Sympathetic Magic(11)
As he climbed back up the hill, though, he saw the slightest movement in the shadows in front of a small building at the end of the street, right before the place where he’d turn to go up toward the bar and the spot where his car was parked. Something glittered there in the darkness, and as his eyes focused, he realized it was a woman wearing a regal-looking costume, a circlet studded with paste gems on her head. And then he looked closer, and realized it was Margot Emory.
What she might be doing sitting out here, he couldn’t begin to guess, although if it was really that crowded inside, he could see why she’d want to make her escape to someplace a little quieter. He approached, and greeted her. She started, looking as if she’d seen a ghost — not that strange in Jerome, he supposed — then tried to cover up her reaction by giving him a sardonic smile.
“You do turn up in the oddest places,” she said. “What in the world are you doing here?”
“I thought I was going to a dance,” he replied, jerking a thumb down the street in the direction of the hall. What did they call the building? Spook Hall.
Crazy.
“So they’re already turning people away? You should’ve gotten here earlier.”
“Well, this is my first time at one of these things,” he replied, and wished he’d kept his mouth shut. The comment only seemed to point out that, up until recently, the Wilcoxes had been persona non grata in Jerome.
She got up from where she’d been sitting, moving out where he could see her more clearly. Now he could tell that the gown she wore was dark crimson velvet, with a jeweled belt clasped around her slender waist. Her inky hair lay loose over her shoulders under the long white veil that covered her head, and she was positively breathtaking.
Somehow he managed to find his breath, despite that. “Well, since I’m shut out, and it doesn’t look like you’re too interested in being there, why don’t we go up the street, and I’ll finally buy you that drink? It’s definitely not eleven o’clock on a Sunday morning.”
Her mouth opened, and he tensed, waiting for the inevitable refusal. Her next words surprised him. “What on earth are you wearing? This is a Halloween party, not a wedding.”
He straightened the white dinner jacket. “I couldn’t think of what to wear. I’ll admit this would’ve worked better if I could’ve gotten inside and ordered a martini.”
“Shaken, not stirred?”
“Exactly,” he said, relieved that she hadn’t yet shot him down, and shocked that she’d gotten the James Bond reference. For some reason, he’d gotten the impression that the witches of Cleopatra Hill tended to be a bit detached from popular culture.
“Well,” she said, and hesitated. It almost looked as if she was debating with herself, attempting to decide what she should do next. Then she smiled at him, a smile with no irony or sarcasm in it. The expression brightened her face so much that he could only stare at her, wondering what on earth she was about to say.
“Well,” she went on, and her voice sounded firmer this time, “if we go up to the Spirit Room, I’m pretty sure the bartender can get you that martini.”
* * *
Temporary insanity?
Maybe.
She sat with Lucas in one of the high booths at the back of the bar, a place where they were guaranteed a bit more privacy than if they’d taken one of the tables toward the front, and definitely more than if they’d sat at the bar itself. Thank the Goddess that the bartender on duty tonight was a civilian, and not one of her many McAllister cousins. Word would still get out that she’d been seen in here with a strange man, but at least it would take a little longer for the gossip to get through the family grapevine. What the bartender — or the few other civilians in here — thought of a medieval queen sitting down with a man who looked like a refugee from the set of Casablanca, she didn’t know. Then again, it was close to Halloween, and the dance was going on around the corner.
Oh, who was she kidding? No one in Jerome would have batted an eye at what they were wearing, no matter what time of year it was.
When he’d asked her what she wanted to drink, she hesitated. Considering the circumstances, it probably would’ve been wisest to order something very light, like a white wine spritzer. Never mind that that wasn’t the sort of drink people generally ordered at the Spirit Room.
“Jack and Coke,” she’d said recklessly, and Lucas’ right eyebrow lifted so much that he really did look a bit like Sean Connery for a split second.
But he’d gotten the drink without further comment, along with his own martini, and brought both drinks back to the booth where she waited. When she sipped at her J&C, as they’d used to call them back in the day, it recalled to mind those times when she and her friends would sneak the booze out of their parents’ liquor cabinets, then take their cans of “Coke” with them when they went to hang out in various backyards during the long, lazy days of summer, not thinking about anything much except their next ramble down to the river, or maybe who was seeing whom and whether any of those romances would last past high school. Back then she’d certainly never thought she’d be approaching forty with not even a cat for company.