Rite of Passage (29 page)
“That’s right and he was wrong, but he was still my father. We witches revere our family, no matter how corrupt or distasteful. And part of our philosophy is unconditional love and forgiveness. Turn the other cheek.” She gave me a stern look. “Not so different, if I recall, from the practices of Jesus and your conventional religions.” She frowned and shook her head.
“You’re right. I still have a lot to learn.” I shrugged and plodded along behind her. When we arrived at the burial spot, she turned to me wearing an I’m-sorry look. Despite the depth of our love, the burial ceremony was still a private one.
“I understand. I’ll wait back at our picnic spot.”
“Oh, don’t think you’re getting off that easily. I’ve packed another lunch for today.”
Twenty minutes later she returned, eyes glistening. She went by me and returned with the saddlebags. The sparkling afternoon felt cooler than the day of our first adventure.
“I tested your abilities the other day,” I said, looking up at the spanking white clouds as they played across the deep blue of the August sky.
“Tested them? Really. How?” She put down the saddlebags and watched me. I suspected she was reading my thoughts, but I went along with the game.
“I called Rachel.”
“And?” Courtney pushed her lips into a pout.
“She seemed mystified. Had no idea who I was. Politely told me she’d never heard of a Robert McGregor.”
The look that crossed Courtney’s face was difficult to read. Part victory, part regret.
“I’m so sorry, Robbie,” she whispered, finding my eyes. Hers looked damp.
“I’m not. You know I could never love anyone more than you. It’s better she not remember than be heartbroken. And my mother tells me there’s a splendid young intern she’s been seeing.”
“I’m glad.” She squeezed my hand, laid out her picnic spread, and came across the blanket to sit next to me. “Do you remember what we did after lunch the first time we came here?”
“How could I forget?” I smiled, recalling our incredible kiss.
“Well, you have asked me to marry you?”
“Yes, of course. I want your inheritance,” I teased.
“So that’s it then. I’m nothing more than what you Yanks call a meal ticket?”
“That’s all. You’re just a scrawny little English girl with a big…fat…inheritance.”
“Simon and Michael warned me you were nothing but a gold digger.” She gave me a mock frown and swatted my arm.
“I mean you can ride pretty well, can tell what I’m thinking, and you’re not bad to look at. And God knows, you have the most expensive wardrobe I’ve ever seen.”
She slowly put her hand on my shoulder. “Are you
really
feeling hungry?” She gave me a delicious smile. “
Really?
”
I shrugged, hoping I caught her meaning.
“I’m not.” She put her lips together and found my eyes. “Do we have to wait until we’re married before, you know, we finish that pleasant business we began in June?”
“Well”—I put my hand to my chin—“I could use a spell so you wouldn’t remember my taking advantage of you.”
“Really?” A broad grin spread across her face. “And how do you propose to do that?” she asked as she ran her hands slowly down my arms and brought her lips very close.
“Oh, haven’t I told you, darling? I’m a witch!”
Writer, college faculty member, and president of one of the Northeast’s most respected writing organizations, Kevin Symmons has crafted a paranormal tale to keep you turning pages late into the night.
His other efforts include
Voices
, a sweeping women’s fiction work that brings to light the tragic problem of domestic violence in contemporary America.
He has also collaborated with award-winning screenwriter, playwright, and professor Barry Brodsky, who has adapted one of Kevin’s story ideas to the screen.
Kevin is currently at work on his next novel, a romantic thriller set near his Cape Cod home.
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