The Witching Hour (Lives of the Mayfair Witches 1)

All the wild growth had been cleared from the flagstone decking, the diving boards had been restored, and the graceful limestone balustrade had been uncovered throughout the garden. The thick boxwood had been taken out; more old cast-iron chairs and tables had been discovered in the disappearing brush. And the lower flagstone steps of the side screen porch had been uncovered, proving that before Deirdre's time it had been open. One could once again walk out from the side windows of the parlor, across the flags, and down and onto the lawn.

"We ought to leave it that way, Rowan. It needs to be open," Michael said. "And besides, we have that nice little screened porch off the kitchen in back. They've already put up the new screen back there. Come, take a look."

"You think you can tear yourself away?" Rowan asked. She tossed him the car keys. "Why don't you drive?" she asked. "I think I make you nervous."

"Only when you run lights and stop signs at such high speeds," he said. "I mean, it's breaking two laws simultaneously that makes me nervous."

"OK, handsome, as long as you get us there in four hours."

He took one last look at the house. The light here was like the light of Florence, on that score she had been right. Washing down the high south facade, it made him think of the old palazzi of Italy. And everything was going so well, so wonderfully well.

He felt an odd pain inside him, a twinge of sadness and pure happiness.

I am here, really here, he thought silently. Not dreaming about it any longer far away, but here. And the visions seemed distant, fading, unreal to him. He had not had another flash of them in so long.

But Rowan was waiting, and the clean white southern beaches were waiting. More of his wonderful old world to be reclaimed. It crossed his mind suddenly that it would be luscious to make love to her in yet another new bed.

Thirty-six

THEY RODE INTO the town of Fort Walton, Florida, at eight o'clock after a long slow crawl out of Pensacola. The whole world had come down to the beach tonight, bumper to bumper. To press on to Destin was to risk finding no accommodations.

As it was, the older wing of a Holiday Inn was the only thing left. All the money in the world couldn't buy a suite at the fancier hotels. And the little helter-skelter town with all its neon signs was a mite depressing in its highway shabbiness.

The room itself seemed damned near unbearable, smelly and dimly lighted, with dilapidated furniture and lumpy beds. But then they changed into their bathing suits and walked out the glass door at the end of the corridor and found themselves on the beach.

The world opened up, warm and wondrous under a heaven of brilliant stars. Even the glassy green of the water was visible in the pouring moonlight. The breeze had not the faintest touch of a chill in it. It was even silkier than the river breeze of New Orleans. And the sand was a pure surreal white, and fine as sugar under their feet.

They walked out together into the surf. For a moment, Michael could not quite believe the delicious temperature of the water, nor its glassy, shining softness as it swirled around his ankles. In a strange moment of circular time, he saw himself at Ocean Beach on the other side of the continent, his fingers frozen, the bitter Pacific wind lashing his face, thinking of this very place, this seemingly mythical and impossible place, beneath the southern stars.

If only they could receive all this, and hold it to their breasts, and keep it, and cast off the dark things that waited and brooded and were sure to reveal themselves ...

Rowan threw herself forward into the water. She gave a slow, sweet laugh. She nudged at his leg with her foot, and he let himself tumble down into the shallow warm waves beside her. Going back on his elbows, he let the water bathe his face.

They swam out together, with long lazy strokes, through gentle waves, where their feet still scraped the bottom, until it was so deep finally that they could stand with the water up to their shoulders.

The white dunes down the beach gleamed like snow in the moonlight, and the distant lights of the larger hotels twinkled softly and silently beneath the black star-filled sky. He hugged Rowan, feeling her wet limbs sealed against him. The world seemed altogether impossible--something imagined in its utter easiness, its absence of all barriers or harshness or assaults upon the senses or the flesh.

"This is paradise," she said. "It really is. God, Michael, how could you ever leave?" She broke from him, not waiting for an answer, and swam with swift strong strokes towards the horizon.

He remained where he was, his eyes scanning the heavens, picking out the great constellation of Orion with its belt of jewels. If he had ever been this happy before in his life, he couldn't remember it. He absolutely couldn't. No one had ever created in him the happiness that she did. Nothing ever created in him the happiness of this moment--this freshness and beauty and motherly warmth.

Yes, back where I belong, and I have her with me, and I don't care about all the. rest. Not now ... , he thought.

Saturday they spent looking at the available property. Much of the beachfront from Ft. Walton to Seaside was taken up by the large resorts and high-rise condominiums. The individual houses were few and at a great price.

At about three o'clock, they walked into "the house"--a Spartan modern affair with low ceilings and severe white walls. The rectangular windows made the Gulf view into a series of paintings in simple frames. The horizon cut the paintings exactly in half. Down below the high front decks were the dunes, which must be preserved, it was explained to them, as they were the protection against the high waves when the hurricanes came.

By means of a long pier they walked out over the dunes and then went down weathered wooden steps to the beach itself. In the dazzle of the sun the whiteness was again unbelievable. The water was a perfect foaming green.

Far, far down the beach to either side the high rises broke the vista with their white towers, seemingly as clean and geometric as this little house itself. The cliffs and crags and trees of California were utterly absent. It was a wholly different environment--suggestive of the Greek islands, in spite of its flatness, a cubist landscape of blinding light and sharp lines.

He liked it. He told her that immediately, yes, he really did like it, and this house would be just fine.

Above all he liked the contrast to the lushness of New Orleans. The house was well built, with its coral-colored tile floors and thick carpets, and its gleaming stainless steel kitchen. Yes, cubist, and stark. And inexplicably beautiful in its own way.

The one disappointment for Rowan was that a boat couldn't be docked here, that she would have to drive a couple of miles to the marina on the bay side of the highway, and take the boat out through Destin harbor into the Gulf. But that was not so terribly inconvenient when one measured it against the luxury of this long stretch of unspoiled beach.

As Rowan and the agent wrote up the offer to purchase, Michael walked out on the weathered deck. He shaded his eyes as he studied the water. He tried to analyze the sense of serenity it produced in him, which surely had to do with the warmth and the deep brilliance of the colors. In retrospect it seemed that the hues and tints of San Francisco had always been mixed with ashes, and that the sky had always been half invisible beyond a fog, or a deep mist, or a fleece of unremarkable clouds.

He could not connect this brilliant seascape to the cold gray Pacific, or to his scant awful memories of the rescue helicopter, of lying there chilled and aching on the stretcher, his clothes drenched. This was his beach and his water, and it wouldn't hurt him. What the hell, maybe he could even, get to like being on the Sweet Christine down here. But he had to confess, the thought of that made him slightly sick.

Late in the afternoon, they dined in a little fish restaurant near the marina in Destin, very rough and noisy with the beer in plastic cups. The fresh fish was better than very good. At sunset they were on the motel beach again, sprawled in the weathered wooden chairs. Michael was making notes on things back at First Street. Rowan slept, her tanned skin quite noticeably darkened from the last week

of time outdoors, and this one hour perhaps on the burning beach. Her hair was streaked with yellow. It made a pain in him to look at her, to realize how very young she was still.

He woke her gently as the sun began to sink. Enormous and blood red, it made its spectacular path across the glittering emerald sea.

He shut his eyes finally because it was too much. He had to veer away from it, and come back again, slowly, as the hot breeze ruffled his hair.

At nine o'clock that evening, after they had enjoyed a tolerable meal at a bayside restaurant, the call came from the real estate agent. Rowan's offer on the house had been accepted. No complications. The wicker and painted wood furniture was included. Fireplace fittings, dishes, everything would remain. They would move to clear title and close escrow as soon as possible. She could probably claim the keys in two weeks.

On Sunday afternoon, they visited the Destin Marina. The choice of boats was fabulous. But Rowan was still toying with the idea of sending for the Sweet Christine. She wanted something seaworthy. And there was really nothing here that surpassed the luxury and solidity of the old Sweet Christine.

It was late afternoon when they started back. With the radio playing Vivaldi, they saw the sunset as they sped along Mobile Bay. The sky seemed limitless, gleaming with magical light beyond an endless terrain of darkening clouds. The scent of rain mingled with the heat.

Home. Where I belong. Where the sky looks as I remember it. Where the low country spreads out forever. And the air is my friend.

Fast and silent the traffic flowed on the interstate highway; the low cushy Mercedes-Benz cruised easily at eighty-five. The music ripped the air with its high pure violin glissandos. Finally the sun died to a wash of blinding gold. The dark swampy woodlands closed around them as they sped into Mississippi, the eighteen-wheelers rumbling by, the lights of the little towns flickering for an instant, then vanishing, as the last of the tarnished light died away.

Did she miss the drama of California? he asked her. Miss the cliffs and the yellow hills?

She was looking at the sky just as he was. You never saw such a sky out there. No, she said softly. She missed nothing. She was going to be sailing different waters, warm waters.

After a long while, when it was truly dark, and the only view now was the view of the glowing red tail lamps before them, she said:

"This is our honeymoon, isn't it?"

"I guess it is."

"I mean, it's the easy part. Before you realize what kind of a person I really am."

"And what kind is that?"

"You want to ruin our honeymoon?"

"It won't ruin it." He glanced at her. "Rowan, what are you talking about?" No answer. "You know you're the only person in this world I really know right now. You're the only one I don't handle literally with kid gloves. I know more about you than you realize, Rowan."

"What would I do without you?" she whispered, snuggling back against the seat, stretching out her long legs.

"Meaning?"

"I don't know. But I've figured something out."

"I'm afraid to ask."