Maggie Shayne - Return of the Light

Dori almost cried when she thought of the potential crumbs and spills on her carpet.

“I simply couldn’t believe we had so many who wished to attend!” Sara went on. “Our open circles have only brought in eighteen to twenty people, up to now.”

“I know.”

“There just wasn’t room in the back room of my shop,” she went on. “And I couldn’t bear to turn anyone away.”

“I know,” Dori said again, fixing the beautiful blond Witch with a serious look. “It’s okay. Really, Sara.”

The other woman sighed in relief. A little too much relief. So Dori quickly added, “And next time, you’ll know in advance that you need a bigger place, so you’ll have time to make other arrangements.”

“Right.” She nodded hard. “Absolutely. And we’ll leave the place spotless, I swear.”

“The cleaning service will take care of that.”

Sara smiled. “Will you join us for the refreshments?”

Dori glanced into the dining room, at the smiling faces, young and old, dark and light, round and narrow. She didn’t want to join them. They tended to fawn and fuss and treat her like a celebrity and she wasn’t up to it tonight. Something was terribly wrong. But if she didn’t take part, they’d be disappointed, so she lifted her chin and walked into the dining room.

Several of those present bowed in her direction when she did. One quickly vacated a chair and another brought her a glass of wine.

Dori sighed, sipped her wine, smiled a little. Every High Priestess in this room had been taught by her. Every coven had sprung from the little one that had begun around her coffee table when she’d first come to Manhattan from tiny Crescent Cove, Vermont, ten years ago. She’d really done a good thing here, she thought. Her Witches were busy, politically active, constantly working to educate the public about the Craft and debunk the widespread misconceptions that caused so many Wiccans so many problems. They provided services for the Pagan community, raised money for the homeless, organized Pagan Pride events and voter-registration drives.

Yes. She’d done a good thing. And the Goddess had rewarded her. Her life was perfect. And she was sitting here in her penthouse apartment, petrified, waiting for the ax to fall.

In the morning, it did.

She showered and dressed for success in a burgundy Pierre Atonia suit—slender skirt, a little on the short side, tailored jacket that accentuated her narrow waist, matching designer pumps. She left a brief note for the cleaning service, asking them to spend extra time on the dining room carpet, and she took a taxi to work just as she always did.

But when she stepped out of the elevator into the reception area of Mason-Walcott Publishing, a grim-faced man was waiting for her.

“Ms. Stewart?” he asked. He didn’t smile.

He was tall and dressed all in black. His face was pale and bony, his eyes deep set. He could have been the pop-culture version of the Grim Reaper, she thought. And a shiver went up her spine. Everything in her told her this was it, the thing she’d been feeling in the air.

“Yes?”

“I’m Martin Black, VP in charge of personnel.”

She lifted her eyebrows. “Of Mason-Walcott?”

“Of Beckenridge.”

Beckenridge. One of the largest publishers in the biz—and notoriously right-wing conservative.

“And you’re here because…?”

“Because Beckenridge just took over Mason-Walcott.”

She looked past him to see if co-workers were lurking, ready to laugh at her falling for such a lame joke. But her stomach had clenched into a knot that told her this was for real.

“I’m afraid we’re…not going to be needing you.”

She blinked twice, and for the first time she noticed the big cardboard box on the counter that separated the receptionist’s desk from the rest of the area. It held her belongings.

She shifted her gaze back to Mr. Black’s. “You’re firing me?”

“Technically, we’re laying you off. We took the liberty of clearing out your office. Everything’s right here.”

She nearly gaped. “May I ask the reason?”

He shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters. I’m not even convinced it’s legal!”

“Oh, it’s legal. The position of editorial executive director is being eliminated, to be sure it’s legal.”

“But that’s not the real reason, is it?”

He shrugged. “Would you really want to stay, Ms. Stewart? Our titles fly in the face of everything you so openly believe in and practice.” He handed her an envelope. “A month’s severance. It’s more than generous. Good luck, Ms. Stewart.”

He scooped her box of belongings off the counter and shoved it into her chest, leaving her no choice but to take it or let it fall to the floor. Then he clasped her elbow, turning her toward the elevator, and reached past her to push the button.

“You can’t do this,” she said. Useless, but all she could come up with.

“I just did.” The doors opened. He nudged her inside and stood there until they closed again. “Goodbye, Ms. Stewart. Have a nice life.”

A few days before Winter Solstice, one year later…

“Hey, Dori, hon, you gonna get over here and fill this coffee cup, or do I have to climb over the counter and get it myself?”

“Keep your pants on, Bill.” Dori set down the tray full of dirty plates, grabbed the coffeepot and hurried to fill the man’s cup. Mort’s Diner, in Crescent Cove, Vermont, was decorated to the max for the holiday season: wreath on the door, fake green garland looped everywhere, cinnamon-and candy-cane-scented candles burned and holiday music played constantly.

Jason was there, sitting in a corner booth, enjoying a sandwich and a cup of cocoa. Watching her. He was there a lot, more often than seemed reasonable. Then again, she didn’t suppose there was much work for the police chief of a small, quiet town like this. Hell, maybe it was vain of her to think he came around just to watch her waiting tables. It had been more than a decade, after all, since he’d held her. Since he’d kissed her.

There was nothing between them anymore.

Dori sighed in relief when she heard the jingle bells over the door and saw Sally walk in. After setting the coffeepot back on the burner, she reached behind her to tug her apron loose as Sally came behind the counter.

“You’re an hour late. Again,” Dori said.

“I’m sorry, Doreen. Little Amy had a doctor’s appointment and I only just got her back home.” She pulled her apron around her and tied it in place.

There was always a reason. Always. And it usually had to do with the woman’s small army of children. “Whatever. I’m out of here.” Dori tossed the apron down, snatched her coat off the rack and went into the back room to collect her sorry excuse for a paycheck from the owner.

But she paused near the door as she heard Bill say, “Damn. You’d think she’d have come down off that high horse by now, wouldn’t you?”

Dori stood still, listening.

“It was a hard fall,” Sally said. “Going from a penthouse in Manhattan to her uncle’s log cabin on the lakeshore. From a high-powered job to slinging hash for lousy tippers like you. Hell, she probably used to earn more in a month than she’s made here in…how long has it been now since Dori came running back here with her tail between her legs?”

Bill didn’t answer. The grown-up version of the boy who’d been her summer fling as a teenager—for several consecutive summers—answered, instead. “Eleven months, three weeks and two days.”

“Think she’s gonna stay for good this time?” Bill asked.

“Wish to hell I knew,” Jason said. And there was something in his voice—something kind of pained.