Serena's Magic (8 page)

Serena wondered suddenly if she had discovered that life could not only be fun, but comfortable. Being with Marc was easy. She knew his insecurities, and if she sometimes found them annoying, she would shrug and remind herself that no one was perfect.

What is the matter with me, she wondered? I’m suddenly finding fault with Marc because … because of that stinking Dr. O’Neill, she thought irritably. All because of a case of temporary insanity!

She groaned aloud with the thought that her temporary insanity had turned her existence into madness. How was she going to deal with the man in her house all summer?

“Worry about it later!” she muttered aloud as she unlocked the doors to the museum and flicked on the light switch. A large, horned devil glared at her from the wall of the entryway, and she glared back. “I feel worse than you look!” she told the stained-glass caricature.

“And you
do
look like hell!”

Serena turned with a dry grimace for her assistant, Susan Aspach. “Thanks. I love to begin the day with flattery.”

Nonplussed, Susan laughed and plopped her huge macramé bag over the ticket counter. She was a pretty, pixyish blonde with deep brown eyes and a happy-go-lucky manner that never failed.

She was also a practicing “white witch.”

“What’s the matter?” she inquired, raising a brow to Serena. “Things go wrong with Marc’s publisher? Marc looked in high enough spirits himself.”

Serena frowned. “You saw Marc?”

“Yeah.” Susan leaned over the counter to check for a roll of tickets, then brushed past Serena to open the secondary doors and illuminate the displays in appropriate mist-blue fluorescences. “I stopped by the inn,” she called over her shoulder, heels clicking across the stone floor of the main room as she headed for the rear of the building which housed the small book and gift shop and tiny office.

Following in the wake of her hyper friend, Serena demanded, “Why?”

“What?” Susan was already pouring water through the Mr. Coffee machine. “Oh—I don’t know. I had just thought we might ride in together, but I missed you.”

“Oh,” Serena murmured.

“Well?”

“What?”

Susan shook her head and laughed. “Gee, maybe we’d better start all over this morning! My ‘well?’ meant what’s wrong? Did the dinner go badly?”

Serena shook her head. “No, the dinner didn’t go badly. It went well. Marc is going to get his advance. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

Susan lifted a brow but queried her no further. She had her own answer. “It’s the painting,” she said, nodding sagely.

“You saw the painting?”

“Umm—Marc showed it to me. It gave me shivers, Serena.”

“Oh, stop!” Serena wailed.

“You’re going to try and tell me there isn’t a resemblance?”

Serena sighed, counting slowly to ten. “Yes, there’s a resemblance—but it isn’t that shocking.”

Susan shrugged. “Coffee?”

“Yes, I could use the whole pot.”

She accepted a cup of coffee from Susan and idly ran her fingers over the invoices she had left on the desk the night before. Susan sipped her coffee with a long sigh.

“What did you think of Dr. O’Neill?” Serena asked, trying to keep the question casual.

“Who?”

“My summer guest,” Serena explained.

“Oh, I didn’t meet him. What’s he like?”

When directly asked the question, Serena wasn’t sure what to say. She answered slowly. “I don’t know … strange for a professor. He’s much younger than I expected. And he jogs and looks like he should be surfing or weight lifting. Muscle-bound type.”

“Bad vibes.”

“What?” Serena said, feeling ridiculous. She was accustomed to having strange conversations with Susan, but this morning she felt as if they were in different dimensions.

“You have bad vibes about him—or maybe it’s the picture,” Susan said solemnly.

“I don’t have bad vibes about anything!” Serena groaned with exasperation. “I just had a bad night!”

Susan shrugged with a knowing look, and Serena wanted to shake her. Sometimes having a practicing witch for a friend and employee was extremely trying. She turned for the office door with her coffee cup. “I’m going out front—I think it’s opening time.”

“Hey!” Susan protested. “I’m tickets today. It’s your turn to be the guide into the occult!”

Serena grimaced. It
was
her turn.

“Don’t you want to switch?” she asked hopefully.

“Nope,” Susan said, shaking her head firmly.

Serena shrugged. The museum was hers, and she was the boss, but she and Susan had always worked as equals—which was the only way Serena could see it, since she wouldn’t have been able to manage the place without Susan.

Serena made a face but reached for the black cloak and pointed hat that hung on the rack beside the door.

“This really doesn’t seem fair,” she grumbled good-naturedly, “since you’re the one who is a witch!”

Susan raised her coffee cup. “We’ll welcome you into the coven anytime!” She laughed.

Serena replied with a dry look and walked back into the main sector of the building. The displays, which were composed of beautifully crafted wax figures, were in three segments: Magic Through the Ages, Witchcraft in Salem in 1692, and the Different Faces of Witchcraft. Each tabloid had a stereo recording, but visitors entered in groups on the half hour and were first greeted by either herself or Susan. They were given a brief explanation of the difference between “white” and “black” magic and of several tools of the craft which had remained constant through the centuries. Then the “witch” guide would retire to the gift shop.

Susan swept on by Serena with a smile. “Which witch is which?” she purred sweetly.

“Droll, Susan, very droll,” Serena called after her. She adjusted the sweeping black cloak and her pointed hat. As she waited for the tour to begin, she slipped behind the distance fence to check the wax figures. She chewed upon her lip as she studied the panorama of Satan in his goat form surrounded by three witches and their familiars.

The goat Satan was beginning to lose some of his hair. She sighed. Several of her figures needed face-lifts.

A tap on the door warned her that the first group of the day was ready. Serena swung open the double doors and smiled, and then went into her introduction of the pentagon and the circle of power.

The day seemed endless to her. She and Susan were only able to slip away for a half hour lunch break, and when they returned, people awaited them in a line on the sidewalk.

“Summer,” Susan muttered.

“Umm,” Serena agreed. She should be glad of the business; the overhead for keeping the museum afloat was high, and as she had noted earlier, some of the figures needed repair. And she wanted to add some new exhibits. Her enthusiasm was usually high—the museum was, after all, her creation.

But besides being tired, she was a nervous wreck. Her mind kept hopping from the incredible incident at the pond to the disastrous dinner, to the miserable fact that Marc and the overwhelming Dr. O’Neill would both be hovering about her home all summer.

“I wish I knew a spell to make people drop through sidewalks,” Susan murmured as they were forced to excuse their way through the waiting crowd to open the door.

“Susan!” Serena chuckled. “Such a malicious thought shouldn’t come to a nice white witch! But if you do figure out how to manage such a thing, be sure to teach me!”

With the last tour group of the day browsing through the gift shop, Serena excused herself from a group of college students and hurried back into the museum to switch out the fluorescent lights. She was long accustomed to her wax figures, but for some reason she felt goose bumps rise on her arms as she passed by the display case with the stereotype witch—an old hag with a warty nose stirring a potion in her cauldron. Serena shook herself lightly and reached for the switch—

And felt a hand descend over her cloak-clad shoulder.

She stifled back a scream and spun around wide-eyed. When she met the sardonic and querying gaze of Justin O’Neill, she began to wish that a demon had arisen from hell to accost her.

There probably wouldn’t be much difference. His eyes definitely held the burning light of the devil.

“Lovely cape,” he murmured. “But I do hope you’re wearing something beneath it today.”

Serena wrenched her shoulder from his touch furiously. “What are you doing here?” she hissed.

His brows lifted in polite inquiry. “The establishment is open to the public, isn’t it?”

Serena stared into his eyes for a second, then flicked out the lights and brushed past him, calling over her shoulder, “The establishment is closing for the evening.”

“That’s exactly why I’m here now.”

The strong but low-keyed timbre of his voice brought her to a halt with her back to him.

“Don’t you think it might be a nice idea to talk—alone? Or would you prefer to spend your days hopping about like a nervous bird every time I walk into a room?”

Serena turned slowly. In the darkness she could see but a silhouette of him, towering as he stood with arms crossed.

“We, ah, we really don’t have anything to talk about,” Serena murmured nervously. “A quirk of fate left us both in rather uncomfortable positions—”

His quick, throaty laughter broke off her words. “A quirk of fate? My, my, Mrs. Loren, what happened to all the romance and passion in your soul?”

Serena bit her lip and blushed furiously, thankful then that they stood without light.

“Dr. O’Neill—”

“My name is Justin. Pardon the familiarity, but I really do feel ridiculous being addressed formally by
you
.”

Serena caught a breath and held it, counting. “All right, Justin, I’ll admit you make me as nervous as a cat. So we’ll talk—quickly. Whatever happened—happened. But it obviously has nothing to do with our day-to-day lives—”

“Oh, on the contrary …” he interrupted, beginning a stealthy walk toward her that made Serena edge backwards. “Considering our daily lives at the present, our encounter certainly affects them!”

He had paused just before her. He didn’t touch her, but she could feel him, and it was the same drugging sensation she had felt before. When he was near, she felt compelled to touch him. The scent of him … the aura … whatever … was a lure she had never experienced before. She didn’t know him at all, but she felt as if she had known him for ages. Right then and there, she could have dropped all thoughts of anything around them, time, place, people, and move into his arms, and it would have been right.

Serena closed her eyes and struggled with the absurdity of her thoughts. He might be a professor and not the brainless mass of muscles she had assumed him, but he was still some kind of a jock with a startling and overwhelming masculinity who could seduce a woman in the woods and then leave her to rush to a dinner date with another woman.

She opened her mouth to speak, not caring that he saw her back away from him warily again. “Listen, Dr. O’Neill—Justin, I think that there just really isn’t a point—”

“There is a point,” he corrected, following her. Serena really didn’t want to bring her little discussion to the attention of the patrons still loitering in the gift shop, so her continual sidestepping began to take her back through the dark museum.

“I really want some answers,” he said flatly.

Serena backed straight into the arms of a horned fertility god and almost fell over. Justin stretched out his arms and steadied her, laughing.

“Dinner?” he inquired.

“What?”

“Dinner. The meal one eats when it’s evening.”

Serena stared blankly at the cotton-clad arm that steadied her, feeling the tension and heat of the man.

“I, I can’t. I mean, you don’t understand. I have obligations—” she murmured in a whisper.

“No, no obligations, and no trouble,” he persisted. In the darkness the low huskiness of his voice was as smooth as velvet but as firm as steel. “I’ve told Martha that I intended to try and corner you alone. And your—friend Mr. Talbot has driven to the historical society in Boston to have his painting authenticated. Forget the excuses, witch”—he paused to pull the pointed cap from her head—“because I mean to have a long, long talk with you.”

Once again Serena closed her eyes and prayed silently for a strength to come to her so that she might break the spell he cast upon her. She opened her eyes and pulled from his grasp.

“All right, O’Neill,” she said irritably. “We’ll go to dinner!” She stooped to retrieve the hat that had fallen to the floor and walked briskly for the rear door. “I have to close the register and lock up for the night. If you’ll wait out front, I’m sure Susan will entertain you. You just might find her very interesting, Professor. Susan is a real witch. But then you don’t believe in magic, do you?”

She wasn’t quite sure if his laughter was bitter or amused.

“I don’t believe in magic, Mrs. Loren, but I certainly do believe in witchcraft. …”

H
E WAS PERFECTLY POLITE
and casual as they drove, commenting on the landscape. He wasn’t awkward with his speech, nor did he chatter—he simply seemed comfortable.

On the other hand, Serena felt as if she were wired, a time bomb ready to explode. From the corner of an eye she watched him, thinking it strange that he could look so nice in the light cotton jacket, so trim and sleek. So civil. Unclothed, he didn’t look at all civil.

She dropped her eyes to her lap at the thought, her mind seeming to screech—and she was back to the main question.

How could she have ever done such a thing?

“I must compliment you on the museum,” he said casually, glancing her way and returning his vision to the road. “You do a marvelous job defining the difference between facts and fantasy.”

“Thank you,” Serena said stiffly.

“Not at all.”

He fell silent after his reply, and Serena found her own curiosity blooming despite her discomfort.

“What type of book are you doing?” she inquired. “Another thing on the fraud and hysteria that created the trials?”

He grinned dryly. “Nope. I’m going to try to vindicate the judges and jury.”