The woman peered at me intently, and her eyes widened. After setting the watering can down on a glass-topped accent table, she came to the gate, her gaze never leaving my face. “I don’t believe it! You — you’re Sonya’s baby?”
Oh, Goddess. Was it possible? “I’m Angela McAllister, yes.”
“Sonya McAllister,” the woman said, and shook her head. “Such a pretty girl she was. You look a good deal like her — and you must be about the same age, too.”
“I’m twenty-two.”
“Yes, that’s right. Twenty-one, twenty-two, somewhere in there.”
I felt Connor’s fingers tighten around mine. “So you knew her? You’ve lived here all this time?” he asked. He sounded a bit incredulous, and I couldn’t really blame him. There went his theory that people in California moved all the time.
She smiled. “Yes. I’m Linda Sanderson. My husband and I bought the house about two years before Sonya came here. That house was a rental property — still is, actually. The new tenants are coming this weekend and will be here all summer.” Then she seemed to shake her head at herself and said, “Why don’t you both come in, Angela and — ” She gave Connor an expectant look, and he seemed to recover himself, saying,
“I’m Connor Wilcox, Angela’s fiancé.”
It was the first time he’d ever referred to himself that way, and his use of the word made me feel as if I’d been lit up from the inside. It seemed to please Linda as well, because her smile broadened and she said, “Very nice to meet you, Connor. Please, come inside. I’d love to hear all about Sonya and what happened to her.”
Oh, boy. That wasn’t a very pleasant story. But I wouldn’t lie — not about that, anyway. Obviously I couldn’t tell this Linda Sanderson that my mother and I were from a clan of witches, or that Connor, my handsome fiancé, just happened to be a warlock.
Slipping my flip-flops back on, I followed Linda inside, Connor a few paces behind me. The interior of the house was casual and elegant at the same time, much like its owner. She gestured for us to sit on a couch covered in a soft, nubby beige fabric, with beautifully embroidered pillows. All around were more orchids, and a glass bowl filled with shells and sand dollars sat on the glass and blond-wood coffee table.
“Iced tea?” she asked.
“Just water, thank you,” I responded. I didn’t want to ask whether the tea was caffeinated and then have to go into the whole caffeine-avoidance pregnancy thing.
“Sure thing,” she said. “And you, Connor?”
“Tea sounds great, thank you.”
She went and busied herself in the kitchen for a few minutes, then came back with tall green-hued glasses filled with water for me and tea for Connor. After she sat down on the love seat facing the couch where Connor and I had seated ourselves, she asked, “So, what brings you here after all these years? Your family is from Arizona, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Northern Arizona. A little town called Jerome.” And how far away it felt from this serene beachfront house and the woman who sat across from me, with her perfectly bobbed hair and smooth, tanned skin. I had a feeling she had to be in her late fifties or early sixties, but she looked amazing. Botox, maybe? It seemed a Newport Beach sort of thing to do.
“And how is your mother?”
I swallowed. “Well, that is — she passed away a long time ago, not too long after she came back to Jerome. A motorcycle accident. I don’t even remember her.”
An expression of dismay passed over Linda’s regular features. “Oh, I’m so very sorry to hear that. She was a lovely girl.”
“She was?” That didn’t seem to jibe with most of Aunt Rachel’s remarks about her sister, which generally centered on her heedlessness and lack of responsibility. “I mean,” I added quickly, as I saw Linda’s eyebrows lift in surprise, “I don’t really know anything about her. My aunt — her sister — doesn’t like to talk much about it.”
“Ah.” She nodded in apparent understanding. “Well, Sonya didn’t tell me all that much about her family, only said she was from Arizona and that both her parents had passed away. When she came here with Andre — ”
“Andre?” I asked.
“Her fiancé,” Linda replied, looking puzzled. “Your father. You didn’t know about him?”
“No,” I said. I felt Connor’s fingers reach out to touch mine, give them a reassuring squeeze. “That is, my mother didn’t talk about him. On the birth certificate, it just says ‘unknown’ where the father’s name should be.”