The Steward (19 page)

Someone called my name. I heard Candace ask a question and I focused on her as hard as I could. I missed it. To deflect, I asked her a random question about her boyfriend, Phillip.

As she started to answer, my chest tightened and a drop of icy sweat ran down my spine. Perhaps Gavin did feel something for me. Maybe I’ve completely blown it. Oh god, what if he realized that I was enamored with him? Could he have seen through my screen and learned the truth? I could keep images hidden but what if the emotions came through anyway? If he did figure it out, he might be gone forever. If he learned that I was in love with him, that I’d been weak, he’d give up his role as my
Treoraí
and move on to some other part of the world until I was gone. Waiting sixty or seventy years would be nothing for him.

I’d let myself go into complete panic mode at the table, and fought to regain control. Fear gripped me by the throat, and I couldn’t get enough air. I excused myself from the table and said I’d be right back.

As soon as the bathroom door closed behind me, I fumbled to get my phone out of my pocket and turned on. I pulled up his number and paused—next to the number was the picture of him I took on the lake edge several weeks ago. No, I wasn’t going to call him in this condition. I swallowed a long deep breath and slowly exhaled. When I looked in the mirror I saw panic on my face, and it made me angry. No, I was past anger—I was pissed.

“This is the most pathetic you’ve ever been,” I scolded the wet eyes looking back at me. “He isn’t going anywhere tonight.”

I said it again and felt a little better. I repeated it several times until I calmed down. I flushed the toilet for effect, washed my face and walked back to the table with a smile. I held it together while we sat there, and I managed to focus on what everyone said.

ELEVEN

A KISS

Saturday flew by. I’d spent the morning shopping in Fayetteville with Ronnie, Rachel and Candace. It was the kind of day you wish could last a month, so of course it went by in an instant. That night I went to bed sublimely happy. With Candace asleep a few feet from me, I lay staring at the wood beams in my ceiling, unable to sleep, letting my mind wander aimlessly about everything that was happening in my life.

A few hours later I woke up and looked down at Candace as she slept. It was six in the morning, and I was wide-awake. I lay there for a little while and found myself playing with all the same thoughts I had last night. And then some. I began to worry again. Gavin still hadn’t called or come by. One cryptic text was all I got yesterday.
That’s okay, he’ll be here today.
I refocused—my party would start in a few hours. I remembered thinking about this birthday when I was a little girl—it seemed so impossibly far away.

I also thought about the Water trial. The brief image of Chalen’s face leering at me brought my trepidation back in full force, shattering my calmness like a fragile china cup hitting a stone floor. I wanted to tell Candace about everything, maybe Ronnie, too. I wanted to share with someone. I also knew that would be a mistake.

How would I tell my best friends that I’m surrounded by ancient beings who can destroy cities with earthquakes, or cause spring to come early? How would I tell them that werewolves are really just pissed-off fairies playing dress-up, or that one of the meanest lives at the top of the hill? How would I tell them I’m inescapably in love with a being that has no natural physical form and witnessed the evolution of mankind first hand? And how would I tell my friends that I’ve recently learned to morph rocks with my mind, or that I’ve decided to live the rest of my life in a storybook cottage by a lake in the middle of the Ozarks? I huffed at the ceiling. “I can’t.” But I wasn’t going to lie there and worry about it, either.

“Get up!” I grumbled.

It felt seventy degrees outside when I swung my bedroom window open. The perfume of the garden poured into the room, but seemed more intense today than before. Even though I’d seen it evolve each morning this month, I once again stood at the window in awe of this place. Aunt May and Mom had apparently decided to have my birthday breakfast alfresco—I watched them taking things out to a table overlooking the lake.

Candace and I joined the rest of my family in the garden. As we sat underneath a few straggling clouds floating by in the bright blue sky, Candace gushed about the setting. Each compliment she offered gave me deep satisfaction. I hadn’t thought it possible, but the dew-laced blooms were even more profuse today than ever—thank you, Gavin. The rich colors of the garden came alive as the morning sun slowly topped the eastern mountain.

The plants in the garden were packed tightly together and looked random. I knew from Aunt May and Sara that they only appeared that way. Generations of my family had been involved with the garden, each one adding to and improving on what the previous had done. There was nothing random about any of it. The colors of the blooms and the shapes of the plants all fit together—an orchestrated plan hidden just under the surface of what appeared to be chaos in blooms. It was brilliant. The most impressive part to me was that it changed every few days as some plants finished their show and others came into bloom. We were a few weeks into the season, but I knew the garden had only begun telling its story.

I realized something about myself over breakfast. First, I wanted to know all the stories about my ancestors and the garden. I felt I needed to know them. Second, I was actually
moved
that Candace appreciated the gardens. That was important, oddly, because it meant she appreciated the work that generations of my family had put into this place. I shook my head, realizing a third thing—I was developing sentiment.

At breakfast I opened a few gifts. Mom made me an elegant pale yellow tea set with blue flowers. It was very whimsical, but sleek, and painted in an Asian style. Dad gave me several worn leather-bound books—they were old journals belonging to my ancestors dating back to December of 1825. The pages were fragile and a yellow-orange color. The ink was faded and brown, but still legible. The name on the first page was Pete O’Shea, the forefather who’d settled here. I read a few lines, English with Irish words mixed in. It was his personal journal.

“That tells the story of how the O’Shea family found this place and settled here. He didn’t stop writing until the day he died,” Dad said. “They belonged to me and I’m giving them to you, Mags. I thought you should have a record of the family.”

My chest felt full, and I fought the tears that welled in my eyes. Aunt May handed me the next package. Inside I found several more old journals. The top one was very large and thick and worn, but it didn’t appear nearly as old as Pete O’Shea’s journals. The handwriting was considerably more beautiful. As I scanned the first page, I read the name Lola O’Shea inside the cover.

I turned to Aunt May. “Oh, my gosh, thank you. It’s Lola’s journal!”

I looked through a few pages and didn’t understand anything at first, but a moment later I realized what I was reading–it was a garden journal. Lola had documented the garden each year starting in 1915, and she provided a detailed description of when every bulb or perennial was planted. She drew diagrams and sketches, some in color, and wrote notes in the margins. I saw where she listed every plant she moved from the original garden down in a place she called ‘the fern grotto’ to this site. It all happened decades before the engineers built the dam and flooded the valley—she clearly knew what was up.

“The wisteria growing on the pergola,” I said, pointing across the garden, “is part of the original plant that Catherine O’Shea Williams planted in 1852. My gosh, it’s all in these pages, every plant.”

I flipped ahead and saw entries made by my grandfather and, further on, by Aunt May—it was a living record.

“These are better birthday gifts than I could have hoped for,” I said. My eyes completely misted over.

“It’s up ta ya ta keep the journal now. I’ve cataloged everything this year. Next year it’s yer turn,” Aunt May said.

Mitch flipped through one of the journals Dad gave me. “Mags, look at this,” he said. “It’s called
The Fae of the Weald.
The stories are all fairy tales.”

“I’d love to read that book,” Mom said, looking over Mitch’s shoulder. She’d been reading another book Aunt May gave her about Dad’s great uncle, Alton O’Shea,
Alton’s Kitchen Table Prevarications and Other Bald Faced Lies
. She used the stories as inspiration for her art.

“They all need ta be read.” Aunt May rocked back in her chair. “I think that book in particular needs ta go ta Maggie. Never know what ya’ll learn from a good fairy tale.”
Nice hint, Aunt May, I’ll be sure to read it.

In the early afternoon, Dad was busy directing several people who set up tables under a huge tent he had erected behind the cottage. Mom and Dad had spent hours last night stringing white lights in the trees and over a dance floor that Aunt May insisted we rent. The party was going to be over the top thanks to Aunt May. I offered to help, but Dad hurried me off to my room.

While Candace got ready, I soaked in the tub. I think I’d drifted off when Mom knocked on the door and suggested that I speed things up. Drying off, I let her in so she could help me put my hair up. I always enjoyed it when she did. We chatted about boys. She said she liked Gavin, but suggested I try not to get too attached.
You know what they say about a mother’s intuition.
After Mom left, I worked on my makeup and heard the chime going off on Candace’s phone—texts came in furiously.

“Anything going on?” I asked, heading to my closet.

“Ummm, yeah. Apparently, Rhonda dumped Doug this morning over breakfast. She texted me for pity, of course, and wanted me to drive out to her house at Holiday Island. Afraid Holiday Island Barbie is outta luck. I’m fresh outta pity.”

Candace grinned at me and I knew what was coming.

“Green light birthday girl,” she said softly. “And to think, you haven’t even blown out your candles yet.”

“Don’t start! Doug is my friend … that’s all,” I said.

I found the dress I’d picked out two months ago and had hidden in the back of my closet. Studying it again, I started to question whether it was a smart move, however. It was pink, of course, but that was where it departed from the average sweet-sixteen attire. It was short, low cut, formfitting, covered in pink sequins, and sure to give Dad nightmares.

Her phone alerted again. “Oh, that’s too bad. Hey Mags, guess what?”

“What’s up?”

“Your
dearest
friend, Princess Adair, has decided to pass on your big day. She was kind enough to send along a birthday wish, courtesy of me, and hopes you’ll understand.”

I laughed as I put my heels on. Suddenly I looked forward to my party more than ever. I stepped out and spun for her.

“What do you think?”

“Your dad is going to
hate
that dress ... well done,” Candace said, arching her left eyebrow. Then she exhaled loudly. “You look ... well ... statuesque. Damn, I should have taken up swimming.”

“Please, you look great. You look like a model.”

She grinned devilishly. “Oh, I know that. But you look … wow, you’re so cut, so buff. Totally off the chain.”

I spun in the full-length mirror. It was a great dress. Just at that moment I heard a car through the open window. It was a familiar exhaust note, unmistakably vintage Maserati. My heart jumped in my chest and I struggled to keep myself from sprinting to the window. I could tell the car had pulled up to the cottage wall and stopped. I walked slowly toward the window and heard the driver’s side door open and shut—it made a slight squeak and a small rattle that was all too familiar. When I reached the window I saw him standing at the gate, staring up at me. My heart stopped for a moment and my eyes blurred. Thank god he was here. He smiled and walked into the garden.

“Oh ... ho ... lee ... crap. He looks more beautiful than ever,” I heard Candace whisper behind me before going silent.

Gavin wore linen pants and a pale blue polo with the collar turned up. He had a white sweater tied around his shoulders and a pair of sunglasses tucked into his perfectly spiked black hair. He looked like a
Ralph Lauren
ad today. Mitch yelled at him from downstairs and Gavin’s face lit up. I melted.

When I got to the bottom of the stairs, Gavin briefly looked up from Mitch, who was explaining something terribly important. He smiled at me and focused on Mitch again. He seemed okay. When Mitch saw me he stopped talking and his mouth dropped open.

“Oh, my gosh … Wow, Mags, you look so beautiful.”
I love that kid.

“Yes, she does,” Gavin agreed, flashing his playful half-smile.

The parade of arriving friends began and the living room quickly filled up. Rachel came over to me, staring at Gavin the whole time.

She looked over her shoulder at him. “When do you get to unwrap him?” she whispered in my ear.

I laughed. “You’re impossible.”

“No, it’s your birthday, Maggie, you should at least get a spanking ... mmmmm hmmm,” she growled, bumping hips with me.

I tried to force a perturbed look and managed only an awkward smile. “I’m not talking about this anymore.”

“Hhhhmmmph!” she exhaled, pouching her bottom lip out. “You’re no fun, Maggie O’Shea,” she said, feigning disappointment. “B.T.W., you hear about Rhonda and Doug?”

“I did, it’s too bad,” I said.

She looked at me and shook her head. “Who are you kidding? That’s one more hot guy back on the market. Rhonda’s my best friend and all, but it’s every girl for herself in this podunk hill town!”

The cottage grew crowded and it wasn’t possible to keep up with all the people arriving, so I grabbed Candace and Rachel and dragged them outside with me. The high afternoon sun backlit the white pedals on the dogwoods, transforming them into a feathery white ceiling. While the back of the cottage didn’t have the presence of the front, it was spectacular nonetheless with the shimmering blue lake providing an amazing backdrop.