Winds of Salem (25 page)

He felt miserable, unaccomplished, drowsy, and punchy. A total loser. Tequila had a way of doing that. At first you felt wickedly on top of the world, then you were ready to sock the first person who looked at you askew. Vodka would have been better. And where was that bleached blonde at the end of the bar? It was looking a little blurry down there. Had she fallen off her stool? He had forgotten to call her a cab. He’d take care of it later. It was her own damn fault if she’d gotten too wasted. Someone came over and asked him for a drink, and he mixed it hastily, making a mess on the bar, which he didn’t bother to wipe, then he slapped the cash in the register.

“So what’s been going on with you? Tell me all about your lives!” Troy said enthusiastically, giving Freddie his big, dimpled grin.

Freddie stared blankly back. Why had Troy just asked him that? Of course Troy knew what had gone down, that Freddie
had spent the last five thousand years whiling his time away in friggin’ Limbo because he had been wrongfully accused of destroying the Bofrir. WTF?

Troy’s smile went slack, and his broad shoulders deflated. He realized the faux pas. “Oh, I’m so sorry, dude… yeah… about that… At least you’re out, right? I heard the Valkyries found the real guy who did it.”

Freddie didn’t answer. It was his fault, what had happened to Killian. There were so many things he wished he could have done differently. Freya back in the past, Killian in Limbo, and here he was, stuck in this little town, getting drunk on tequila. He was useless. His life had been a waste.

“Hey!” said Troy, reaching over the bar to grab Freddie’s arm. “Did I say something wrong?”

Freddie smiled. “It’s cool, man. It’s totally cool! We’re good!” Freddie poured the rest of the Sauza into their shot glasses.

He couldn’t do anything for anyone. Not for his sister or his best friend. There was nothing to do but drink. Might as well finish the bottle.

chapter thirty-two

Shower the People

Guests sat on the carpet in a half circle around Tabitha. It was reminiscent of her reading hour at the library, only she was unwrapping baby-shower gifts in her living room. Hudson gathered the ribbons from the discarded wrappings and stuck them onto a paper plate, which then would be turned into a hat to place on Tabitha’s head. “A delightful and hilarious tradition,” he had remarked.

Ingrid was making a list of the gifts for thank-you notes. She had to admit there
was
something adorable about tiny, tiny socks and shoes and ever-so-soft miniature T-shirts and swaddling cloths, something that gave her a vague stirring. A baby. None of her siblings had ever had children. They were stuck, somehow; Freya and Freddie were perpetual adolescents, while Ingrid had been a spinster all her life, an unripened fruit, withering on the vine. But love had changed her, and she could finally understand what all the fuss was about.

“A tutu!” exclaimed Tabitha.

“Um, that’s from Ingrid!” Hudson quickly shot back.

Tabitha and her friends laughed.

“It’s a boy, right?” asked Betty Lazar, who had recently shacked up with her boyfriend, Seth Holding, the junior detective.

“Well, you never know!” said Ingrid, scribbling down
tutu
and her name beside it. She giggled.

“I love it!” said Tabitha. “It’s perfect. Every child should have a tutu. Thanks, Ingrid.”

“No trouble at all,” retorted Ingrid.

“I thought it was genius,” said Hudson, grabbing a pink ribbon to stick onto the belle-of-the-ball hat.

Ingrid glanced at the many shelves in Tabitha’s home library, which was so like Matt’s. Thinking of him made her wistful. She had been avoiding him lately, and he was starting to notice. She knew she was being silly, but she couldn’t stop feeling like a home wrecker even if Matt and Mariza had never shared a home.

“I’ve decided I’m going to practice attachment parenting,” Tabitha announced as she balanced a gift on her knees.

“What’s that?” asked Hudson. “Is that the thing where you see parents walking around with a child on a leash? Those little harness things? I always wondered about that.”

Even Ingrid had to laugh. Although she had always been puzzled by those leashes, but usually chalked them up to parents having watched too many true-crime shows.

“Silly!” replied Tabitha. “It’s a type of parenting method created by a pediatrician and has to do with developmental psychology. There are eight principles.”

“Like what?” asked Hudson.

“Like ‘Feed with respect and love.’ ”

“Oh, Scott does that with me,” he retorted.

Tabitha giggled. “It’s about nurturing a healthy dependency so that the child becomes a confident person.”

“I think my mom got the other handbook,” Hudson quipped. “Detachment parenting. The hands-off method!”

Ingrid laughed but her mind was still on Matt. Over coffee, Troy had told her that he thought she was making a big mistake, letting herself fall for a mortal. “I’ve done what you are doing. Trust me. I don’t recommend it. The pain…” he had said. “To be honest, it’s agonizing…”

Yes, the pain,
thought Ingrid. Matt would be a fleeting moment in an endless life. Matt would die and she would be left with the pain of his loss for all eternity. Was it worth it? Was loving him worth the pain of losing him?

“Oh, my God!” squealed Tabitha, holding up the mini lederhosen.

“I hope your child yodels!” said Hudson.

“Oh, he will!” said Betty Lazar. “I hear they keep you up all night long yodeling!” At that she let out a yodel.

On the notepad, Ingrid inscribed the word
lederhosen
after
Hudson
.

chapter thirty-three

The Price of Admission, Part Two

In front of the low-slung main building—made of wood and blue glass—stood a white marble reproduction of the Greek statue
Winged Victory of Samothrace.
The goddess Nike of peace, efficiency, speed, and victory splayed her wings as she pressed her chest forward, facing the sea, as had her original counterpart in the port of Samothrace, to welcome incoming ships from their conquests. Every morning the statue greeted the five hundred or so kindergarteners through twelfth graders and the staff of the Carlyle School.

On the orientation tour, Joanna and Norman had visited the quaint little green schoolhouses, connected by wooden walkways at the back of the campus. They admired the lovely little playgrounds, gardens, greenhouses, and small farm with two pigs, five goats, and six sheep, which the smaller students were taught to care for. The barn doubled as the “art studio.”

Now Joanna and Norman sat in the principal’s office for the interview. Charlie Woodruff was a disarming, good-looking fellow in his early fifties with white hair and sincere blue eyes. He
explained the school’s mission as one that encouraged their students to adopt a global outlook, embrace technology, pursue the arts and sciences as much as competitive sports. “We’re traditional but forward thinking, at least we hope to be so,” he explained. “So what do you think?”

“Where do we sign?” Joanna joked. Truly, it seemed like a dream school. She could already imagine Tyler in one of those little blazers with the school crest and gray flannel pants they wore as uniforms.

The principal smiled. “Of course, we will need to meet with his parents as well, but ultimately everything will hinge on how Tyler tests.”

“Of course!” echoed Joanna and Norman.

“So who is your patron?” asked Dorothy.

Joanna stared blankly back from across the luncheon table at Dorothy De Forrest. What was her dear but self-important heiress friend asking her now? Joanna had grown weary of Dorothy’s chronicles of finishing schools and debutante balls but had agreed to the lunch, because if one did not see one’s annoying old friends, one might not have any old friends at all. “Excuse me?” She blinked.

Dorothy blinked back. “My dear, who do you have on the inside? At Carlyle?”

Joanna was from an old, well-known family. She was a Beauchamp. But she never understood why certain people gained a sense of entitlement from a name. Gentle birth. Landed gentry. Old money. It was all dumb luck. Who cared? “What do you mean?”

“I mean who is backing your application. Surely you have someone on the board? Surely Norman…?” Dorothy asked.
“The Carlyle School is extremely selective. Admission is practically a miracle,” she said with a small laugh. “Surely you know somebody who can help.”

Joanna shook her head, feeling a bit sick to her stomach. “No, we don’t know anyone at Carlyle.” She took a sip of her wine. “Besides, we were told it all depends on how Tyler tests and I’m certain he’ll do very well.” She returned to slicing her duck.

“Of course, of course,” said her friend, cutting up the quail on her plate, which sat in a tiny basket made of potato strings on a bed of baby greens. “Sorry to mention it. Please pass the salt, darling.”

chapter thirty-four

Where Things Come Back

Sunday morning. Sort of. It was noon when Freddie awoke in his own bed for once. He would have slept longer had it not been for his cell persistently ringing on the bedside table. It had been a long week caring for Max and Hannah after evenings slinging drinks, and he had told Kristy he needed time to recover in his own space. The previous night had been a doozy, the North Inn remaining packed until four in the morning. He’d had to get ironfisted about last call, eventually kicking out the last lively hangers-on. “It’s not the Fourth of July yet. No need for fireworks,” he told them. “Just go home!”

He wished he had turned off his ringer, but remembered he had a brunch date with Kristy at one.
That must be her.
Good thing she had called—he might have slept through the date. Her ex had the kids for the weekend. After brunch, they had planned to go antiquing (her choice) and after that spend time lazing around in bed (his). He grabbed the phone with her name on his lips, but just as he was about to say it, the person at the other end gave a chipper “Hi, love!”