Chapter 5
He kissed me today!
It was like twirling in the hollow, arms spread wide, until I fall down with dizziness. My heart beat so fast, like a tiny bird about to drop from excitement.
He tasted of sage leaves, summer mead, and sunshine. My hands smelt of garlic from making another poultice of yarrow. But he said he didn’t mind.
“You understand me,” he uttered in his deep, melodic voice.
He shared his dream of being an artist. But his father wants him to go into the family business of banking. I commiserated with him, even though I didn’t really understand. I’ve always been fated to be a wisewoman.
Patience Calloway mentored my mother before me. And Mother passed the lessons down. But I reveled in our stolen moments.
Present Day
Her face was so expressive.
After only a short time in her presence, he knew she didn’t realize how much she gave away. Maybe if he hadn’t known the history of this house and her ancestor, he might have missed the signs. But she was uncomfortable in the old Briggs house.
It was strange because he felt as if the structure was welcoming him.
He needed to go to the hotel and pore over the videos, searching for any possible hiding places for a hex bag.
The space behind the brick hadn’t yielded anything.
The story of the Briggs family betrayal had been passed down from generation to generation. The legend of being cursed had followed even after they had changed their last name and moved west.
Changing their name hadn’t helped. The Bridges family had been unlucky in love for centuries. Deaths and divorces had followed his ancestors. When his sister’s fiancé left her, she became obsessed with the curse.
Honestly, he’d assumed it was just some weird fiction to explain away bad luck.
But his sister believed.
It had been a long day, full of several surprises, not the least of which was Mercy Finch’s descendent helping him. He should go right back to the inn. Instead he gave in to the desire to spend more time with her.
“You want to grab a drink?”
“Me?”
She sounded so surprised. She was beautiful, her kindness lighting her up from the inside out.
“To thank you for taking time out of your evening.”
Night had fallen while they’d been inside; the black sky was full of stars. The streets in this section of town had minimal lights. Her face was bathed in shadows. For a moment, it almost appeared as if another image overlaid hers, a woman with longer hair and clothing from a different century.
Zane shivered, ghostly fingers running down his spine.
She looked up as if contemplating the night stars for the proper answer. “Sure.”
“The stars tell you I was safe?”
“Safe?” She smiled at him, her eyes sparkling. “No.”
She sauntered away.
“Wait!” Panic clawed at his throat. He wanted to reach out and grab her arm. But he wouldn’t touch her without permission. “You know I wouldn’t hurt you, right?”
Her gaze turned knowing. “Not intentionally.”
“You still want to get a drink?”
“Yes.”
Her decisive response eased his apprehension. He wasn’t ready to leave her presence, even knowing that nothing could ever come of this connection.
He lived in California. His family had been responsible for her ancestress’s death. They were cursed.
“Let’s go.” She grabbed his hand. Electricity arced between them as if a grounding wire had come loose.
“Whoa.” She didn’t drop his hand; she held on more tightly. “That was… unexpected.”
He linked his fingers with her. “Not really.” She had to feel it, right? This bond that seemed to grow with every second they spent together.
He didn’t want to leave her.
A sense of coming home settled through him. “Where are we going?”
“The Hex and Hearth.”
They walked down the street in silence. The sidewalks were still busy with tourists and locals bustling along. But as if Zane and Mercy had some sort of invisibility cloak around them, no one stopped to talk. Plenty of people smiled and waved, but that was it.
Mercy pushed open the thick wooden door to the tavern he’d noticed when he’d checked in. The Hex & Hearth was right next door to the Tidal Inn.
The warm, intimate interior smelled of wood smoke, beeswax candles, and the sweet scent of whiskey. A bar ran along one wall. Behind the bar, shelves reached toward the ceiling, dense with bottles in jewel-toned glass, ceramic crocks, and bundles of dried herbs.
A massive stone hearth, large enough to walk into, dominated the opposite wall. The seating was a mix of high-backed wooden booths, a scatter of mismatched chairs and small tables, and a long communal table near the hearth.
Dried herbs, sea glass mobiles, and iron lanterns hung from the exposed wooden beams overhead. She led him to a table in the corner, far away from where the three-piece band would set up.
“What do you want to drink?” He would order at the bar.
“A Finch 75.” She smiled.
The atmosphere of the bar wrapped around him like a warm blanket. So strange. This was the third time since arriving where it felt as if the building was welcoming him.
He was a practical guy. He dealt in buildings, in permanence. Not fits of fancy or imagined acceptance.
Zane stood at the bar, waiting for the bartender to serve him. The mysterious man, dark hair pulled back at the nape, moved with an innate sensuality. He glanced at Zane and then Mercy, studying her for a moment. He dipped his chin. In approval? That was strange.
“What can I get you?”
“The lady will have a Finch 75.”
The bartender’s lips quirked.
“I’ll try the Whale’s Tail Ale.”
“Not this time.” He grabbed a shaker, the light catching a silver ring with what appeared to be an ancient symbol. “You’ll want the Finch as well.”
Zane blinked. Did the bartender just tell him he wouldn’t serve him the ale? “I’d really prefer an ale. Not much of a gin guy.”
“You’ll want this cocktail.” He set to pouring the alcohol into a metal shaker. “Have a seat, and I’ll bring them over.”
Zane shrugged and went back to the table.
Mercy leaned forward and propped her elbows on the tabletop. “What do you think of the town?”
Her sweater gaped just enough to tease the shadow between her breasts.
Suddenly a vision of burying his face between them popped into his mind. His body responded to the very inappropriate visual. Heat rose in his face. He absolutely should not be thinking about her that way.
“The bartender just told me what I’m having to drink.” He still couldn’t quite wrap his head around that.
“Rowan?” She laughed, like the chimes in his sister’s backyard when the wind flowed through them. “That means he likes you.”
“Have you always lived here?” Zane derided himself. Silly question since her ancestress died here, but if he were just some random guy looking at a house, he wouldn't know that.
If he told her he knew about the original Mercy Finch, he’d come off as a stalker.
Mercy surprised him by answering, “No, not always.” She made a face.
“That was an interesting face.” She was so freaking expressive. “Why?”
“My father moved us away when I was a kid. He didn't like it here.”
“But the town is so charming, close to Boston, right on the water, lots of history.”
“All true.” She nodded. “He didn’t like a lot of things.”
“There’s a story there.”
“My father never approved of me.” Her smiled slipped. “Even when I tried my hardest to be the best I could.” She fluttered her hands in front of her face. “Sorry. Way too much information from a near stranger.”
She didn’t feel like a stranger.
“What about your mother?”
“She took my dad’s side.” And left her out in the cold was implied.
The bartender interrupted their conversation and set down the drinks, lemon yellow liquid in a coupe glass garnished with a sprig of sugared rosemary.
Rowan glanced between the two of them and said cryptically, “Welcome home.”
Home? He must have been talking to Mercy.
“Thanks, Rowan.”
“My pleasure.” He sauntered back to the bar.
They lifted their cocktails at the same time. “Cheers.”
Zane took a sip. Huh, this was actually pretty good.
“You like it?”
Surprised. “I do. It’s…unique.” Like her.
The sprig of rosemary on Mercy’s glass started flickering with tiny flames.
What the hell? Why did it combust like that? He grabbed his napkin and made sure that the smoking rosemary was extinguished.
She fluttered her hands around her drink nervously.
“Should we let them know there's something wrong with the rosemary?”
“Oh, uh, no, I’m sure it’s fine. Don't worry about it.” She glanced away as if embarrassed.
Zane shrugged. Must have been a fluke.
“My parents divorced when my sister and I were fourteen.” Zane blurted out to distract her. “They both remarried, and somehow, neither one took us in the split.”
Years later, and it still stung.
“That must have been rough.”
“Luckily, Abby and I had each other. We’ve always been tight.”
“That’s lovely,” she said wistfully. “I was an only child. But I always had books. They never let you down.”
He stared into her gorgeous eyes, connecting on what felt like a soul level. The intensity hit them both at the same time, and he pulled his gaze from hers.
“That’s how I feel about buildings. They last.”
“Especially in a town like this.”
“You moved back,” he said.
“Have you ever been to a place where you were drawn to the land for inexplicable reasons?” She flushed and looked away. “Like you belong there?”
He thought about his life in California. About how lately he'd felt wrong in his own skin, as if he should be somewhere else. Then he thought about walking into the bookstore, bumping into her, and having the sense of coming home. About how the town and his ancestor's house seemed to welcome him.
“Lately, I haven’t felt quite right in California,” he told her, surprised that he'd share something so personal so quickly. “You're really easy to talk to, you know that?”
“How doesn’t your life feel right?”
“Like I’m in the wrong place, like I should be somewhere else.”
She nodded decisively. “I totally get that. That's why I moved back here, about ten years ago. My family is from here.”
Zane asked, “It was a good decision?”
“As soon as I did, everything settled.”
“Is that when you opened the bookstore?”
“No, the bookstore was my aunt's. It's been in my family for several hundred years.”
“Hundred?”
“Yes. Driftwood Pointe has always been a town of readers, a town of the educated. Or almost always.”
The witch trials. The first Mercy Finch. His ancestor’s role in her death.
“What's next with the house?” she asked brightly.
“I'll review the videos, make notes about what I think needs to be done to get it up to current standards, detail out a cost analysis of the renovations, and then approach the owners about buying the house.”
“That seems like an awful lot of work.”
He shrugged. “It's for my sister. I'd do anything for her.”
“She’s lucky to have you.”
Zane felt a bit guilty. He should have gone back to the hotel and worked on his estimates. But he hadn’t wanted to end the night just yet.
He’d have plenty of time to take care of Abby.
This time with Mercy was just for him.