Return of the Light. Maggie Shayne
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And it usually had to do with the woman’s small army of children. “Whatever. I’m out of here.” Dori tossed the apron down, snatched her coat off the rack and went into the back room to collect her sorry excuse for a paycheck from the owner.
But she paused near the door as she heard Bill say, “Damn. You’d think she’d have come down off that high horse by now, wouldn’t you?”
Dori stood still, listening.
“It was a hard fall,” Sally said. “Going from a penthouse in Manhattan to her uncle’s log cabin on the lakeshore. From a high-powered job to slinging hash for lousy tippers like you. Hell, she probably used to earn more in a month than she’s made here in…how long has it been now since Dori came running back here with her tail between her legs?”
Bill didn’t answer. The grown-up version of the boy who’d been her summer fling as a teenager—for several consecutive summers—answered, instead. “Eleven months, three weeks and two days.”
“Think she’s gonna stay for good this time?” Bill asked.
“Wish to hell I knew,” Jason said. And there was something in his voice—something kind of pained.
Dori moved to the swinging door, peered through its porthole-shaped glass. He was still at his table in the corner, staring at the sheet of pink notebook paper he held in one hand. It was old, had been folded so long the creases were darker colored. It looked worn thin. As she stared at it, wondering, he lifted his gaze, and Dori backed away from the door.
“She belongs here,” Sally was saying. “Don’t you worry, Jason. She’s gonna realize that by-and-by.”
Now, why was she saying that? As if Jason had any stake in what Dori decided to do with her life. She’d broken things off with Jason ten years ago—in a Dear John letter….
Written on pink notebook paper.
Something knotted in her belly. She told herself she was being ridiculous, snatched her paycheck from the slotted mail holder on the wall and decided to go out the back door rather than walking through the front of the diner again.
Tugging the hood of her parka up over her head, she trudged through the snow to her car and rolled her eyes when she realized she would have to spend a few minutes brushing snow off it before she could go anywhere.
She missed her Mercedes—the remote starter, the heated leather seats, the warm, snow-free garage where she used to keep it parked. But she pulled her mittens from her pockets and thrust her hands into them. She opened the door to start the engine, grabbed the snow brush and slammed the door hard enough to knock some of the snow off. Then she began brushing. A thin layer of ice lay beneath the two inches of snow, and that required scraping. She hated scraping ice.
An old woman walked past the parking lot, waved at her and called, “Cold enough for you?”
“Plenty,” Dori replied.
“Ah, but cold means clear. It’s done snowing. The stars are going to be beautiful tonight,” the old woman said. And she continued on her way.
Fifteen minutes later, Dori had made a hole on the windshield just big enough to see where she was going, and she was heading out of Crescent Cove proper and toward Uncle Gerald’s cabin on the shore of Lake Champlain.
The lake was moody today, dark and choppy except in the spots where it was beginning to freeze over. She drove into the curving driveway, past the big wooden sign with the image of a green sea serpent and the words Champ Tours: $20.00. She made a mental note to take the sign down. She’d dry-docked the boat and closed up the souvenir shop two months ago. No point leaving the sign up all winter.
Champ—Lake Champlain’s answer to the Loch Ness Monster—had been her uncle’s bread and butter for as long as she could remember. She used to come out here every summer as a teen and work for him as a tour guide, retelling the Champ legends until she knew them all by heart, taking people around the lake until she knew it by heart, as well. And spending every free moment with local boy-next-door Jason Farrar.
He’d been her first lover. It had been innocent and clumsy and wonderful. She would never forget that night. But at the end of her last summer here, she’d left him with nothing except that stupid note, telling him she would never be back, and to look her up in Manhattan if he wanted to. He never had.
She’d meant what she’d written in the note. She had never intended to come back here. She wouldn’t have believed in a million years that she would be forced to revive the old business long after her uncle had retired to Boca Raton. But she’d had no choice. Goddess knew she couldn’t survive on the pittance they paid her waiting tables at the diner.
Yeah, Goddess knew all right. She just didn’t particularly care.
Sighing, Dori shut the car off and got out, hoping she wouldn’t have to scrape the car off again in the morning.
She unlocked the front door and went inside, flipped on the lights, heeled off her boots, shrugged off her coat, tugged off her mittens. She went to the wall to turn up the thermostat, then padded into the living room and sank onto the sofa.
On the opposite wall was a tiny plaque. It depicted a Goddess in silver silhouette against a deep blue background, standing in the curve of an upturned crescent moon. Her arms were raised the way Dori’s used to be in the midst of a circle when she was drawing down the moon. The plaque was the one ritual item she hadn’t been forced to sell.
But she had found that out here in Crescent Cove, there was little use for her elaborate, expensive ritual tools. She was probably the only Wiccan within a hundred miles. She practiced alone.
That wasn’t quite true. She didn’t really practice at all, unless you counted all the spells she’d cast, all the magic she’d done to get her old life back. Nothing had worked. Nothing. And for about the millionth time she found herself wondering if any of it had ever been real.
She looked up at the Goddess on the wall opposite her and wondered why she kept the plaque hanging there. Did she even believe anymore?
JASON WALKED around the cabin toward the front door, but he stopped when he caught a glimpse through the side window of the woman he’d loved for as long as he could remember. She was standing, staring up at something on the wall. A single tear rolled down her cheek.
He couldn’t take his eyes away. Why was she crying?
Hell, he hadn’t been able to make much sense of Dori Stewart since she’d dumped him and headed off to the big city to make her fortune. She’d barely spoken two words to him since she’d been back. And he wasn’t altogether sure that was a bad thing.
He still wanted her. Just as badly as he always had. But he wasn’t ready to risk his heart again. She’d damn near crippled him when she’d walked away. He’d been seeing wedding bells, a house and kids in their future, and she’d apparently thought of him as little more than a summer sidekick. He wasn’t going to let himself go through that again. So he’d stayed away from her, waiting to see what she planned to do, just about as long as he could stand to. For nearly a whole year he’d limited himself to a few words of greeting when they met in the diner, told himself to keep his distance for his own sanity, even while torturing himself by sitting in a booth every day, watching her.
He had asked her out once when she’d first come back to town. She’d shot him down cold. It was then he’d decided he owed it to himself to get over her. But getting over Dori Stewart was easier decided than done.
As he watched, she lowered her head, swiped an impatient hand at her tears and turned to walk out of his line of vision.
Jason went the rest of the way to the door, knocked twice, then stood there waiting.
It only took her a second to come to the door. She asked who it was, and when he told her, he heard locks turning.
Hell, she’d been living in the city too damn long.
She opened the door and stood there, looking