The Witching Hour (Lives of the Mayfair Witches 1)

There he was, still trapped as he'd been for an hour by the overwhelming Beatrice, and the strikingly handsome Gifford, whose mother had been descended from Lestan Mayfair, and whose father had been descended from Clay Mayfair, and who had married, of course, Cortland's grandson, Ryan. Seems there were some other Mayfair lines tangled up in it, too, but Rowan had been drawn away from them at that point in the conversation, her blood simmering at the sight of Gifford's pale fingers wound--for no good reason--around Michael's arm.

So what did they find so fascinating about her heartthrob that they wouldn't let him out of their clutches? And why was Gifford such a nervous woman, to begin with? Poor Michael. He didn't know what was going on. He sat there with his gloved hands shoved in his pockets, nodding and smiling at their little jokes. He didn't detect the flirtatious edge to their gestures, the flaming light in their eyes, the high seductive ring to their laughter.

Get used to it. The son of a bitch is irresistible to refined women. They're all on to him now, that he's the bodyguard who reads Dickens.

Yesterday, he'd climbed the long thin ladder up the side of the house like a pirate climbing the rope ladder of a ship. And then, the sight of him, bare-chested, with his foot on the parapet, his hair blowing, one hand raised to wave as if he had no idea in the world that this series of unself-conscious gestures was driving her slowly out of her mind. Cecilia had looked up and said, "My, but he is a good-looking man, you know."

"Yes, I do," Rowan had mumbled.

Her desire for him at such moments was excruciating. And he was all the more enticing in his new three-piece white linen suit ("You mean dress like an ice-cream man?"), which Beatrice had dragged him to Perlis to buy. "Darling, you're a southern gentleman now!"

Porn, that's what he was. Walking porn. Take the times when he rolled up his sleeves and tucked his Camel cigarettes in the right-arm fold, and put a pencil behind his ear, and stood arguing with one of the carpenters or painters, and then put one foot forward and raised his hand sharply like he was, going to push the guy's chin through the top of his head.

And then there were the skinny dips in the pool after everybody was off the property (no ghosts since the first time), and the one weekend they'd gotten away to Florida to claim the new house, and the sight of him sleeping naked on the deck, with nothing on but the gold wristwatch, and that little chain around his neck. Pure nakedness couldn't have been more enticing.

And he was so supremely happy! He was the only one in this world perhaps who loved that house more than the Mayfairs did. He was obsessed with it. He took every opportunity to pitch in on the job with his men. And he was stuffing the gloves away more and more often. Seems he could drain an object of the images if he really tried, and after that he'd keep it out of other hands, and it would be safe, so to speak, and now he had a whole chest of such tools which he used, barehanded, with regularity.

Thank God, the ghosts and the spooks were leaving them both alone. And she had to stop worrying about him over there with his harem.

Better to concentrate on the group gathering around her--stately old Felice had just pulled up a chair, and the pretty garrulous Margaret Ann was settling on the grass, and the dour Magdalene, the one who looked young but wasn't, had been there for some time, watching the others in an unusual silence.

Now and then a head would turn, one of them would look at her, and she would receive some vague shimmer of clandestine knowledge, and a question perhaps, and then it would fade. But it was always one of the older ones--Felice, who was Barclay's youngest daughter and seventy-five years old, or Lily, seventy-eight, they said, and the granddaughter of Vincent, or the elderly bald-headed Peter Mayfair, with the wet shining eyes and the thick neck though his body was very straight and strong--Garland's youngest son, surely a wary and knowing elder.

And then there was Randall, older perhaps than his uncle Peter, saggy-eyed and seemingly wise, slouched on an iron bench in the far corner, gazing at her steadily, no matter how many blocked his view from time to time, as if he wanted to tell her something of great importance but did not know how to begin it.

I want to know. I want to know everything.

Pierce now looked at her with undisguised awe, utterly won over to the dream of Mayfair Medical, and almost as eager as she was to make it a reality. Too bad he'd lost some of the easy warmth he'd shown before, and was almost apologetic as he brought a succession of young men to be introduced, briefly explaining the lineage and present occupation of each one. ("We're a family of lawyers, or What does a gentleman do when he doesn't have to do anything?") There was something utterly lovable about Pierce as far as she was concerned. She wanted to put him at ease again. His was a friendliness behind which there was not a single shadow of self-centeredness.

She noted with pleasure as well that after each introduction, he presented the very same person to Michael with a simple, unexplained cordiality. In fact, all of them were being gracious to Michael. Gifford kept pouring the bourbon in his glass. And Anne Marie had now settled beside him and was talking intently to him, her shoulder brushing his shoulder.

Turn it off, Rowan. You can't lock up the beautiful beast in the attic.

In clusters they surrounded her, then broke away so that a new cluster might form. And all the while they talked about the house on First Street, above all about the house.

For the ongoing restoration of First Street brought them undisguised joy.

First Street was their landmark, all right, and how they had hated to see it falling down, how they had hated Carlotta. Rowan caught it behind their congratulatory words. She tasted it when she looked into their eyes. The house was free at last from despicable bondage. And it was amazing how much they knew about the very latest changes and discoveries. They even knew the colors Rowan had chosen for rooms they hadn't yet seen.

So splendid that Rowan had kept all the old bedroom furniture. Did she know that Stella had once slept in Carlotta's bed? And the bed in Millie's room had belonged to Grandmere Katherine, and Great Oncle Julien had been born in the bed in the front room, which was to be Rowan and Michael's bed.

What did they think about her plan for the great hospital? In her few brief conversations outside the firm, she'd found them amazingly receptive. The name, Mayfair Medical, delighted them.

It was crucial to her that the center break new ground, she'd explained last week to Bea and Cecilia, that it fulfill needs which others had not addressed. The ideal environment for research, yes, that was mandatory, but this was to be no ivory tower institute. It was to be a true hospital with a large proportion of its beds committed to nonpaying patients. If it could draw together the top neurologists and neurosurgeons in the nation and become the most innovative, effective, and complete center for the treatment of neurological problems, in unparalleled comfort and with the very latest equipment, it would be her dream come true.

"Sounds quite terrific if you ask me," Cecilia had said.

"It's about time, I think," said Carmen Mayfair over lunch, "You know, Mayfair and Mayfair has always given away millions, but this is the first time anyone has shown this sort of initiative."

And of course that was only the beginning. No need to explain yet that she foresaw experiments in the structure and arrangement of intensive care units, and critical care wards, that she wanted to devise revolutionary housing for the families of patients, with special educational programs for spouses and children who must participate in the ongoing rehabilitation of those with incurable diseases or disabilities.

But each day her vision gained new momentum. She dreamed of a humanizing teaching program designed to correct all the horrors and abuses which had become the cliches of modern medicine; she planned a nursing school in which a new type of supernurse, capable of a whole range of new responsibilities, could be created.

The words "Mayfair Medical" could become synonymous with the finest and most humane and sensitive practitioners in the profession.

Yes, they would all be

proud. How could they not be?

"Another drink?"

"Yes, thank you. Bourbon will be fine. Too fine."

Laughter.

She took another sip as she nodded now to young Timmy Mayfair, who had come to shake hands. Yes, and hello again to Bernardette Mayfair, whom she'd met briefly at the funeral, and to the beautiful little red-haired girl with the hair ribbon, who was named Mona Mayfair, daughter of CeeCee, yes, and the tomboyish Jennifer Mayfair, Mona's best friend and fourth cousin, yes, met you before, of course. Jenn had a voice like her own, she thought, deep and husky.

Bourbon was better when it was very cold. But it was also sneaky when it was cold. And she knew she was drinking just a little too much of it. She took another sip, acknowledging a little toast from across the garden. One toast after another was being made to the house, and to the marriage. Was anybody here talking about anything else?

"Rowan, I have photographs that go all the way back--"

" ... and my mother saved all the articles from the papers ... "

"You know, it's in the books on New Orleans, oh, yes, I have some of the very old books, I can drop them off for you at the hotel ... "

" ... you understand, we are not going to be knocking on the door day and night, but just to know! ... "

"Rowan, our great-grandfathers were born in that house ... all the people you see here were ... "

"Oh, poor Millie Dear never lived to see the day ... "

" ... a package of daguerreotypes ... Katherine and Darcy, and Julien. You know Julien was always photographed at the front door. I have seven different pictures of him at the front door."

The front door?

More and more Mayfairs streamed in. And there at last was the elderly Fielding--Clay's son--utterly bald, and with his fine, translucent skin and red-rimmed eyes--and they were bringing him here, to sit beside her.

No sooner had he eased down in the chair than the young ones began to appear to pay court to him as they had to her.

Hercules, the Haitian servant, put the tumbler of bourbon in the old man's hand.

"You got that now, Mr. Fielding?"

"Yes, Hercules, no food! I'm sick of food. I've eaten enough food for a lifetime."

His voice was deep, and ageless the way the old woman's voice had been.

"And so no more Carlotta," he said grimly to Beatrice, who had come to kiss him. "And I'm the only old one left."

"Don't talk about it, you're going to be with us forever," said Bea, her perfume swirling about them, sweet and floral, and expensive like her brilliant red silk dress.

"I don't know that you're all that much older than I am," declared Lily Mayfair, sitting beside him, and indeed for a moment she did seem as old as he was, with her wispy luminous white hair and sunken cheeks, and the bony hand she laid on his arm.