“Callie, this is Paul Finnian Whiting,” Marta said.
Finn looked at Callie and then shot a quick look at Marta, before taking Callie’s hand. “Finn,” he said. “So nice to meet you, Callie.”
Callie felt his charm immediately. And though Emily Whiting was an attractive woman, it was evident her son’s striking good looks came from his father’s side of the family, except that Finn’s eyes weren’t deep blue, like Paul’s. Callie couldn’t name the color of Finn’s eyes, though he held eye contact more than long enough for her to get a good look. They were odd, really: mostly brown, with a darker ring around the edges, and a few flecks of green and blue. He wore glasses with frames that reflected the same combination of colors and lenses with a magnifying effect that made his long lashes look even longer.
“Emily will be down in a minute,” he said. “Meanwhile, may I get you two a drink?”
“I’ll have my usual,” Marta said.
“Callie?”
“Sure,” she said. “What are you serving?”
“Anything you can name.”
“I can’t name much, I’m afraid.” When it came to drinking, she was a lightweight. She didn’t get silly; she didn’t confuse her words. Instead, she became exceedingly quiet. The social skills she had, which were limited at best, were overrun by self-consciousness.
“I’m having an Old-Fashioned,” Marta said. “If that helps.”
It didn’t.
Finn caught her confused look. “Whiskey, sugar, bitters, lemon, orange, and a cherry on top,” he said.
“Sounds delicious,” Callie said.
“Far too delicious.” Marta smiled.
“An Old-Fashioned sounds good to me,” Callie heard herself say. What in the world am I doing here? she wondered. The house was designed like a movie set, not a real home. Everything looked like old money. Callie could feel herself scowling as she looked around the library at the leather-bound collections; the marble and mahogany double partners desk was almost as large as any bedroom she’d had growing up.
The door opened, and young Paul entered. “Callie O’Neill,” he said, surprised, before breaking into a wide grin. “So nice to see you again.”
“Drink?” Finn asked his son.
“I’m driving,” Paul said. “I have to run an errand to Salem.”
“On Thanksgiving?”
“He has to go to Ann’s for an hour or so. He cleared it with me weeks ago,” Emily said, sweeping into the room.
Her hair was beautifully done, her navy silk dress and shoes perfect, but there was a weariness in her face. As soon as Emily smiled, though, the weariness disappeared. She kissed Marta on both cheeks, European style, then turned to Callie, extending her hand. “I’m so glad that you could make it, Callie. Did my husband offer you a drink?”
Finn held up the Old-Fashioned he’d just finished mixing.
“Paul’s team is helping to restore the rock churches of Matera,” Emily explained to Callie. “Ann Chase is helping Paul with research.”
“Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Finn said.
“I’m running late, and I know you want me back ASAP,” Paul said, as he shot his father a look.
“Damned right,” Finn said. “You know, Callie, a few years back there was a program called Ditch the Witch. I gave them a huge donation.”
“Not from the foundation!” Emily was horrified.
“Yes, from the foundation. I considered it urban renewal.”
Marta smiled. It was clear she had heard this kind of banter before.
“All those witches running around casting spells on our young men.” He held Callie’s glance for a long time.
“That’s not true,” Emily said.
“It is true,” Finn said. “Your son is obviously bewitched enough to be leaving us on Thanksgiving.”
“Just for an hour,” she said. “You’ve been on the phone longer than that today.”
“An hour, a week. It’s straight to the devil after that.” Finn looked at his son, who wasn’t taking the bait. “The devil has once again been raised in Salem.”
“Some would say the devil never left Salem,” Marta said.
“Witches don’t worship the devil,” Paul said. His tone had the good-natured edge of an ongoing discussion. “They’re Celtic Pagans in Salem; they don’t even believe in the devil.”
“That’s exactly what they want you to think,” Finn said, wagging a finger.
“Oh, I seem to remember you having a bit of interest in all things Celtic yourself, back in the day.” Marta smiled.
“These days I’m into all things Celtic.” Finn laughed, changing the hard C to a soft one. “I’m a big basketball fan,” he said to Callie.
“Have you met Ann Chase, Callie?” Marta asked. “Salem’s most famous witch?”
“I haven’t. Isn’t she the one who did the painting you bid on?”
“The witch paints now, too?” Finn said. “Is there any end to the talents of that woman?”
“It was part of her collection,” Paul said. “She didn’t paint it.”
Callie saw a look pass between Marta and Finn.
“If you haven’t met Ann, you should go along with Paul,” Marta said. “Ann’s hosting her yearly open house today. She’s quite something.”
“Would you like to come along?” Paul asked. “You’d be more than welcome.”
Callie saw Emily tighten her lips. Her smile was beginning to look like a grimace.
“But I just got here,” Callie said, with a nervous laugh. “I don’t want to be rude.”
“Oh, go,” Marta cajoled. “Besides, I have some foundation business I need to speak to Finn and Emily about before the party starts.”
“Go right ahead, dear,” Emily said, recovering her composure. “We’ll all have a few drinks in your absence and be much more polite to each other upon your return.”
“This is a bit awkward, don’t you think?” Callie said as Paul held the car door for her.
“What is?”
“All of this. Marta pawning me off on you.”
“Don’t be silly. I’m delighted to have your company.”
Paul helped her into the old MG, its windows open, and then walked around to get in and start the engine. Callie struggled with her seat belt. “It sticks a bit,” he told her, and reached over to free it, pulling the belt out and buckling it in one quick motion, his arm brushing against her, sending a chill she hadn’t expected. They headed back down the magnificent driveway.
“Your father certainly seems to disapprove of the woman we’re going to see,” Callie said. “I’m guessing that’s part of the reason we’re going.”
He grinned. “If only it were that simple.”
“I guess nothing is that simple,” she said.
“You’d be right about that.” Paul pulled the car onto Route 127 and gunned the engine. By the time she rolled her window up, any chance Callie’d had of keeping her wild hair tamed was swept away by the wind and damp salt air.