Witch Woman Page 5

  The shelves for her inventory had been positioned a mere two hours before the truck arrived the day before with the first major delivery. Motioning the driver to the back door, Maggie stood aside as he rolled in a dolly piled high with boxes. Under her direction he stacked them along the floor and against the walls. After his sixth and last trip, she handed him a cold bottle of water and watched him drive away. Closing the door against the February chill, she hugged herself and laughed with pure joy at the path her life had taken. "Thank you, Mom," she said out loud.

  The next day she was still only halfway through her task. Surrounded by vitamins, herbs, tinctures, salves, soaps, candles, lotions, incense sticks, books, and colorful skeins of yarn, each on its way to being arranged according to its effectiveness in treating a particular ailment: Comfrey cream, St. John's wort and calendula ointment for chapped skin, licorice extract, marigold and rosemary for hair loss, Echinacea, ginger and elder flowers for the common cold, chamomile, valerian and elderberry for insomnia. Herbs would be kept cool and dry in ceramic jars with secure lids. Teas, loose and bagged, would be in a display near the entrance beside the colored teapots and delicate porcelain cups.

  She closed her eyes briefly, imagining the relief she would bring, soothing her customers in a room with a comfortable sectional done up in cool blues and greens, facing the fireplace, a footstool, a wing-back chair, maybe a low apothecary table and, of course, Muffin, her cat, stretched out in feline ecstasy on an elegantly faded Persian carpet.

  Completely absorbed in her daydream, at first she didn't hear the tapping at the door nor did she notice the man peering into her window. Finally, realizing that the tapping was too consistent to be rain, she saw him, scrambled to her feet and opened the door. He wore a thick fisherman's sweater that added width to his shoulders and faded blue jeans that hung loosely on his lean frame. Raindrops had flattened his hair and wet his cheeks. "Goodness," she said. "I'm sorry. I didn't hear you. Please, come in out of the rain."

  He smiled cheerfully and stepped inside, shaking off the moisture. He held out his hand. Maggie shook it.

  "I'm Scott Hillyard, your neighbor. I live next door." He looked around. "You're setting up shop."

  It was a statement, not a question. "Yes."

  He looked at the candles, the teapots, the incense sticks. "Is it a gift shop?"

  "It's a health food store for home remedies."

  His smile faded, the blue eyes narrowed. "Are you a licensed practitioner?"

  Maggie shook her head. "Nothing like that. I'm good with herbs, vitamins and occasional home remedies. I leave serious medicine to the professionals."

  He crossed his arms. "I'm glad to hear it."

  Maggie knew body language. "Why is that?"

  "I've seen plenty of damage done by homeopaths. Desperate people will believe anything. They're in denial when a doctor diagnoses a serious medical condition. A practitioner promises something impossible and they believe it, sometimes at the expense of treatment that could prolong life."

  "You're talking about cancer."

  "Cancer, heart disease, childhood immunizations, all of them."

  Maggie smiled and changed the subject. "I'm Maggie McBride. You're wet. Would you like a cup of tea?"

  "As long as it isn't herbal."

  "I might be able to manage that."

  A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Lead the way."

  He followed her into the main house and sat down at the small table in the kitchen nook. A green glass pitcher filled with gorse and golden rod brought out the yellows and greens in the window curtains.

  Maggie found green placemats and, standing on her toes, reached for a tin of cookies on top of the refrigerator. She arranged a handful on a plate, set it on the table, turned on the flame under a copper tea kettle and unceremoniously dumped her cat from the remaining chair to the rag rug beneath the table. "Sorry, Muffin. It's either you or me, and I'm pulling rank." She smiled sunnily at Scott. "What did you say you do for a living?"

  "I didn't say." He looked embarrassed. "I'm a doctor, of internal medicine."

  She looked at him steadily. He was young, not even forty. He couldn't have been in practice all that long. "It would be ridiculous to even entertain the notion that a medical doctor would be concerned about competition for clients from an herbalist, wouldn't it?"

  "It certainly would."

  "Then I can only assume you've had a negative experience."

  "Like I said, I've seen plenty of irreversible damage done by people who eschew medical treatment for home remedies."

  The kettle whistled. Maggie jumped up, peeled the Lipton sleeve from one of the teabags, set it in a squat mug and poured boiling water over it. Repeating the process with an herbal brand, she set both on the table and took her place across from Scott. "You do know, don't you, that herbal medicine is the oldest form of healing known to mankind, and that four billion people, eighty percent of the population, currently use alternative medicine for some form of primary health care, and that substances derived from plants remain the basis for a huge proportion of commercial medications approved by the Food and Drug Administration?"

  He leaned forward. "I have no objection to people buying Echinacea to prevent colds and flu, or drinking Sleepy Time tea on a bad night. But when you people pretend to have a cure for cancer, blocked arteries, even asthma, you're out of your league. If you could see your way toward sending me head and stomach aches as well, I'd really appreciate it."

  Maggie sipped her tea. "I hate to split hairs, but I'm not a homeopath. I don't deal in the law of similars, I don't dispense sugar pills and I promise to send anyone with a serious symptom your way. I don't practice medicine of any kind."

  He looked startled. "Thank you," he said, after a minute.

  "Don't forget about foxglove."

  "I haven't forgotten foxglove. I know perfectly well that millions of heart patients are kept alive because of it. I also know that no one other than a licensed medical doctor has any business prescribing it. We've come a long way from blood-letting."

  "Vaccinations can be dangerous."

  "The benefits outweigh the risks. For every child who comes down with polio, there are two hundred thousand who never will." He reached for a cookie. "Funny. I wouldn't have taken you for the alternative medicine type."

  "Why not?"

  "You look—" he frowned.

  She prompted him. "I look—"

  "I don't know." He spoke carefully. "Grounded comes to mind. Professional is probably the better word, although it's not entirely what I meant."

  Maggie stared at him, wondering why it was so hard to get past his eyes and why she'd bothered to engage him for so long. He wasn't exactly ordinary, but certainly not handsome either. He was taller than average with long arms and legs and the kind of leanness that comes from a legacy of missed meals. His nose was the prominent feature on a skull shaped by sharp, jutting bones. He had thick light hair, and excellent teeth, straight and very white, the kind toothpaste commercials promoted. His eyes, blue-green, clear and penetrating, were by far his finest feature. Those eyes inspired trust. Unlike most who engaged in the give and take of conversation, he never broke eye contact. Even more unusual, he didn't exhibit the least bit of anxiety when she did the same. Maggie was distracted, so much so that she nearly lost the thread of dialogue, almost, but not quite. "I'm taking that as a compliment, even though it was backhanded and I'll ignore the slur against my chosen profession."

  Scott laughed and stretched out his legs. "Tell me about yourself. Have you always been interested in alternative medicine?"

  Always, what was it about that word that left her tongue-tied? What did always really mean? How far back was always? Maggie couldn't remember a time when she wasn't interested in learning about the wildflowers, shrubs and herbs springing up along roads and in fields around the various places where she'd lived with Annie. It had taken no effort at all to memorize their names and from there it was a short leap
to experimenting with their healing potential. For Maggie it wasn't alternative medicine at all. It was the way she lived, the way she preferred to live. Was there any point in explaining to a man who obviously held natural remedies in contempt? "I'm not all that interesting," she replied. Usually at this point in the conversation, most men began checking their watches. Maggie refused to wait for that. "I don't want to keep you," she said quickly. "I'm sure you have lots to do."

  "Actually, Sunday is my day off, but I can take a hint." He smiled and stood. "We're neighbors, so I'm sure I'll see you now and again." He nodded at the cat curled up on the window ledge. "My daughter will take one look at that cat and never leave you alone."

  "You have a daughter?"

  He nodded. "Holly is nine years old. Her mother and I share custody. Because I'm closer to Holly's school, she spends Monday through Friday with me."

  "I look forward to meeting her."

  Again Scott grinned. "Please tell me if she makes a nuisance of herself. She's pretty talkative, and she loves animals."

  Maggie nodded. "We're two of a kind, when it comes to loving animals, I mean."

  He extended his hand. "Nice meeting you."

  "You, too," she said, reaching across the space that separated them. "Feel free to visit whenever you run out of Lipton."

  His lips twitched. "I'll do that. Goodbye, Maggie."

  She closed the door behind him and glanced down. Muffin was rubbing against her leg. She picked up the cat and began stroking rhythmically under her chin. "Not the most auspicious of circumstances, to be living next door to a doctor, is it, Muffin?

  Typically silent, the cat stared back, the golden eyes unreadable.

  "Well, too bad. This time we're not going anywhere. He'll have to get used to us." Setting the cat on the floor, she picked up the folder with her to-do list and flipped through the binder. A name leaped out at her: Laurie Cabot, resident witch of Salem, Wicca high priestess.

  "I haven't forgotten you," she whispered, tracing the name with her forefinger. "As soon as I'm settled, I'll be in touch."

  Chapter 6

  Scott Hillyard walked through his miniscule garden, or what would have served as one if even a spot of greenery had peeked through the concrete and slate. Plants did nothing for him and with his medical practice and caring for Holly, the bother of weeding and pruning, sunlight and frostbite worries was something he had never considered taking on. A wooden shed containing tools for minor home repairs and a bird feeder hanging precariously on a rain gutter were the only distractions marring the cold blankness of wall-to-wall hardscape.

  Before Penny moved out, the space had been filled with colorful pots sporting greenery with unpronounceable Latin names, and bower vines with trailing tentacles that wrapped themselves around and over a patio cover, forming a leafy arbor for spring picnics and summer barbecues. Shrubs of various sizes grew in planters beside curved stone pathways and Holly, then a toddler, had raced her tricycle around and around until she was dizzy.

  He shook off the memory and opened the door leading in to the kitchen, glancing at the clock and then at the answer machine. The light wasn't blinking. Penny was already forty minutes late which meant that by her standards she wasn't late at all and he wouldn't expect her for at least another hour. Hopefully, she would have remembered to feed Holly.

  Scanning the contents of the refrigerator, he settled for a block of cheese and a ginger ale. The cupboard afforded a handful of wheat crackers. Finding a plate, he carried his bounty into the living room, decided against the ball game on television and picked up a news magazine. Within minutes, he'd lost interest. The silence disturbed him. He missed Holly. He always missed her when she visited her mother, but today the lack of her was especially noticeable. He didn't miss Penny.

  With a sense of relief he looked around the room with its spare furnishings, gleaming wood floors and clutter-free shelves. Penny was a collector, a pack rat of the worst kind. She lived to acquire. Blinded by lust and the novelty of a personality he once considered spontaneous and now realized was lacking in direction, Scott hadn't seen it as a problem until too late. He'd rationalized that the junk piled high in her small apartment allowing for barely maneuverable pathways would be rectified by larger living quarters.

  Soon after their marriage he'd found that no matter how large her space was, she would fill it. Mounds of clothing, washed and unwashed, filled every available seating area. The additional closets, even the spare rooms he'd added, didn't help. Neither did the long, painful discussions, the therapy sessions or their eventual separation. Her bank account was a disaster and bounced checks the norm. The pantry, garage, even dresser drawers, were stockpiled with canned and paper goods, spice and sauce envelopes, vitamins, herbal remedies, tonic cans, cases of bottled water and the leftovers from yard sales that no one else wanted.

  Because of Holly and Kyle he'd stayed, accepting the disorder, attempting to rationalize the chaos. But when Kyle, only six months old, came down with a simple strep infection, the kind babies recover from all the time, when all she had to do was give him antibiotics in a dropper four times a day but didn't, when her cluttered mind had so mirrored her cluttered environment that she'd cost them their son, he was finished. He made sure that Holly was finished, too, except for weekend visits. Penny was allowed visitation, from Saturday morning through Sunday evening, not long enough for anything serious to become life-threatening. Now his ex-wife's clutter was elsewhere. He still paid for it. Dearly, he paid for it, but it was worth every dollar.

  Absent-mindedly, Scott rubbed the last of his crackers into crumbs, picked up the plate and carried it into the kitchen where he rinsed and stacked it in the dishwasher. He'd introduced himself to Maggie McBride because it was the right thing to do, because it was obvious she was working on a Sunday and no one else was helping lift boxes or move heavy furniture. Not that she had much of that. Her house was sparsely furnished, stream-lined enough so that Scott, who preferred less rather than more, was surprised. Women usually had things, knick-knacks, possessions that revealed a personal style. Other than her cat, a complicated sense of humor, enough intelligence to intrigue him and a regrettable penchant for natural medicine, Maggie McBride emitted no revealing clues as to what kind of a neighbor she would be. She was lovely, even with her unusual mutation. Usually, attractive woman were flirtatious. Maggie McBride wasn't the slightest bit flirtatious. Her hair was a glorious color, somewhere between brown and red, cinnamon hair, thick and wavy and her skin was good, ivory-colored and clear, making it difficult to guess her age. She could be twenty-five or ten years older. A single dark freckle marked the corner of her mouth. The next time he saw her he would remind her to get it checked out. Appealing or not, untreated moles could be dangerous.

  * * *

  Penny's Subaru slowed to a stop in front of the house. Holly hopped out of the car and ran through the door, dropping a quick kiss on Scott's cheek on the way to her room. "Hi, Daddy. I forgot to bring my homework to Mom's. What's for dinner?"

  Penny stood in the doorway, holding Holly's overnight bag. "I'm sorry she hasn't eaten. I sort of forgot all about it and she didn't say anything."

  Scott removed the bag from Penny's grip. "No problem. I'll make her something." He did not invite her in.

  "I guess I'll be going now." She raised her voice. "Bye, Holly. See you next week. Love you."

  Small feet sounded on the wood floor. Holly, slim and straight as a deer rifle, skipped across the room and threw her arms around her mother. "I love you, too." Then, she turned, waved at her father and once again disappeared into her bedroom.

  Penny showed no signs of leaving. She stood in the doorway balancing on one foot and then the other. Her eyes were very bright. "I was wondering," she began and stopped.

  Scott waited.

  "Do you have any wine?"

  Carefully, he set Holly's bag beside the door. "I may have some white in the refrigerator."

  "No red?"

  He wasn't
about to share an entire bottle with her. "None opened."

  Her look said it all. "I'll have some white." Following him into the kitchen, she settled into a chair, curling one leg beneath her.

  Scott poured half a glass of wine and handed it to her. "What's going on, Penny?"

  Her dark eyes were very bright. "You didn't say anything about my hair. Do you like it?"

  For the first time, he noticed the uneven, pixie cut framing her small face like a dark cap. "Very nice."

  "I thought it would make me look more professional."

  Mechanically, he nodded.

  Penny swallowed her wine in a single gulp. "I lost my job."

  Scott closed his eyes briefly. "Again?"

  "I know what you're thinking," she said hastily, "but it wasn't my fault."

  "It never is."

  "That's not fair, Scott. You don't even know what happened."

  He leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. "We've been divorced for five years, Penny. It isn't any of my business. I've told you before, I'd like to keep our personal lives separate."

  Penny bit a chapped pink lip. "I only told you because I'll need some help with my rent. I've already filed for unemployment. That should cover food, utilities and other expenses, but I can't make the rent."

  "How much more will you need?"

  "Twelve hundred a month."

  He looked startled. "That much?"

  She hung her head. "It's not as if you can't afford it," she muttered.

  "I can afford it, if I cut back. But I already give you a healthy spousal support check. Where does all of it go?"

  She opened her mouth, stopping when he held up his hand. "Never mind. Don't tell me. I'll give you the money."

  She stood. "I probably won't need it for long. I have interviews already."

  He nodded. "I'm glad to hear that."

  She fidgeted with her purse. "I really appreciate this, Scott. I know you don't have to do this. You could easily let me sink or tell me to move to a cheaper apartment. I probably deserve everything you're thinking, but I just can't stand the idea of not having a decent place for Holly. It's hard enough not seeing her every day."