Chapter 21
The next time Maxwell came over, Hazel was already sitting on the porch, taking careful notes from a pile of assorted research materials.
She’d worked out a sort of system over the few days since she’d lost her laptop: looking up references on her phone, sending the links to her email, then printing out the articles at the library when she went in to check out books.
It was costing her a small fortune in change—Dawsonville might get the funds to switch the library printer to card payment sometime in the next ten years, if it was lucky—and Jess was very tactfully not asking questions, but so far it worked.
Putting the laptop’s explosion together with what had happened to Chapman’s TV had also given her another angle to investigate, though the occult lore on electronics specifically was even scarcer than reliable occult lore in general.
Hazel had branched out, deciding a wider grounding in how the things worked might help, and ended up diligently highlighting an article about radio and TV broadcasting.
“Huh,” she said.
The language of Creation was supposed to have a lot of power, though none of Hazel’s sources had gone into detail about exactly what kind or how to use it.
They certainly hadn’t mentioned whether background radiation counted.
Proximity to the ethereal seemed like it could magnify any effects if it did, but if wasn’t a great foundation for a strategy.
Still, it couldn’t hurt to write it down. Hazel put down the article, reached for her notebook, and saw a tall, well-dressed man amble down the road.
Hazel hadn’t been able to justify putting on really nice clothes, even casual ones, or makeup.
That would have seemed too much like waiting for Maxwell.
She’d finished most of the War of Interior Decoration, though, so she’d come out to the porch in white linen shorts and a blue sleeveless top printed with sunflowers, hair neatly combed.
She waved, trying to look casual, even while she felt her heart speed up.
Don’t read too much into it. He’s dropping by on his way to bird-watching, not serenading you under your window.
Except, as he got closer, she saw that he carried a bottle.
* * *
“By way of welcome to the neighborhood, and in thanks for getting me out from underfoot.”
Hazel blinked at him. “She made me wine?”
“Well, it’s from last year’s batch. I hope wine’s all right—I hadn’t considered you might be teetotal. Awfully sorry if you are.” Maxwell, already uncertain, looked downright alarmed.
“No, no, that’s…that’s kind of amazing. Please tell her thank you. And she’s welcome over here too, of course.”
Relief visibly hit Maxwell like a pile driver. “I’ll pass the word along. Deidre’s not really the bird-watching type. Doesn’t get out much in general, I fear. Still, she’ll be touched you offered.”
“Would you like a glass?” It was sunny on the porch, warm but not too muggy, and Hazel was pretty sure she could risk half an hour outside in company without any really bizarre manifestations.
“Ah, well.” Maxwell glanced off to the side and ran his fingers through his tawny hair. “Now that I’ve fretted about you, I, ah, should admit that I don’t really drink wine. So to speak. Not a vampire, I promise.”
Hazel giggled. “Good to know. I’ve got some Diet Coke or water too—and I can have that if you’d rather not be around people who drink. But I don’t want to keep you.”
“Not at all. I’m quite at my leisure today, a fizzy drink would be lovely, and you should absolutely try the wine. If you’d like. No pressure, but it would be nice to get your opinion.”
“I’ll be right back, then,” said Hazel, picking up her research materials. “Make yourself comfortable.”
“Glad to lend a hand,” he said, stepping forward to open the door for her in an act of chivalry that brought him close.
Hazel shook her head. This time, she’d actually come up with a story, or at least a palatable version of the truth. “No, thank you. The project I’m working on is a little private, and my research is everywhere. Nice of you to offer, though.”
“Think nothing of it.” Maxwell’s eyes sparkled at her when he smiled. “I’ll just bide my time and wonder whether you’re a detective or a spy.”
“That’s on a need-to-know basis,” she told him with pretend solemnity, and listened to his laughter as she headed for the kitchen.
Two glasses and a can of Diet Coke made a burdensome handful, and the wineglass stems were thin, so she regretted that she couldn’t take Maxwell up on his offer.
He opened the door for her again, though, then smoothly plucked the glasses from her hands.
“Let me,” he said, fingers brushing over hers and sending tingles of sensation through her.
“Not to impugn your grace, of course.”
“Impugn away. I gave up on being a ballerina when I was ten.” Hazel laughed a little breathlessly.
Maxwell held the glasses up to the sunlight, turning them one way and another so that the faceted bases became a series of prisms. “They’re beautiful,” he said, “but I didn’t mean to make you get out your best.”
“Honestly, I’m glad to have an excuse. They were one of the few wedding presents I kept—just about the only one from people who actually knew my taste—and my life’s been disappointingly short on elegant dinner parties.”
“A shame. Well, in principle. In practice, some of them are deadly boring.” Maxwell folded himself down onto the step as he talked. His grace caught Hazel’s attention again: Unlike some tall men, he seemed almost to flow from one position to another. “You’re married?”
That was a normal question when somebody mentioned a wedding gift and didn’t have an obvious spouse around. If Hazel thought he might have sounded more than idly curious, that might have been her bias.
“Divorced, about six years ago, and pretty amiable. The paperwork was almost the worst part.”
“Not exactly sure what one says here,” Maxwell admitted, putting the glasses down and taking the bottle from her. His grin was awkward, apologetic, and pretty adorable. “I’m glad it went smoothly, and that you got a pretty set of glasses from the whole ordeal.”
“That’s basically how I feel,” said Hazel. “And that hell will freeze over before I change my name again. I seriously considered putting a curse on the whole RMV at one point, not that it would have made much difference.”
Maxwell opened the wine, very deftly for a man who didn’t drink, while Hazel handled the can of Diet Coke. Each of them pouring for the other gave the whole process an oddly ceremonial feel.
The wine was much brighter than she was used to, a pinkish-gold that almost glowed in the noon sun. The smell of peaches was very strong. “To new friends,” said Hazel, and lifted her glass. That was both really cliché and the only toast she could think of right then.
Embarrassment made her first sip larger than it would have been normally.
It filled her mouth, cold and sweet, tasting like peaches and cinnamon and another ingredient she couldn’t quite name.
She could barely detect the alcohol underneath, though it warmed her throat and stomach almost instantly when she swallowed.
“Wow,” she said. “Dangerous.”
Maxwell’s chuckle was a quick, rich ripple. “I ought to have warned you. She’s the bane of Christmas dinner.”
“Somebody has to be,” said Hazel, slightly giddy.
Even such a strong wine wouldn’t get her drunk in one sip, but the rush of sensation left her oddly aware of everything else around her.
The wooden plank was suddenly warmer and harder under her thighs, the sky was a more piercing shade of blue, and the smell of earth and grass a vivid background to the scent of peaches.
Maxwell only sat beside her and sipped his soda, but she noticed every small motion, every time his lips touched the glass.
Down, girl.
The natural suspicion rose up in her mind. Hazel examined it for a moment, then pushed it away. He wasn’t the one who’d suggested a drink, and she didn’t feel drugged at all. If anything, she was more awake than normal.
Still, she was probably better off pacing herself.
Low and slow, like they’d said in college, although Hazel wasn’t sure low was on the table any longer.
She lowered the glass to her lap and cupped her hand around the base.
“It’s delicious. I’ll have to return the favor sometime, though I’m afraid mine won’t be handmade. ”
“It’d be a bit much if she expected everyone to make their own wine. Even for Susan.”
“I don’t really make much by hand at all. I guess brownies if the boxed kind count.” She’d made her runes herself, but she didn’t want to bring up mediumship just yet. That was a cowardly impulse, and she was going to indulge it anyway. “Macaroni and cheese.”
“A well-balanced diet. Not that I have a leg to stand on—though I used to do a decent beans and toast.”
“With our powers combined, we…still need green vegetables.”
“I suppose absinthe doesn’t qualify,” said Maxwell, theatrically put-upon, and Hazel giggled again. The faint breeze tousled her hair like a massage, and she relaxed under its touch—and the wine, of course. She took another small, cautious sip.
“How have you been holding up out here?” Maxwell asked.
Not bad, except for the hauntings came to mind, and Hazel squashed the thought.
Sitting on the porch beside him made confiding seem easy.
Maxwell was mostly a stranger, though. She didn’t need him spreading stories that would bring people over to gawk, and she didn’t want to hear him laugh when she mentioned ghosts or see contempt creep into his expression.
“Not too bad,” she said, and shifted to a slightly more comfortable position on the stairs. “The solitude has been an adjustment, but I’m getting used to it. I never was a Times-Square-at-midnight kind of girl.”
“Oh?” He tilted his head, smiling. “What kind of girl are you?”
The possible meanings of the question made Hazel flush. She eyed Maxwell, trying to figure out what he’d intended, and defaulted to the innocent interpretation when she couldn’t decide. “The old movies and cookies kind, I guess. I know it sounds boring.”
“You’re talking to a bird-watcher, Miss Lewis.”
“Hazel.”
“Hazel.” Since diet soda wasn’t the kind of thing you had to drink slowly, Maxwell had finished his. He set the glass carefully to one side. “And when I’m not tramping about in other people’s woods, I sit around and read. I also play the piano, but not very excitingly.”
“I took flute lessons for three years, but I wouldn’t want anybody I liked to hear me now. And I wasn’t very exciting back then.” Hazel sipped her wine once more, then set her own glass aside—plenty of time to finish it later.
“Did you like to play?”
“It was all right. The playing itself, I mean. People got really competitive about the recitals—or our parents did. Even when there wasn’t any official ranking, if one of us missed a note, you could bet everyone else would notice. And talk.”
Maxwell winced sympathetically. “My parents didn’t take that much interest, thank God, but I’ve seen the jostling for rank. Unpleasant business, especially when they rope in the children.”
“Mm-hmm.”
The wine’s initial rush had settled down, but Hazel’s perception remained sharper than normal. Each tree stood out against a vividly blue sky, and when a red shape zipped from a pine to one of the maples, she tracked it. “Is that a cardinal, do you think?” she asked, pointing.
Maxwell shifted closer to follow her gesture, his thigh nearly brushing against hers, and just the proximity tugged at Hazel’s heightened senses. She shifted restlessly on the step.
“Good eye,” said Maxwell, raising the binoculars. “Tanager, I think. Darker wings. Harder to see those from a distance, though. He’s a big one.”
“How—oh, right, only the males get to be flashy.”
“It’s more dangerous,” Maxwell pointed out. He lowered the binoculars and faced Hazel again, his face much closer than it had been before, and the sun turned his long lashes into fire. “Though some would say beauty’s worth a bit of risk.”
“Would you?” Hazel asked, her voice falling.
He answered in the same low tone. “Every life has risk. We all hurt, we all die. Might as well get some enjoyment out of our time here.”
“You make a good point,” said Hazel, and leaned forward to kiss him.