Darkmoon(26)

“Now, it could really help.” I carefully folded up the birth certificate and tucked it inside my purse, then got to my feet. Connor rose as well, saying,

“Thanks for the scones and the tea.”

“You’re welcome,” she said stiffly, and I thought I saw the glitter of sudden tears in her eyes. “Just — just take care of her, Connor.”

Clearly startled, he replied, “I will. I promise.”

She nodded, and he and I murmured a few awkward goodbyes before we let ourselves out. In silence we walked back up the hill to the house, Connor’s hand in mine, while my free hand clung tightly to the strap of my purse with its precious piece of paper inside.

It wasn’t until we were back at the house that he spoke again. “So what’s next? Does having the birth certificate help at all?”

Hard to say, but I knew there was only one way to find out for sure. “It might.” I paused, then went on, “I’m glad you packed stuff for a few days. Because it looks like we’re about to take a road trip.”





5





Going to California





It wasn’t quite as simple as that, of course. Southern California was the territory of the Santiago clan, and if Maya de la Paz hadn’t interceded on our behalf, I don’t know if we would have even been allowed to go. After all, even a clan as large as the Santiagos might be less than thrilled at having the prima and the primus of two different witch families descend upon them. But after I explained the situation to Maya, and she passed on a carefully edited version of our reasons for needing to travel to Newport Beach, we were given grudging permission to travel there, as long as we promised not to stay for more than a few days, and to only go to and from Newport.

That seemed fair enough, so I agreed to those conditions. After all, we weren’t going to California to visit Disneyland or see the Hollywood Walk of Fame or watch a Dodgers game. Newport Beach was the only place we probably needed to go. I could only hope that our business wouldn’t take more time than the mandated two or three days.

I knew I didn’t have time for a lengthy phone conversation with Sydney about everything that had happened, but I also knew she’d never let me hear the end of it if I left her completely in the dark. So after I ended my call to Maya, I sent a quick text to Syd. Connor & I worked it out. We’re going to California for a few days.

She must have been home, because the reply came back almost immediately. OMG, really? I need all the deets!

I’ll tell you everything when I get back.

Why California?

It’s where I was born. I need answers.

OK. Have a safe trip. I’m jealous. :-P

She always had wanted to go to the beach. Unfortunately, this wasn’t really a pleasure trip, more a fact-finding mission. I kind of doubted I’d be hanging out on the sand and working on my nonexistent tan.

Don’t be jealous. Sand is highly overrated.

:-D

I couldn’t help grinning as I locked down my phone and set it on the nightstand.

Since by the time everything was all arranged it was too late to head out — unless we wanted to show up in Southern California at roughly three in the morning — Connor and I spent the night at the house, where we did get to break in that king bed all over again. And then we were up early the next morning, grabbing breakfast in Cottonwood before we made the big push toward Phoenix and then on across the desert and into California.

Through all this he’d been seemingly content to let me plan and make the decisions. Maybe he was remembering what Marie had said about this being my journey, and how he would only be playing a secondary role. It wasn’t until we were heading south on I-17 and were about an hour outside Phoenix that he asked, “So what is it you think you’re going to find?”

“I’m not sure. Something. I have an address. That’s where I’ll start.”

“An address where your mother lived more than twenty years ago,” he said. His tone was gentle, though; I could tell he wasn’t trying to make trouble, but only helping me to see more clearly what I was doing. “Southern California isn’t like Jerome, you know. People generally don’t live in the same places for years and years. I doubt you’ll find anyone who remembers your mother.”

“I know,” I replied. Then I shot a quick glance over at him before returning my attention to the road. “What makes you such an expert on California? Have you been there?”

“No, but I went to college with a few people who grew up there.” He frowned, drumming his fingers on a jean-clad knee. I could tell he wasn’t used to being chauffeured around. Or maybe something else was bothering him.