Callie took a sip of tea.
“Just stay where you are for now,” Zee said.
“Besides,” Towner teased. “You wouldn’t want to leave Paul.”
Callie noticed every oak she passed on the drive back to Pride’s Crossing. Even without their leaves, they were easy to recognize. Their thick elephant-skin bark stood out. And Rose was right: Oaks did seem to stand alone. While other trees gathered together in groves, the oaks were solitary. Rose claimed that oaks “courted the strike.” That their solitary nature made them stand out, and, for that reason, they were more often struck by lightning. Was that true, or another of Rose’s delusions? Perhaps it was a more accurate description of Rose than of the trees, Callie mused. Rose had been standing alone for a long time, and her singular nature certainly courted trouble.
“Does anyone know where the phrase courting the strike originates?” Callie asked the Whitings at dinner that night. “Are oak trees known for this?”
No one knew the answer, but Finn said, “You aren’t taking up Rose’s practice of dendrolatry, I hope.”
“Dendrolatry?”
“Tree worshiping.”
“The oak has a special place in Celtic lore,” Paul told her when Finn went after another bottle of wine and was out of earshot. “But don’t mention Celtic connections to my father. He equates Celtic beliefs with Satanic ones.”
Callie sighed. “History casts a long shadow around here.”
They stayed for coffee and dessert. As the maid cleared the table, Emily stood up. Both Paul and Finn stood as well.
“I’m sorry to cut this short,” Emily said, “but I’m going upstairs. I’m exhausted.”
Emily did look tired. She and Finn had been in Boston all day for appointments with her doctors.
Finn walked Emily to the stairs, then came back to the table.
“How did it go today?” Paul asked his father.
“All right,” Finn said. “Nothing terribly new.” He walked out of the dining room and into the library. Callie could hear the elevator descending.
“Where’s he going?”
“To get more fortification, I expect. That’s how he handles difficult days. Let’s get out of here before he comes back,” Paul said.
“Yeah?”
“I assure you, he won’t even miss us.”
“Where to?”
“John Pizzarelli’s playing at Scullers tonight.”
“I heard Pizzarelli play the last time I was in New York,” she said.
“Does that mean you do or don’t want to go?”
She stood, giving him a thumbs-up. “It means I do.”
He smiled. They quietly walked out through the pantry just as Finn came back carrying a dusty bottle of Barolo.
They stayed at Scullers for two sets, then went to an after-hours place back in Beverly, a private smoky cellar club that smelled of weed and sold fancy desserts to those who’d smoked enough of it to require such exotics. Ann and her coven of young witches arrived as they were leaving. Ann kissed Paul hello, lingering before greeting Callie.
“Later,” she mouthed to Paul. He laughed but didn’t reply.
It took everything Callie had not to punch her.
Paul held the door, and Callie climbed into the car. He went around and got in, starting the engine. The lights popped on, illuminating the tangle of witches with Ann in the middle. Spotlighted, Ann turned and blew Paul a kiss.
“Unbelievable.” Callie glared at Ann.
“What?”
“How does she know we’re not on a date?”
“We’re not?” Paul feigned horror and disappointment.
“You know what I mean. How does she know we’re not involved?”
“She knows.”
Meaning what? “You talk to her about me?” Callie said, seething. Had Paul confided their relationship status to Ann? Or was this something Ann just knew, the same way she intuited all the other personal things she wasn’t supposed to know? Callie couldn’t decide which idea she hated more.
“What is this, high school?” His tone had an edge.
Maybe not back in high school, but certainly in college. Callie would have relished going head-to-head with Ann Chase over a guy. But not now. “I doubt Ann remembers her time in high school. It was so long ago.”
It had been a nice night, almost as if it were a date, but Ann Chase and her scary entourage had caused Callie’s mood to nose-dive.
They drove back to Pride’s Heart in silence. Instead of heading to the boathouse, Paul drove her directly to the main house, the tires crunching on the gravel driveway as he braked. The house was dark, the windows reflecting the black sky.
“Thank you for a lovely evening.” Callie didn’t hide her sarcasm. She rifled through her purse. “Damn it. I forgot my key.”
“I have a key,” Paul said calmly, but he made no effort to give it to her.
She started to open the passenger door. He reached across as if to unlock it, the same way he had that first day, only this time his hand didn’t reach for the door but lingered on her shoulder. He pulled her close.
“What are you doing?”
“What do you think?”
“Isn’t Ann waiting for you?”
“Shut up.”
He kissed her, then kissed her again, his arms tightening around hers. He pulled back until he was looking into her eyes, his lips barely touching hers, his breath sweet from the brandy and chocolate they’d shared at the club.
Immediately a light came on in a third-floor window and then in the hall.
He released her, reaching to open the door. Then he walked around to escort her up the steps, pulling out his key just as Darren opened the front door.
“High school.” He sighed, nodding to Darren as he started down the stairs.
“Good night,” she said.
At the bottom of the steps, Paul turned and flashed the killer grin.
If coming events are said to cast their shadow before, past events cannot fail to leave their impress behind them.
—HELENA BLAVATSKY
“I’m sorry to tell you, Rafferty, but it’s not any of them,” Mickey said. “It took me a while, but I went through each of their family trees. Twice. Not one of the Goddesses or Rose herself was related to Sarah Good. It has to be this Leah person. Do you have the mother’s name yet?”
“I’m working on it.”
“You’ve got to find another line, Rafferty. That one is sounding pretty lame.”
No, Rafferty thought, standing in the store, amid holiday decorations, with Mickey in his full pirate regalia, talking about the familial ancestry of the Goddesses was what was lame. Rafferty was frustrated. He’d reached a dead end.