearly answered in the affirmative before she caught herself. “So far Harry and I haven’t gotten it on. But I have hope.”
He switched tactics. “Got any hobbies?”
“Hobbies? You mean like . . . quilting or birdwatching? No.”
“What do you do with your free time?”
“I don’t know.” She nearly squirmed before she caught herself. “Stuff. TV, movies. I do some sailing.”
“Bogart movies? Top pick?”
“ Maltese Falcon. ”
“What do you sail?”
“Zack’s little day cruiser.” She tapped her fingers on the table, let her mind drift. “I think I’m going to get my own, though.”
“Nothing like a day on the water. When did you realize you had power?”
“It was never a . . .” She straightened, carefully wiped all expression off her face. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do, but we can let that slide for the moment if it makes you uncomfortable.”
“I’m not uncomfortable. I just don’t understand the question.”
He set his pencil down, nudged the bowl of soup aside, and looked directly at her. “Let’s put it this way, then. When did you realize you were a witch?”
Four
She heard the blood rush and roar in her head, pulsing in time with the gallop of her heart. He sat calmly, studying her as if she were some mildly interesting lab experiment.
Her temper began to tick like a bomb.
“What kind of a stupid question is that?”
“With some, it’s an instinct—hereditary knowledge. Others are taught the way a child is taught to walk and talk. There are some who come into it at the onset of puberty. Countless others, I believe, who go through life without ever realizing their potential.”
Now he made her feel as though she was a slightly dim-witted student. “I don’t know where you get this stuff—or where you’ve come up with the half-baked idea that I’m . . .” She wasn’t going to say it, wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of saying it. “This hocus-pocus area is your
Oh, man, she thought, an incredibly sexy geek.
“I’m going to take notes,” he explained. “Back up the tape. How’s the soup?”
“It’s Nell’s,” she said simply.
“Yeah.” He began to eat. “She saved my life the other night when I lost track of time. I found a container of chowder in the freezer and nearly broke down and cried. Your brother’s a lucky man. I met him yesterday.”
“So he said.” She began to relax, thinking that as long as he made small talk, the clock was ticking. “They’re great together.”
“I got that impression. How old are you?”
“What?”
“Your age—for the record.”
“I don’t know what the hell that has to do with anything. I turned thirty last month.”
“What day?”
“Fourteenth.”
“Sagittarius. You know the time of birth?”
“I wasn’t paying a lot of attention at the time.” She picked up her wine. “I think my mother said it was about eight at night, after sixteen hours of sweating in the Valley of the Shadow and so on. Why do you need that?”
“I’ll input the data and run an astrological chart. Give you a copy if you want.”
“That stuff’s totally bogus.”
“You’d be surprised. You were born on the island?”
“Yeah, at home—doctor and midwife in attendance.”
“Have you ever experienced any paranormal activity?”
She didn’t mind lying, but she hated the fact that it always made her throat feel tight. “Why would I?”
“Do you remember your dreams?”
“Sure. I had a doozy the other night about Harrison Ford, a peacock feather, and a bottle of canola oil. What do you think that means?”
“Since a cigar is sometimes just a cigar, sexual fantasies are sometimes just about sex. Do you dream in color?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Always?”
She moved her shoulders. “Black and white’s for Bogart movies and art photography.”
“Are your dreams ever prophetic?”
She nearly answered in the affirmative before she caught herself. “So far Harry and I haven’t gotten it on. But I have hope.”
He switched tactics. “Got any hobbies?”
“Hobbies? You mean like . . . quilting or birdwatching? No.”
“What do you do with your free time?”
“I don’t know.” She nearly squirmed before she caught herself. “Stuff. TV, movies. I do some sailing.”
“Bogart movies? Top pick?”
“ Maltese Falcon. ”
“What do you sail?”
“Zack’s little day cruiser.” She tapped her fingers on the table, let her mind drift. “I think I’m going to get my own, though.”
“Nothing like a day on the water. When did you realize you had power?”
“It was never a . . .” She straightened, carefully wiped all expression off her face. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do, but we can let that slide for the moment if it makes you uncomfortable.”
“I’m not uncomfortable. I just don’t understand the question.”
He set his pencil down, nudged the bowl of soup aside, and looked directly at her. “Let’s put it this way, then. When did you realize you were a witch?”
Four
She heard the blood rush and roar in her head, pulsing in time with the gallop of her heart. He sat calmly, studying her as if she were some mildly interesting lab experiment.
Her temper began to tick like a bomb.
“What kind of a stupid question is that?”
“With some, it’s an instinct—hereditary knowledge. Others are taught the way a child is taught to walk and talk. There are some who come into it at the onset of puberty. Countless others, I believe, who go through life without ever realizing their potential.”
Now he made her feel as though she was a slightly dim-witted student. “I don’t know where you get this stuff—or where you’ve come up with the half-baked idea that I’m . . .” She wasn’t going to say it, wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of saying it. “This hocus-pocus area is your
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