Tami Hoag - Magic

Rachel watched, bemused by the strange mix of feelings inside her as Bryan led her mother away. “Is he ever serious about anything?”

“Oh, yes,” Faith said on a long sigh of remembrance. Heedless of the layer of dust, she settled herself on an old desk and folded her hands in the lap of her worn jeans. “We went for a long time without seeing Bryan smile after he lost Serena.”

“Serena?”

“His wife,” Faith said gently. She paused then to let Rachel absorb the information, compassion welling inside her at the look of shock on the woman’s face. “She passed away about a year and half ago. Cancer.”

“I-I didn’t know.” Rachel felt as if she’d been hit by a truck. Her knees wobbled, and she sat down on a huge square iron bird cage.

Bryan had been married. He had been in love with a woman who had died. Oh, Lord, she thought, unable to stop the tears that flooded her eyes, what a disservice she’d done him, thinking he had never had to endure pain or accept responsibility.

“So if we seem a little overindulgent of his silliness,” Faith went on, “it’s only because we missed it so much. Besides,” she added, summoning up one of her sunny smiles, “there’s a lot more to Bryan than meets the eye.”

“I’d already guessed that,” Rachel mumbled.

Dammit, she thought, she felt completely off balance. She felt utterly guilty and mean and self-centered. Anger struggled to life inside her. She didn’t need this. She had enough emotional baggage to deal with. She couldn’t afford to spend her energy on dealing with Bryan’s as well. It was just one more reason she shouldn’t get more deeply involved with him.

If they’d met at some other place and time in their lives, things might have been different. But the facts remained: she had her mother to take care of, Bryan had his own wounded heart to heal, and they wanted to deal with those issues in two completely different ways. She could see no answer other than practicality, no matter how unpleasant it might be. He chose to gloss everything over with magic and foolishness.

Rachel looked up suddenly, and in the next instant Bryan danced through the door with Addie in his arms. Her mother’s cheeks were flushed, and she held a rose between her teeth. He deposited her in a high-backed chair and strode toward Rachel purposefully, stopping before her with an earnest look on his face.

“Dorothy,” he said. “I believe the munchkins have arrived.”

“The what?” Faith asked.

Rachel, however, knew exactly what he was referring to. She had spoken of this place as Oz. But who exactly the munchkins were, she didn’t know. Her eyebrows lifted in question.

Bryan glanced back over his shoulder to make sure Addie wasn’t listening. She was twirling her rose by its stem and softly singing a snatch of something from Aida . He turned back to Rachel. “There are two rather remarkable-looking gentlemen at the front door, asking to speak to you about purchasing Drake House.”

“But I haven’t put it on the market yet,” Rachel said. “How did they know it was for sale?”

“I wonder,” Bryan said, stroking a hand back through his sandy hair. Behind his glasses his eyes took on a faraway look. “I wonder.”

Rachel excused herself and went out into the hall, wondering why she wasn’t eager to meet these prospective buyers. She’d been worried that they would have trouble unloading the house, it was in such a sad state of disrepair. She should have been bubbling over about this turn of events, but she wasn’t.

Swinging the heavy front door back, she immediately saw what Bryan had meant by “remarkable-looking.” One of the men was about five feet tall and nearly as wide. His head was as round and bald as a bowling ball. His companion was a few inches taller, built like a rail, and had a face with sharp, sly features and deepset eyes. There was a fading blue bruise on his left cheek.

Rachel cleared her throat delicately and offered her visitors a polite smile. “Can I help you? I’m Rachel Lindquist.”

The rotund one stuck out a dimpled hand. “Miles Porchind, Miss Lindquist,” he said with a smile, “and my partner, Felix Rasmussen. May we take a few moments of your time to discuss some business?”

Her immediate reaction to the men was dislike, but she reminded herself beggars couldn’t be choosers, and invited the prospective buyers inside. She led the way to the study, the skin on her back prickling as she felt their gazes on her.

Once in the room, Porchind and Rasmussen looked around with hungry eyes, taking in the paneling, the old furniture, the bookshelves-particularly the bookshelves, with their dusty old tomes. Their expressions were like those of starving men who had stumbled into a bakery. Rachel half expected them to start salivating. Grimacing in distaste at the thought, she seated herself behind the desk and motioned the men to help themselves to seats. Oddly, they chose to sit side by side on the leather love seat, with Porchind taking up more than half of it.

Bryan wandered in then, jugging two apples and an orange. “Hello again,” he said, sending the men his most innocuous grin. He caught two pieces of fruit against his chest with his right arm, caught the remaining apple in his left hand, and promptly took a bite out of it.

“We’re here to discuss business with Miss Lindquist,” Porchind said with a trace of annoyance.

“So you said. Care for a piece of fruit?”

They merely stared at him, then turned to Rachel, clearly hoping she would toss Bryan out on his ear.

“It’s all right,” Rachel said. “Mr. Hennessy is the family retainer.”

She supposed she shouldn’t have, but she wanted Bryan there with her, and, for once, she gave in to her desire. He shot her a wink that seemed inappropriately intimate, and immediately heat streaked through her body. She had to force her mind back to the business at hand.

“Bryan tells me you’re interested in purchasing the house,” she said. “May I ask where you heard it was for sale?”

The men glanced sharply at each other and answered simultaneously. “In town.”

Porchind went on. “We heard you had come back to settle your mother’s affairs and close up the house. Perhaps it was nothing more than small-town gossip.”

“Gossip, perhaps,” Rasmussen echoed.

“No, I have been considering it,” Rachel said cautiously.

“But it’s nothing definite, by any means,” Bryan interrupted.

Rachel scowled up at him. “I thought you wanted to help,” she muttered between her teeth.

“I am helping,” he said, ignoring the anger he felt rolling off her in waves. He turned back to their visitors. “There are so many things to consider. The ghosts, for example. You must have heard by now, the house is haunted.”

The strangers exchanged another glance. “We’re not put off by ghost stories,” Porchind said.

His partner shook his head. “Don’t believe in ghosts.”

Immediately, two huge drops of water fell from the ceiling-one landing squarely on the head of each man. Before they had a chance to recover from the surprise, two more drops fell, followed by two more. Porchind looked up and caught one in the eye.

“And then there’s the plumbing,” Bryan said. It was almost impossible to contain his excitement. It churned inside him as he looked up at the ceiling, which showed no evidence of a water spot. Wimsey. He knew it. He could sense it. This was his first physical sign of Addie’s ghost.

“The plumbing is fine,” Rachel insisted. “That’s just humidity.”

“Humidity from hell,” Bryan said dramatically.

Porchind looked past him to Rachel. “My partner and I are interested in the house, Miss Lindquist. Have you set a price yet?”