Face the Fire Page 0,9

too busy to get in each other's way. Why don't you come to dinner tonight? I'm trying out a new recipe, and I could use the feedback."

"You'll get that from Zack. No need to pamper me or soothe me, little sister."

"Why don't we all go out and get drunk and bitch about men in general?" Ripley perked up. "That's always fun."

"As appealing as that sounds, I'll pass. I have a number of things to do at home . . . if I can get my work done here."

"She wants us to clear out," Ripley told Nell.

"I get that." Nell sighed. It was hard, she thought, to want so badly to help and not know how. "All right, but if there's anything you need or want - "

"I know. I'm fine, and I'm going to stay that way."

She scooted them out, then sat - just sat with her hands in her lap. It was self-defeating to tell herself she would work, or to pretend she could move through this particular day as if it were any other day. She was entitled to rage and to weep, to spit at fate and beat her fists on the face of destiny. But she would do none of those things, those weak and useless things. She would, however, go home. She got to her feet, gathered her purse and the light jacket she'd brought. And as she passed her window, she saw him.

He stepped out of a sleek black Ferrari, his coat a dark swirl around him. He always did like shiny toys, she thought. He'd changed out of his jeans into a dark suit and tamed his hair, though the breeze was already playing with it. As her fingers once had.

He carried a briefcase and strode toward the Magick Inn like a man who knew precisely where he was going and what he meant to do.

Then he turned, lifting his gaze unerringly to where she stood in the window. His eyes locked on hers, and she felt the jolt, the punch of heat that would once have melted her knees. But this time she stood straight, and without a quiver. When enough time had passed for pride, she stepped away from the window and out of his sight.

Home soothed her. It always had. Practically, the big, rambling stone house on the cliff was too much for one woman. But it was, she knew, perfect for her. Even when she'd been a child, the house had been more hers than it had been her parents'. She'd never minded the echoes, the occasional drafts, or the sheer volume of time it took to maintain a house of its size and age. Her ancestors had built it, and now it was hers alone.

She'd changed little on the inside since the house had come into her care. The furnishings here and there, a few of the colors, some basic modernization of the kitchen and baths. But the feel of the house was as it had always been for her. Embracing, warm, waiting.

There had been a time when she'd imagined herself raising a family there. God she'd wanted children. Sam's children. But over the years she had accepted what was, and what wasn't, and had made a nest of contentment.

At times she thought of the gardens as her children. She had created them, taking the time to plant, to nurture, to discipline. And they brought her joy.

And when she needed more than the gentle pleasure they provided, she had the passion and drama of her cliffs, the secrets and shadows of her forests.

She had, Mia told herself, all she needed.

But tonight she didn't wander out to fuss with her flowers or walk to face the sea from her cliffs. She didn't stroll into her forest. Instead, she went directly upstairs, climbing until she was closed inside her tower room.

Here had been refuge and discovery when she was a child. Here she had never felt alone unless alone was what she needed to feel. Here she had learned, and had disciplined, the beams of her own power. The walls were rounded, the windows tall, narrow, and arched. The late-afternoon sun streamed through them in pale gold to pool on the dark, aged wood of the floor. Shelves curved along one wall, and on them were many of the tools of her trade. Pots of herbs, jars of crystals. Spell books that had belonged to those who'd come before her, and the ones that she'd written herself. An old cabinet