Serpent's Kiss: A Witches of East End Novel (26 page)

He swung out from the bar, still holding on to it. “Oh, that old line.”

“It’s not a line. Will you let me explain?” she asked. “Walk with me?”

“Sure.” They moved away from the fence to cross the street. They strode silently for a while. Ingrid passed the entrance to the park, and Matt grabbed her arm, pulling her toward it. She hoped he would kiss her then, but instead, he said, “We can cut through.”

Ingrid gave him a dubious look, taken aback. “I thought …”

“Hey, you have a police escort,” he joked with a thin smile. “Come on.”

They made their way down the park’s winding path, leaves crunching underfoot. Ingrid wished they were holding hands, moving through this cold darkness. She wished there wasn’t any awkwardness between them and that things had gone differently the other afternoon. When she lay alone in bed at night, she tossed and turned, thinking about him. She imagined him stroking her back, kissing her neck, playing with his hair, or just lying alongside, staring into each other’s eyes. Sometimes she wished for him so hard she would wake up in a cold sweat—or else gasping for air because her craving for him was so strong.

The denuded trees they passed looked like so many sad skeletons, the perfect backdrop.

“How was work?” he asked, attempting to make idle chat.

“Listen, about the other day, I have to tell you something, Matt. Something personal,” she said. He couldn’t exactly run away from her, leave her stranded in the park after having chastised her for walking it alone at night.

“You know you can tell me anything, Ingrid. First and foremost, I hope that we will always remain friends, no matter what.”

What did he mean by “no matter what”? Did it have to do with that woman’s number the pixies had given her? That was something that had actually slipped Ingrid’s mind once she had chalked it up to their shenanigans. Did he
play the field
? Was he seeing other women?

He had stopped in the path, beneath a lamppost, and they faced each other. He reached out for her hands. Ingrid brushed back her hair, but there were no loose strands to pat back, so her hands fell into his large, warm ones. “Tell me,” he said. “What’s wrong? Why’d you run away?”

She looked him in the eye, and he nodded encouragingly. The pines whooshed around them. “I can’t do it,” she said. “I can’t tell you. I’m scared.”

“Don’t be,” he said. “It’s just me.”

She shook her head.

“You’re pregnant?”

She laughed. “
Uh
… no.”

“You already have a boyfriend?”

She shook her head.

“You’re married?”

Again she laughed.

“Terminally ill?” he said, looking nervous all of a sudden.

“I’m a virgin!” she blurted out.

He looked taken aback for a while, and then he smiled, crinkling his forehead. His smile was gentle. “Well, there’s nothing wrong with that.”

She let go of his hands, breaking away, striding ahead, her cheeks burning. She quickened her step until she arrived at the playground, where she ran to hide in the shadows, sitting on one of the swings. Once again, she was mortified.
This
was why she was the world’s oldest virgin. Because having to admit it was so painful, it was preferable to losing it.

She watched Matt’s silhouette as it moved closer to her. She couldn’t see his face. He came and sat on the swing beside her. They both swayed ever so slightly, sideways and forward, their feet on the ground.

“Ingrid, it’s really okay. I mean, it’s not a big deal … I mean … it’s sort of overrated, you know … not sex, but … What I mean is, it’s very sweet, actually,” he said.

“What? Saving myself for the
one
? It wasn’t like that. It just … never happened. Plus, I’m over thirty. It’s horrifying.”

Matt smiled. “It’s not really. It’s cute.”

She sniffed, Matt handed her a handkerchief from his pocket, and she took it. She pinched her nose with it, then lifted her glasses and wiped at her eyes. She turned to him. He was watching her intently, his hands on the chains of the swing. He was really much too big for it, like an overgrown boy.

She bunched up the handkerchief. “I’ll wash this and give it back to you.”

“Ingrid, we can take it slowly. I rushed it too fast. I want it to work out between us.”

“You do?”

“Yes!” he said. “Listen, you want to know something?”

She nodded.

He swung closer and said very softly. “I wish you were my first. I wish you were the first girl I’d ever met. When you meet the right person, it’s like nothing else—nobody else. No one in your past ever mattered. That’s what it feels like, when I’m with you. You shouldn’t be ashamed … There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

She looked up at him and smiled. “Have there been many others?” she teased.

He shook his head. “No, not at all.”

She exhaled. “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”

“I was going in to the city to visit my brother. Why?”

“Will you come to dinner with my family instead?” she asked. “Would he mind?”

“Not at all. They’ll understand. They’ll be happy for me.”

“Good.”

“Now can I ask you something?” he asked.

“Sure.”

“Will you walk over to that tree with me?”

“What for?”

She found out when they walked over. He kissed her tenderly, her back pressing against the trunk. He ran his mouth along her neck and cheek, breathing heavily, his lips trembling, so gentle, then rested his face against hers. His breath felt warm and safe. They stayed like that for a while, Matt leaning against her in the dark, wind-swept park, and though they remained immobile, she could feel all that was roiling within him.

And then he said it, something Ingrid had never heard from someone other than her family.

“I love you,” he whispered in her ear. Then again, in case she hadn’t heard the first time: “I love you, Ingrid Beauchamp.”

The house was redolent with the smells of Freya’s cooking: sage, rosemary, melted butter. She had stuffed the bird with chestnuts, cranberries, sausage, and herbs from the greenhouse, mixed with chunks of Joanna’s homemade wholegrain bread. The day before, Joanna had baked all the staple pies—pumpkin, yam, apple, pecan—so Freya could have free rein of the kitchen today. Freya’s domain was the savory; she wasn’t fond of baking, which was Mother’s area of expertise.

Freya wore Joanna’s red kerchief around her hair, along with a black Provençal apron with little white-and-purple flowers over a T-shirt and jeans. Sweat poured down her face as she whirled through the kitchen, juggling pots, pulling baking pans out of the Aga stove, throwing new ones in, washing dishes as she went, and barking, “Stay out!” at anyone who had the audacity to stand in the doorway and offer help, including Killian.

Freya knew she was bossy when it came to cooking, but that was the only way to ensure the purity of her magic. She really should open up her own restaurant someday, she thought, instead of whiling away her time in bars, although that would require learning to cook with a team, delegating, giving up control. Maybe. Tonight there would be all the traditional dishes: twice-baked sweet potatoes, haricots verts, garlic mash, blackened brussels sprouts with chunky garlic, homemade cranberry sauce, and thick brown gravy. Of course by the time it was all on the table, she would have no appetite, not until the next morning when she woke up famished and would have her own private Thanksgiving feast.

Killian, Joanna, and Norman stood by the fire in the living room, chatting as they sipped champagne. The table in the adjacent dining room, connected by an open archway, had been lavishly set for six. Ingrid was the one who had insisted on the romantic candlelight and the best china and silver. She was excited for Matt to meet her family as her guest instead of as a police detective asking rude questions. She was also hoping that her father’s presence meant the family would be back together again. Speaking of, where would Norman and Joanna sit? Across from each other or side by side? They
had
been rather chummy this evening.

With a snap of her fingers, elegant place cards appeared on each plate, and Ingrid stuck them together just for the fun of it. She’d placed Killian and Freya on opposite sides at the head and foot of the table, although they probably wouldn’t like that, not being able to touch each other every second or play footsies. But they were the most logical choice. It wasn’t as if she and Matt were established enough to sit at those places.

She had folded the red cloth napkins on each plate into Japanese love knots, adding loads of magic inside each tie, performing a quick ceremony that asked for harmony that evening. She set down the votive candles in clusters of three. Joanna had been in charge of flowers, low autumnal-looking arrangements of Chinese lanterns, dark mauve-and-white calla lilies, red amaryllis, hypericum berries, and large green leaves. Ingrid had endowed the bouquets with her magic wand, so their fragrance would exude love and peace. This was going to be a real family dinner for Thanksgiving for a change, and Ingrid was thrilled. She’d had a long talk with the pixies in the morning, requesting they be out all afternoon and into the evening. All the familiars were up in the attic, sleepy and fed. She felt elegant with her pearl pendant, black dress with the thin red ribbon that Matt liked so much, a silk slip beneath it, and black suede pumps.

“So you have a date?” Norman asked Ingrid, who instinctively blushed.

“Dad! Please don’t scare him off. He’s smart. You’ll really like him.”

Killian clinked the ice cubes in his drink. “I approve. Detective Noble’s been very generous about waving away my speeding tickets lately.”

Ingrid laughed. She was giddy, the bubbles of champagne having gone to her head. “Has he now? He must want ‘in’ to this family.” She winked, which wasn’t something Ingrid usually did, but somehow it just happened.

“Oh, he is a dear boy, even sent some flowers to apologize about asking us in for questioning over the summer.” Joanna gave her daughter a satisfied once-over, then swayed from side to side, pleasure animating her face.

Ingrid blushed prettily and Norman swung an arm around her shoulders, kissing the top of her head, which made Ingrid curl in on herself. She hated all this attention and suddenly resembled an embarrassed teen. “We’ll see if he’s good enough for our Ingrid,” Norman said.

“Dad!” Ingrid groaned.

The doorbell rang.

“That must be for you,” Norman said, patting her arm.

“Oh!” Ingrid said, suddenly nervous.

“You look great,” Killian said. “Don’t worry.”

She’d been wrong about Killian, Ingrid thought as she rushed toward the kitchen. So wrong. She’d taken him to be one of those bad boys, flashy and superficial. But she saw now that he was more than his movie-star good looks. He was thoughtful, sensitive, and deep. She saw how much he loved her sister; she understood that particular glazed-over look now for she had experienced it herself from the inside out.

She hurried through the kitchen. “Not here to help, just passing through!” she called.

Freya glanced up at her from the stove’s open door, her hand inside a fat oven mitt. “No worries, sexy. I’m almost ready to go upstairs and change.”

Ingrid stood in front of the door before opening it. “Sexy,” her sister had called her. Was that true? She tugged down the hem of her dress and pulled her hair onto one shoulder, then adjusted the pearl pendant at her neck. She coughed to clear her throat, then swung the door open.

Except the person standing at the doorway wasn’t Matt. It was a tall older gentleman with a widow’s peak and white-streaked black hair, dapper in his wool coat over a three-piece suit. He beamed at her, holding up a bouquet, then extended a hand.

“Hi. I’m Harold,” he said in a soft, pleasant voice.

She shook his hand. “Ingrid.”

“Ah! I know exactly who you are!” he said, his tone pure delight.

Ingrid experienced a strange sensation then, a sudden loss of gravity, a drop, a queasy-making kind of feeling. Where was Matt? Nothing could have happened at the precinct on the Thursday of Thanksgiving. Wasn’t this a low-crime day? Matt was a senior detective, so he had the afternoon off, which he had confirmed via texts that morning. And who was this?