The Awakening (22 page)

“Hey, Joseph.”

Joseph didn't reply. He was staring at him, as if he could look beneath Finn's skin, and see something inside him. An answer he was seeking.

“Finn . . . you went through Boston, didn't you?”

“Yeah, we flew in through Boston, why?”

Joseph shook his head. “No . . . before. When you went to see Megan's folks in Maine when she was staying with them. Last month. You drove up the coast, right?”

“Yeah,” he said slowly, wondering what Joseph was getting at.”

“Ever go to a bar called the Lobster's Tale?”

“The Lobster's Tale?” Finn shrugged. He was tempted to tell Joseph that it was none of his business. He might have wondered why Joseph knew his every move when he had driven up to Maine to find his wife and repair his marriage, but that would have been ridiculous. Megan's parents knew every move he had made. Her father had seemed happy that the two had settled their differences, and he imagined that Megan's mother had told her sister, her sister had told Morwenna, her daughter, and Morwenna had told Joseph.

Families were just great.

“Did you?” Joseph persisted.

Finn shrugged his shoulders, irritated with the question. What the hell did it matter to Joseph? “Not that I recall. I drove up I-95 from the Washington area . . . wound up on US1 out of the city, and hate to admit it, but took a few wrong roads from there, when the path should have been pretty evident.”

“Did you sleep in Boston then?”

“Did I sleep in Boston?”

“Spend the night there when you were driving up.”

“I . . . yeah, I think I did. Or some little place right outside of the city. It was near a steakhouse with a bunch of cows in front.”

“Ah.”

“Why?”

“You don't remember the Lobster's Tale?”

“No, I don't remember any place called the Lobster's Tale? Why?”

“Oh, just curious.”

“Joseph, no one is that persistent when they're just curious.”

“We're trying to help you, Finn.”

“Joseph, do me a big favor.
Don't
help me,” Finn said angrily.

As he passed by the counter, he caught the headlines on the paper Joseph was reading. “Slain Girl Last Seen at Lobster's Tale, Boston Bar.”

His anger was suddenly explosive. He had to get the hell out of the shop. If he didn't, he was going to grab Joseph by the black collar and strangle him.

The temptation was so great he could feel his fingers itching. He fought the urge desperately.

A second later, he burst out of the door, and out of the shop.

As soon as he hit the street, the tension left him. Joseph was an irritating, self-important asshole, and that was all. And the thing with Sara . . . hell, Sara was a short, annoying little creature who was not in the least appealing.

It was cold, and he was covered in sweat. He needed to get away from the throngs of people.

He needed to find his wife.

He bit into his lower lip, plagued by doubts, uncertainty, and a new anger.

With long strides, he started walking toward the new museum.

And a showdown with Mike Smith.

Megan did laundry, a mundane task that didn't do a thing to keep her mind off her marriage.

Walking back through the parlor with a pile of clothing, she found Martha going through scrapbooks.

She looked up at Megan and grinned. “Come and look. I wonder if you've seen these in a while!”

Megan set her clothing on the end of the sofa and curled next to Martha. She assumed that Martha had dragged out a lot of old pictures from when she had been a child. They weren't those pictures at all.

They were Megan's wedding. Martha hadn't been there. Megan and Finn, broke college students who hadn't wanted her parents laying out a fortune, had decided on a quick ceremony with only their closest friends and immediate families.

But Martha had all the pictures. Megan assumed her mother had sent Martha a set, naturally.

They had chosen one of the oldest churches in the city. Finn had been incredibly elegant in tails with his own little quirks of design. She had opted for a medieval style wedding gown in a pearl color. A close friend with a small design shop on Bourbon Street had cut and sewn the gown from something she had seen in a magazine.

There were pictures of the two of them at the altar, getting into the carriage, dancing at the reception, cutting the cake. Megan looked through them slowly, feeling a dull ache in her heart. The best picture was one of the two of them at the carriage, Finn reaching up to help her down. So much that she had always loved about him seemed apparent in the picture. Not just the way he looked in the tails, dark hair enhanced by the ebony of the tails and the white, medieval shirt, impossibly tall, lithe, and indomitable, but the way that he looked at her hair. She wanted to touch the picture, as she so often touched his face. She loved every angle of it. Loved the deep set of his eyes, the arch of his brows, the line of his jaw, even with his ability to set it so stubbornly when he was determined or angry. She had never been attracted to anyone from the onset as she had been to Finn. The first time she had seen him, she had known.

“You two cannot throw it all away,” Martha said gently.

“I'm not throwing anything away.”

“But then—”

“I'm afraid of him,” Megan said honestly.

Martha hesitated a long time. “So . . . he was violent with you. And that's why you left him the first time and went to your folks in Maine.”

“No. He's just strange since . . . since we've been here.”

Martha sighed. “Megan, I know I keep repeating this, but honestly! You are two intelligent young people. And you're simply listening to too much hogwash!”

“Probably.” Megan smoothed the page absently. “He suggested we should just leave. Maybe I should have agreed with him. It's just that . . . well, I believe he loves me. But he loves his music, too. And if we just took off on this job . . . You know how it goes. I mean—look how a silly little family rumor spreads! You and Morwenna know as much about my life as I do, so it seems, without ever having talked to me.”

“Families do talk, dear. And, of course, we care about you. With the greatest pride and concern! And . . . well, things do go around. When I received these pictures from your mom, for example, I showed them to everyone I came across. You two are just so very beautiful together.”

Megan laughed ruefully. “Did you happen to tell Mr. Fallon over at Huntington House that Finn and I had a fight with a loaf of bread?”

“Good heavens, no! I don't air laundry.” Martha looked disgruntled. “If anything of that ilk got anywhere. . . well, never mind.”

“You were about to say that Morwenna had been talking.”

Martha shrugged. “I wasn't really about to say anything,” she said, clearly lying. “But . . . you're right. You must stay, and finish your commitment at the hotel. Tonight, when you see your husband, make sure he understands that you love him, that you haven't really left him, that you believe you've done the best thing possible for the moment, keeping some distance from him. But it means nothing. You'll finish your stint at the hotel, go home, and see a counselor. Because you're going to find out just what is causing your problems, solve them, and stay together for the rest of your lives!”

Megan smiled.

“Sounds like a plan,” she said softly. “One problem.”

“What?”

“What if he's just so angry that he doesn't care about the music—or me.”

Martha shook her head firmly. “Finn Douglas came after you once. I don't believe that he'll leave you. He's going to be just as determined to keep you now—even if he has to bow down to your wishes for the time being.”

“I hope you're right,” Megan said softly. She rose, picking up her clean clothes and heading for the guest room.

She put her belongings away, then walked back out to the front porch. Already, night was falling.

She stared at the dusk coming on, and then wondered if she hadn't done the most stupid thing in the world, leaving Finn now.

There were too many other women in Salem who seemed to feel the same instant, deep, carnal attraction to her husband.

Or would he? She didn't seem to know him at all anymore.

 

 

As luck would have it, Mike Smith wasn't in when he went to the museum. Gayle Sawyer was working, though, and he thanked God that she was working because she used what few minutes she could to go on and on about how he had saved her the night before. He was glad of the counter between them as well, because he had never felt so convinced that she'd simply jump him were she on the other side.

Restless, irritated, he wandered into a few shops. Many had the same T-shirts. Some had great silver jewelry. Many had extensive book sections. He idly picked up a few titles. Most were on the Wiccan way of life. Some dealt with herbs, meditation, the power of different metals, and so on.

He came back out on the street. He hadn't attempted to dial Megan's cell phone again; she wasn't picking up. She didn't intend to do so. He wondered if she intended to show up at the hotel to play, but since she had been the one so determined not to wreck their careers, he had a feeling that she would do so. There was no sense in dialing her repeatedly for nothing.

He was studying some interestingly shaped incense burners when he realized that someone was standing in back of him. Someone who made his spine run cold. He swirled around.

Sara.

He frowned, keeping a safe distance. “Did you . . . hunt me down here?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He arched a brow, and Sara shrugged. “Morwenna would have come after you, but she's busy. There's not just the store, but to us, Halloween is a high holy day. And you may scoff, but it's important to us.”

“I'm not scoffing at anything, Sara,” he said wearily.

“Is that true? I hope so. Because Morwenna is very afraid for you.”

“She's afraid for me? I thought the fear was for Megan—and that I'm the one who is to hurt her.”

“Morwenna doesn't believe you would ever hurt Megan intentionally.”

“That's—good of her.”

“You're being used.”

“By . . .?” he demanded skeptically.

“A demon.”

He shook his head and turned his back on her. Sara came around the shop, facing him over the display. “Finn, you scare the hell out of me. Because there's something . . . some kind of a strange power in you already. I don't personally know how any of this stuff works—”

“I thought you were a steadfast Wiccan, Sara,” he murmured.

“Wiccan, Finn. Wiccan. Not Satanist.”

“Satanists, Wiccans, Christians, Jews, Hindus—they're all men, Sara. Just men. And women, of course, forgive me. That wasn't a slight, just a manner of speech.”

She waved a hand in the air. “There are powers in the world, Finn. You've got to realize that, and see it.”

“So . . . you believe that demons run around walking the earth?”

“If you believe in God—”

“Yes, yes, I know, then why not Satan—and of course, then, there would be demons.”

She stared at him hard. “Can you explain everything that happens, Finn?”

“I'm not a scientist.”

“Your wife has left you, and you don't even know why—except that it had to be something you did last night.”

“My marital problems are my own business.”

“Do you want help, or not?”

“No,” he said, and turned away, but he stopped, his back stiff. He couldn't explain anything. And he didn't understand his own dreams.

He turned back. “Look, Sara, I don't mean to be so rude and hostile.”

“I'm sure you don't. But, listen to me, Finn, please. That was no act I put on in Morwenna's store when I read your palm. There is a terrible, frightening aura of evil hanging over you.”

“I'm not an evil person, Sara.”

“Maybe you're not; but maybe, just maybe, there are powers around you. And they are using you.”

“I can't accept that. I won't accept that I could be used by some . . . some . . . demon!”

Sara cast her hands on her hips. “Not even one with hundreds—no, thousands!—of years to get to know human psychology, the human mind, and the power of suggestion.”

“I don't care what anyone—Satan, or God himself—told me to do, I'd never hurt Megan.”