Darkmoon (The Witches of Cleopatra Hill Book 3) (17 page)

All in all, it looked very respectable, the sort of place you might expect your grandmother to live.

Connor laid his hand on top of mine. “You ready for this?”

“Probably not,” I admitted. “But we’re here. If she slams the door in my face, we can turn around and go back downtown, and you can take me to that diner we passed and buy me a chocolate milkshake.”

He smiled, heavy lashes almost concealing the green of his eyes. “Deal.”

We got out and made our way to the front door. As we approached, I noticed that the dried-flower wreath on the front door had a simple wooden cross hanging in the middle of it. I glanced over at Connor, lifting my eyebrows, and he only shrugged.

Just do it, Angela
, I told myself. So I reached out and pushed the doorbell.

I could hear the familiar Westminster chimes sequence from somewhere inside the house. A few minutes later the door opened, and an older woman with soft white hair pulled up into an elegant French twist opened the door. The afternoon sunlight hit the gold cross around her neck and made it gleam as if lit from within.

“Yes?” she said uncertainly, looking from me to Connor.

Since we’d put on “good” clothes to have breakfast with Lucas, we looked pretty respectable, Connor in jeans and a short-sleeved olive green shirt, me in a pair of my new jeans and a pretty sleeveless top with sequins and embroidery around the neckline. I could tell this woman was trying to puzzle out what we wanted, since we obviously didn’t look like your usual solicitor.

The words seemed to stick in my throat, but somehow I forced them out. “Mrs. Bryant?”

“Yes?”

Okay, so we definitely had the right house. Not that I’d really doubted the information Lucas’ P.I. had passed along. “My name is Angela — Angela McAllister. And this is my fiancé, Connor Wilcox.”

At the name “Wilcox,” she put a hand to her throat and took a step back. Then her gaze hardened as she seemed to really stop and study Connor’s face, looking for the family resemblance. At last she said, her voice much colder than it had been, “Yes, you do look like one of them.”

This was not going well, to say the least. I didn’t know what kind of bad blood existed between this woman and the rest of the Wilcox clan, but I couldn’t let it get in the way of our purpose for being here. “Mrs. Bryant,” I said desperately. “I really need to talk to you. I’m — that is, I think I’m your granddaughter.”

Dead silence. Her sharp blue eyes shifted, taking in my own countenance, seeming to study my features. For a second or two I thought I saw the thin lines of her mouth soften, but then she pulled herself up, saying, “Well, come in, I suppose. I certainly don’t want to have this conversation on the front porch where the neighbors can hear.”

An ungracious invitation, but one I’d accept nonetheless. I stepped inside, Connor hesitating before he followed me. I could tell he really wanted to be anyplace but here, and I couldn’t blame him. At least he could comfort himself that he was only related to this woman by marriage, whereas she was the only grandparent I had left.

She led us into a formal living room, the kind of stiff, uncomfortable space, with its faux antique furniture, floral patterns, and ugly landscapes in oil on the walls, that I really couldn’t stand. Just being there made me feel claustrophobic. But I made myself sit down on the couch, and Connor took a seat next to me, his hand reaching out to hold mine, to offer what reassurance he could.

I did notice that even with all the knickknacks sitting around, on the mantel and the side tables and in the curio cabinet in one corner, not one photograph was in sight, not one image of a husband, children…nothing. That disappointed me, because I’d been hoping for some visual evidence to corroborate Andre’s identity.

No offer of a glass of water or anything like that. She sat down on a wingback chair covered in faded French blue velvet, then said, “How did you find me? Was it…
witchcraft?
” The word was uttered with such distaste you’d think she’d just mentioned child pornography or something.

“Actually, no,” Connor said, his voice hard. “My cousin Lucas hired a private investigator to track you down.”

She sniffed. “Lucas. Lucky Lucas. And how is
he
? Same as always, I would imagine.”

“Very well. Thank you for asking.” Polite words, but I could tell from the edge to his tone that he might as well have said “fuck you for asking.”

“Mrs. Bryant” — there was no way I could call her “grandmother” — “was Andre Wilcox your son?”

“Was?” she repeated. “
Is
, as far as I know. At least, no one’s contacted me to tell me otherwise.”

A chill seemed to inch its way down my spine and then spread out, sending cold to every limb, even though it was quite a warm day, even here in Williams. “You mean…he’s
alive?
”

“Why wouldn’t he be?” she said irritably. “He’s only forty-five years old, you know. To someone your age, I suppose that sounds like one foot in the grave, but I assure you it isn’t.”

“No, of course not,” I agreed. Anything to keep her talking. “So…where is he? Because he never came back to Flagstaff after — that is, after….” I faltered, unsure as to how much she knew about her son’s time in California.

“After he came back from California?” she asked. My eyes must have widened, because she went on, satisfaction at startling me clear in her voice, “Yes, he told me where he’d gone. At the time, I thought it was a good thing. At least it got him away from that Indian girl.”

“‘Indian girl’?” I echoed. “Do you mean Marie Wilcox?”

“Yes, her. Never could see what he saw in her, but he was just crazy about her, kept going on about how they were going to get married. I told him not to be silly, that he could do better than her, but he wouldn’t listen. Always was hung up on all that Navajo nonsense, just because his father’s mother was an Indian.”

Connor had already told me that he was fairly certain Andre’s grandmother had been Navajo, so that wasn’t much of a surprise. That my father identified with them so closely was, however. Then again, with a mother like this, I could see why he might have tried to cling to a part of the family that was more welcoming, for whatever reason.

I glanced over at Connor, but I could tell from his expression that he preferred to have me do the talking, that otherwise he might have a hard time remaining civil. Not that I could blame him. This Jane Bryant was no one I really wanted to claim as a relation. Unfortunately, it seemed we were connected by blood, whether I liked it or not.

“Did he say why he was going to California?”

“Not really. He went up to the reservation a good bit, visiting relations, I suppose. I don’t know, because I never felt the need to meet that part of my husband’s family. The Wilcoxes were bad enough.”

Beside me, I could feel Connor stir, and I laid a calming hand on his knee. “So Andre went to the reservation….”

“Yes, he went this one last time, was gone for more than a week, then came back saying he had to go to California, that there was something he had to do.”

I could feel my eyebrows shooting up. So this impulse to travel to California — possibly for no other reason than to seek out my mother — had come from the reservation? “Did he say anything else?”

“No, only that he didn’t know how long he’d be gone. His father tried talking to him, told him the Santiagos would never allow a Wilcox in their territory, but Andre said that wouldn’t be an issue. And so he went.” She shrugged her thin shoulders. “At the time I wasn’t too worried. I was just glad he was away from that Marie person. But then he didn’t come back…and he didn’t come back. And then his father got sick.” Her blue eyes, in their frame of fine, wrinkled skin, narrowed. “Pancreatic cancer. Much good your witch healers were for
that!
” she added with venom, glaring at Connor.

“They’re not infallible,” he said quietly. “And cancer is the worst, especially something like pancreatic. I’m sure they did everything they could.”

“Well, obviously they didn’t, because he died, and left me alone, surrounded by
witches
.” She transferred her scowl to me. “McAllister. So you’re a witch, too, I suppose.”

I nodded. Her lack of surprise at seeing a Wilcox engaged to a McAllister mystified me somewhat, but I certainly wasn’t going to inquire about that. “So…if you never heard from him, how do you know your son really is still alive?”

“I didn’t say I
never
heard from him,” she retorted. “I said I didn’t hear from him
then
. About a month after Gerard died, I got a note from Andre.” A hesitation, as if she really didn’t want to reveal what it had said. Her gaze raked over me again, lingering on my left hand. I’d introduced Connor as my fiancé, and I knew we regarded one another that way, but we really hadn’t had much of a chance to make things formal with a ring and everything. “He said he was sorry he couldn’t be there for me when his father passed, and that he wished he could come to be with me, but it was just impossible. And that was that.”

Stranger and stranger. What in the world could have kept my father away from his mother at a time when she must have needed him? Then again, I had no real idea of what kind of a relationship they’d had. Maybe she hadn’t been this prickly back then, had changed after she lost her husband…or maybe she’d always been like this, more or less.

I had to hope that she couldn’t tell from looking at me what my opinion of her was, as I certainly didn’t want to alienate her. So I said, “I’m sorry to hear that. But — ”

“But what?” Her pinched expression told me she’d had just about enough of the questions.

“Do you remember where the note was mailed from? Maybe somewhere on Navajo land?”

“It was mailed from Flagstaff. I do remember that. It came as I was packing up the house and getting ready to leave. Another few weeks, and it would’ve had to be forwarded.” She knotted her thin fingers, twisted with arthritis, on her knee. Her dress was blue linen, and she wore pearls in her ears. Not the usual sort of lazy Sunday outfit I was used to, but then I realized she’d probably gone to church earlier and hadn’t changed out of her good clothes. “I don’t know anything other than that. It’s been more than twenty years, you know.”

Yes, I did know. Twenty-two years of never knowing whether my father was alive or dead, or even what his name might be. I knew better than to say anything like that to this cold-voiced woman. Probably she had been very pretty in her youth; her hair was still thick, and her features were regular, her eyes bright blue, not faded from age at all. Then again, why should that surprise me? The Wilcox men did seem to have an eye for pretty women.

“And since I can’t tell you anything else, I think you’d better go now.”

Under different circumstances, I might have argued. But I could see the way she kept darting hostile, nervous glances at Connor, as if he were going to cast some dark spell at any moment, and I also realized that if she’d intended to display any sort of interest in me as her son’s only child, the moment for that had long passed.

“Of course,” I said, getting to my feet. “I’m very sorry to have intruded on your afternoon.”

For the first time she looked vaguely discomfited, as if she’d realized that having your long-lost granddaughter apologize for intruding might mean she hadn’t given the sort of reception one might expect in this type of situation. Not that she would apologize herself, though. She stood up, and Connor rose as well. He didn’t say anything, only took my hand as I started to move toward the door.

“There’s one thing,” she added, just as I was reaching for the knob.

“There is?” I asked, stopping in surprise.

“I don’t know if it’ll help you or not, but I think my husband’s Navajo relations’ surname was Bedonie…Begonie? Something like that. Anyway, you might want to give it a try.”

It was a small gesture, but one that meant a lot. Suddenly that haystack had gotten a good deal smaller. “Thank you,” I said, hoping she could hear the gratitude in my voice.

She waved a hand, as if uncomfortable with even that small display of thankfulness. “It’s nothing. Drive safe.”

It was a clear dismissal, and I took it as such. Opening the door, I slipped out into the warm sunshine, glad of a chance to breathe fresh air after the stuffy confines of her house. By some tacit agreement, neither Connor nor I spoke until we were safely back in the FJ. He started up the SUV, pulled away from the curb, and began to head back toward downtown Williams. Only then did he say, “Jesus Christ.”

I wasn’t Christian by any stretch of the imagination, but I had to agree with his sentiment. “No kidding.” For a few seconds I watched the slightly shabby-looking neighborhoods pass by. Then I said, “If she’s that crazy, I’m not sure I even want to meet my father. Goddess knows what he’s like.”

Connor reached over and patted my knee. “Cheer up. Maybe he takes after the Wilcox side of the family.”

“Oh, that’s very reassuring.”

Instead of being offended, he merely chuckled. Then his expression sobered, and he added, “She’s definitely got issues, but I’m trying not to be too judgmental. Grief makes people do strange things. You can tell her husband’s death hit her hard, especially with her son being gone. And expecting the healers to magically fix things, and then when they didn’t….” He let the words die away, mouth tightening as he guided us back onto Route 66. “Well, I suppose I can see why she’d feel betrayed, by the Wilcoxes in particular and witchcraft in general. I’m not saying she didn’t swing way too far in the other direction, but it does make some sense.”

“Okay, maybe, but she’s had twenty years to get over it,” I said. Even I could hear the hurt in my voice. I hadn’t wanted to admit it to myself, but somewhere deep inside I’d probably hoped that she would welcome me, tell me she was so happy to know that she had a grandchild. Instead, I’d only been given a little more courtesy than someone going from door to door and pushing religious tracts. Actually, she probably would have been friendlier to someone like that. At least she would have known they weren’t a heathen.

He looked over and gave me a quick, sharp glance before returning his attention to the road. “You can’t take it that way, Angela. The woman has issues. It has nothing to do with you personally.”