Witch Woman Page 6

  "Don't do this."

  "I won't. I mean, I'm not." She sniffed. "I know I'm unfit. I blame myself for what happened. You have every right to treat me the way you do."

  "Stop it, Penny. You frame pictures in someone else's shop until seven o'clock at night. Holly's better off here with me."

  "I know, I know," she cried, rummaging through her purse.

  Scott reached behind her, pulled a tissue from the box and handed it to her. "Look," he said, his voice gentling. "Right now this works for Holly. When she's older, we'll reconsider. I don't want to take her from you. You can see her whenever you want. Maybe this is a good time to get some training. You're not exactly making it financially."

  She looked at him hopefully. "What would I do?"

  He shook his head. "I can't help you with that one. Think about it on the way home."

  "I'll see myself out. You're really good to me, Scott. Thank you."

  He was nothing of the sort, but a disclaimer would only lead to more conversation. He wanted to check on Holly, reconnect with her and come up with a meal before she had to go to bed. "Drive safely." Closing the door firmly and turning the lock, Scott went in search of his daughter. He found her at her desk, fingers gripping a pencil, the tip of her tongue tucked into the corner of her mouth, honey-brown curls spilling over her shoulder. "Hi, sweetheart."

  She looked up at him with those gray eyes that invalidated every Mendelian theory. "I'm doing my cursive. Miss Price says I'm getting better, but I need practice." She held out her paper. "See?"

  Scott bent over her desk, noting the uneven childish script with its rounded letters and smiled. "It looks great to me."

  Holly's eyebrows drew together. "It's not great, but it's better." The frown disappeared. "What's for dinner?"

  "How about grilled cheese and tomato soup?"

  She nodded, her expression pensive. "Mom was afraid to tell you she got fired."

  "I know."

  "I'm not afraid to tell you anything."

  Scott felt a rush of pure joy. "I'm glad to hear it."

  "That's because you're nice to me."

  "I love you."

  "Do you love Mom?"

  He knew what was coming and that flicker of doubt that came over him on occasion when he didn't know whether he was up to the job of parenting a little girl reared its head. "Not as much as I love you," he said carefully.

  Holly scratched her forehead with her pencil. "But you love her a little bit, right?"

  "I guess you could say that."

  "Then say it."

  Scott wondered if the truth, that he didn't love his ex-wife, probably had never loved her and if tomorrow she took a job in Ketchikan, Alaska he wouldn't be sorry to see her go, would traumatize the little girl who shared her gene pool. "Love is an important word, Holly. I'm not sure that I actually love your mother. I don't want anything bad to happen to her and I help her as much as I can because she's your mother and you love her."

  Holly sighed. "That's what she said about you."

  Scott could count the four times in their mutual lives that Penny had surprised him. The first was when she stalked into the ER during his internship and dumped the dinner she'd prepared for two onto a clean gurney, shouting bon appétit on the way out. The second was when she'd constructed a complicated cabinet complete with beveled glass panes after reading the directions through only once. The third was at Kyle's funeral. She gave a eulogy that was as brilliant as it was composed, almost as if she was someone else, someone other than the mother of a dead baby boy. This was the fourth. Who would have guessed that Penny and he shared a common thought? "If we're both in agreement, it's probably the way it really is. Okay?"

  "You didn't get mad at her about the job, right?"

  Relief that he hadn't and guilt over the way he almost had rose up in his chest. "No, I didn't."

  Holly grinned showing the gap where her permanent teeth were barely emerging. "How about that grilled cheese?"

  Scott straightened, pleased that the conversation had died a natural death. "Coming right up."

  In the kitchen, while assembling Holly's sandwich, he wondered, not for the first time, whether he'd failed Penny in some way, whether he was partially responsible for her slide into a lifestyle of disorder and deception. She'd been happy enough when he'd met her. She'd worked the graveyard shift in the video store he frequented. He'd come in after his rounds at the hospital and soon looked forward to conversations with the small, dark-haired girl who manned the cash register. She was definitely his type, petite, curvy with an optimism he appreciated and an unusual sense of the absurd. He'd ignored the red flags, there were plenty, and despite the subtle but unmistakable disapproval of his family, he pursued her. They were married a year later in the small white Congregational church that had seen the christenings and marriages of generations of Hillyards. That's when the trouble began. Very soon after the marriage, Penny lost her joy. She'd never had a passion to pursue a particular profession, but until they moved in together, she had hobbies and friends. He'd encouraged her to take art classes to improve her watercolor and sketching. Before the digital craze, he'd even added a dark room for her photos. She didn't sign up for a single class and, as far as he knew, never once used the dark room.

  Two years into their marriage, Holly was a complete surprise. Scott wanted to be finished with his residency before starting a family, but fate, and Penny's casual approach to taking the pill, changed things. With one child already, it seemed illogical to wait for too long before having a second. Kyle was born three years after Holly. Penny was a good mother. He felt confident leaving her in charge of their children while he put in the necessary hours to start his family practice.

  The turning point came when Kyle died. Scott had never felt such devastation. He wasn't spiritual, but he thought his medical background had prepared him to accept the natural order, the price of existence. It was almost more than he could manage to climb out of bed in the morning and face the day. Penny found a support group and begged him to come. He couldn't do it, couldn't talk about it, couldn't bring his emotions out of that dark place in his head, expose them to the prying eyes of others who'd experienced a similar pain without losing it. Above all, it was important to Scott to maintain, to continue, to wake up, to get through the day by working so many hours that by the time he fell into bed at night his mind and body were too exhausted to think at all. He'd turned away from his family, leaving Penny to cope alone, except for the obsessive phone calls he made on the hour to check on Holly. Penny could no longer be trusted. She'd lied to him and decided, on her own, to treat their child with homeopathic remedies that had no place in a country with an outstanding medical reputation, where people from all over the world came to be treated.

  He thought back over his conversation with Holly and his heart hardened. He hadn't failed Penny. It was she who'd failed him and no matter how he looked at it, no matter which way he turned the story and examined it, held it up to the mirror, rationalized that holding a grudge was as dangerous to the holder as to the recipient, he just couldn't get past it.

  Chapter 7

  Maggie, in the act of pulling the curtain closed against the chilly darkness, was distracted by a movement outside the window. A woman stood on the curb beside a late model Subaru. Maggie watched as she pulled up the collar of her coat and kicked what looked like a deflated tire. Then she opened the car door and climbed in.

  Wrapping a muffler around her neck, Maggie stepped outside, approached the car and knocked on the window. The woman glanced up, her dark eyes narrow and slightly fearful. Maggie waited for the inevitable and sure enough it came. The woman's gaze widened. She'd noticed Maggie's eyes. Curiosity replaced the fear.

  Smiling, Maggie motioned for her to roll the window down. "I noticed you have a flat tire." She gestured toward the saltbox on the corner lot. "I've just moved in. My name is Maggie McBride. Would you like to wait inside until someone comes to change it?"

  "No one's c
oming," the woman replied. "I'm Penny Hillyard and I left my cell at home."

  "Better come in and use my phone. I'll make tea. You can't wait out here. It's freezing."

  "Thank you. I'd like that."

  Maggie led her guest through the hallway into her cozy living room. The woman sat on one of the adjoining couches and stretched her hands toward the fire. "This feels wonderful. Thank you so much."

  "Help yourself to the phone. I'll put the kettle on." In the kitchen Maggie assembled a tray with a pot of boiling water, spoons, two mugs, a pitcher of milk and a dish of sugar cubes. Carrying it into the living room she set it on the coffee table. "Bad night for a flat. Did you make your call?"

  "I decided on a cab. Garages aren't open on Sunday night."

  Maggie sat down on the other couch and began pouring tea. "Triple A is a good idea, especially if you're alone."

  "Are you alone?" the woman asked.

  She handed her a tea-filled mug. "I've never married. My dad died when I was little and my mother not too long ago."

  "I'm sorry."

  "Thanks. What about you?"

  Penny forced herself to look away from that odd, penetrating gaze. "I have a daughter. She's nine years old. I was dropping her off. My ex-husband lives next door. You probably haven't met him. He's not the most sociable person."

  "He's the doctor," Maggie said, surprising her, "and your daughter's name is Holly."

  "Right." Penny looked embarrassed. "You're probably wondering why I didn't ask him for help."

  Maggie sipped her tea, scooted back into the couch cushions and tucked her legs beneath her.

  For some reason the gesture, informal and unpretentious, loosened Penny's tongue. "We don't get along. We were never very much alike but it's become really obvious since the divorce. He thinks I'm flighty and disorganized." She frowned. "He probably thinks I'm stupid." She blew into her tea, felt the heat on her cheeks, and glanced at Maggie. "You probably don't want to hear all of this."

  "I don't have any friends in Salem. It's nice to get past small talk right away."

  Encouraged, Penny continued. "We had another child, a baby boy. He died. Scott blames me. Kyle, our baby, was so sick. The antibiotic wasn't working. I tried a natural cure. He died." Her lip trembled. "It really wasn't my fault."

  Maggie pulled a T'issue from the box on the table and handed it to Penny. "I'm so sorry. How terrible for you and your family."

  "It's been six years." Penny blew into the T'issue. "I only cry when I talk about it. Holly doesn't remember him at all. I think that's the saddest part. It's as if he wasn't ever a person."

  "You must have pictures."

  "I do. Scott doesn't."

  "I see." Maggie looked thoughtful. "It explains why he's so opposed to natural remedies."

  Penny stared at her. "How did you manage to find that out so soon? Scott isn't big on self-disclosure."

  "He asked about my business."

  "Your business?"

  "I'm opening a natural remedies shop. It's called Nature's Way."

  "Good Lord." Penny's horror was genuine. "Are you actually going to go through with it?"

  "Why wouldn't I?"

  "Scott's practice is attached to the house. He's right next door."

  "I'm not following you. What has that got to do with me?"

  "If he doesn't want you here, he can be really difficult."

  Maggie set her cup down carefully, waited a minute and spoke. "He'll have to live with it," she said gently. "This was my mother's house. I inherited it and I'm staying."

  Penny was impressed. "I hope it works out for you. Normally, I'd offer to be your first customer but I don't think it would be a good idea for Scott to see me in here."

  "He's important to you, isn't he?"

  "He's Holly's father," Penny said slowly, "but if you're asking if I want him back or even if I want him in my life more than he is already, the answer is no. If we hadn't had children, we wouldn't be friends. He's really not my type of person which is ridiculous considering that we had two children together."

  "Was it a long marriage?"

  "I thought it was at the time, but I feel it less and less. I think when I'm seventy, it won't seem like it at all."

  Maggie smiled. "I'm glad you're not damaged."

  "Oh, no, just relieved. I mean, look at me," she continued. "I couldn't even ask him for help with my flat tire. That isn't the kind of person I should be with. I'm klutzy and disorganized. I forget things. I grind up silverware in the garbage disposal or forget laundry in the washing machine. I'm always leaving something colorful in that bleeds with the whites and I forget clothes at the cleaners for months at a time. I can't remember to bring home receipts when I take out cash from the ATM machine or write down checks in the register. I need someone tolerant with a sense of humor. That isn't Scott."

  Maggie's strange eyes were fixed on her face. "What about your little girl? He doesn't sound like the easiest parent to live with."

  "Holly adores him. She's never really known anything else. Besides," Penny shrugged her shoulders, "she's just like him, organized and direct. You should see her room. It's neat as a pin. All the books in her bookshelf are alphabetized by author. She's definitely Scott's daughter."

  Maggie laughed. "You sound disappointed."

  "Oh, no. I could never be disappointed in Holly. It's just that sometimes I feel like she's the mother and I'm the daughter. She never disapproves of me, though, not like Scott." Penny beamed. "Holly is wonderful. Wait until you meet her."

  "I look forward to it."

  A knock sounded on the door.

  "That's probably my cab." Penny set down her cup. "This has been fun. Thank you so much for the hospitality. I hope you don't think I'm too insane by dumping everything on you like this. Scott would be appalled."

  "Scott doesn't need to know. I hope you'll stop in again."

  "I'd like that." Penny's smile was genuine. "Good luck with your shop."

  Maggie waited until the cab had turned the corner before she closed and locked the door. Muffin lifted her head, rubbed a paw over her face, waited until Maggie sat down again, this time in the chair closest to the fire and the spinning wheel, and settled back into sleep.

  "Things are rarely as they seem," Maggie whispered. "You know that by now." She dimmed the lamp, and stared into the fire. The flame threw an arc of light against one wall, leaving the others steeped in shadow. The rigors of the day, rising early, unpacking boxes, filling shelves took their toll. Her eyelids fluttered and then closed. For an instant she resisted the fatigue, fought against it and the odd mix of shapes and figures forming behind the closed lids.

  It happened more often now, nearly every time she slipped into that hazy zone, not really awake, yet a long way from asleep. Strange images flickered through her subconscious, loud voices speaking in accents that should have been strange but were somehow familiar, a piercing whistle calling her somewhere, but where? A woman screaming, thick gray smoke and arms lifting her high, high above it all, until darkness closed in on her and all Maggie felt was cold, a sharp stinging and a roaring sound she couldn't identify except that she knew she'd heard it before, a long time before.

  At first she'd struggled to understand the meaning of her visions and when it continued to elude her, her instinct was to push it away, just as she'd struggled against the strangeness of the living Annie had provided for the two of them. But she was here for a purpose and that purpose wouldn't be served by resistance, and so she concentrated on relaxing, allowing the sensations to pour through her, hoping for some kind of trajectory out of the strangeness, out of the past, something, anything, that would connect her to the present.

  Maggie concentrated on clearing her mind, allowing her instinct to pick out a focal point, skipping past the dark shapes, zeroing in on a light, two lights, a lantern? No, a flame, a candle, several candles, too few to be the cause of the smoke haze filling the room. She thought it was a room but she couldn't be sure. It was t
oo gray, too smoky, too unclear. Her hand settled on the bobbin of her spinning wheel, her fingers closing tightly around it.

  All at once, the scene changed, the blurs sharpened, the colors, such as they were, settled and fell into recognizable patterns. It was a room in chaos. People filled every available space, sitting on benches, standing along walls, huddling on the floor. They seemed to be in some sort of crisis. In the front, behind a long table, sat two men and a woman dressed in the dark wools and white collars of the early colonial period. The woman standing before them had her back to Maggie. Her left arm encircled the shoulders of a little girl, holding her close while her right arm clutched a toddler, bracing the weight of the child on one hip. A man stood beside her, his voice frantic. There was something vaguely familiar about him, the way he stood, the timbre of his voice, something Maggie should have recognized but couldn't. Whatever it was continued to remain frustratingly out of range. She strained to hear his words. Suddenly the woman turned. The light from the candles threw her profile into bold relief, the thin, arched nose, the shape of her chin, the sharp jutting cheekbone dividing her face and the bright, flame-lit hair escaping from the confines of the cap.

  Maggie's neck snapped backward. The muscles stood out beneath her skin, thick and rigid. She fought for air, but her lungs failed her. Pain squeezed her heart muscle and she doubled over. Gasping, she lifted her hand from the bobbin and pressed it against her chest. "Help me," she moaned. "Please, somebody help me."

  Slowly, slowly, the image blurred and the pain subsided. White-lipped and ashen, Maggie turned her face into the cushion, dragging long, sustaining breaths into her lungs. Her muscles ached, her legs trembled and she couldn't lift her head. Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes and spilled over.

  Muffin leaped into her lap, placed both paws on her chest and began to knead.

  "I can't do this alone," Maggie said out loud. "I need help."

  The cat positioned her head beneath Maggie's chin and pushed gently.