The Witching Hour

  All the wild growth had been cleared from the flagstone decking, the diving boards had been restored, and the graceful limestone balustrade had been uncovered throughout the garden. The thick boxwood had been taken out; more old cast-iron chairs and tables had been discovered in the disappearing brush. And the lower flagstone steps of the side screen porch had been uncovered, proving that before Deirdre's time it had been open. One could once again walk out from the side windows of the parlor, across the flags, and down and onto the lawn.

  "We ought to leave it that way, Rowan. It needs to be open," Michael said. "And besides, we have that nice little screened porch off the kitchen in back. They've already put up the new screen back there. Come, take a look."

  "You think you can tear yourself away?" Rowan asked. She tossed him the car keys. "Why don't you drive?" she asked. "I think I make you nervous."

  "Only when you run lights and stop signs at such high speeds," he said. "I mean, it's breaking two laws simultaneously that makes me nervous."

  "OK, handsome, as long as you get us there in four hours."

  He took one last look at the house. The light here was like the light of Florence, on that score she had been right. Washing down the high south facade, it made him think of the old palazzi of Italy. And everything was going so well, so wonderfully well.

  He felt an odd pain inside him, a twinge of sadness and pure happiness.

  I am here, really here, he thought silently. Not dreaming about it any longer far away, but here. And the visions seemed distant, fading, unreal to him. He had not had another flash of them in so long.

  But Rowan was waiting, and the clean white southern beaches were waiting. More of his wonderful old world to be reclaimed. It crossed his mind suddenly that it would be luscious to make love to her in yet another new bed.

  Thirty-six

  THEY RODE INTO the town of Fort Walton, Florida, at eight o'clock after a long slow crawl out of Pensacola. The whole world had come down to the beach tonight, bumper to bumper. To press on to Destin was to risk finding no accommodations.

  As it was, the older wing of a Holiday Inn was the only thing left. All the money in the world couldn't buy a suite at the fancier hotels. And the little helter-skelter town with all its neon signs was a mite depressing in its highway shabbiness.

  The room itself seemed damned near unbearable, smelly and dimly lighted, with dilapidated furniture and lumpy beds. But then they changed into their bathing suits and walked out the glass door at the end of the corridor and found themselves on the beach.

  The world opened up, warm and wondrous under a heaven of brilliant stars. Even the glassy green of the water was visible in the pouring moonlight. The breeze had not the faintest touch of a chill in it. It was even silkier than the river breeze of New Orleans. And the sand was a pure surreal white, and fine as sugar under their feet.

  They walked out together into the surf. For a moment, Michael could not quite believe the delicious temperature of the water, nor its glassy, shining softness as it swirled around his ankles. In a strange moment of circular time, he saw himself at Ocean Beach on the other side of the continent, his fingers frozen, the bitter Pacific wind lashing his face, thinking of this very place, this seemingly mythical and impossible place, beneath the southern stars.

  If only they could receive all this, and hold it to their breasts, and keep it, and cast off the dark things that waited and brooded and were sure to reveal themselves ...

  Rowan threw herself forward into the water. She gave a slow, sweet laugh. She nudged at his leg with her foot, and he let himself tumble down into the shallow warm waves beside her. Going back on his elbows, he let the water bathe his face.

  They swam out together, with long lazy strokes, through gentle waves, where their feet still scraped the bottom, until it was so deep finally that they could stand with the water up to their shoulders.

  The white dunes down the beach gleamed like snow in the moonlight, and the distant lights of the larger hotels twinkled softly and silently beneath the black star-filled sky. He hugged Rowan, feeling her wet limbs sealed against him. The world seemed altogether impossible--something imagined in its utter easiness, its absence of all barriers or harshness or assaults upon the senses or the flesh.

  "This is paradise," she said. "It really is. God, Michael, how could you ever leave?" She broke from him, not waiting for an answer, and swam with swift strong strokes towards the horizon.

  He remained where he was, his eyes scanning the heavens, picking out the great constellation of Orion with its belt of jewels. If he had ever been this happy before in his life, he couldn't remember it. He absolutely couldn't. No one had ever created in him the happiness that she did. Nothing ever created in him the happiness of this moment--this freshness and beauty and motherly warmth.

  Yes, back where I belong, and I have her with me, and I don't care about all the. rest. Not now ... , he thought.

  Saturday they spent looking at the available property. Much of the beachfront from Ft. Walton to Seaside was taken up by the large resorts and high-rise condominiums. The individual houses were few and at a great price.

  At about three o'clock, they walked into "the house"--a Spartan modern affair with low ceilings and severe white walls. The rectangular windows made the Gulf view into a series of paintings in simple frames. The horizon cut the paintings exactly in half. Down below the high front decks were the dunes, which must be preserved, it was explained to them, as they were the protection against the high waves when the hurricanes came.

  By means of a long pier they walked out over the dunes and then went down weathered wooden steps to the beach itself. In the dazzle of the sun the whiteness was again unbelievable. The water was a perfect foaming green.

  Far, far down the beach to either side the high rises broke the vista with their white towers, seemingly as clean and geometric as this little house itself. The cliffs and crags and trees of California were utterly absent. It was a wholly different environment--suggestive of the Greek islands, in spite of its flatness, a cubist landscape of blinding light and sharp lines.

  He liked it. He told her that immediately, yes, he really did like it, and this house would be just fine.

  Above all he liked the contrast to the lushness of New Orleans. The house was well built, with its coral-colored tile floors and thick carpets, and its gleaming stainless steel kitchen. Yes, cubist, and stark. And inexplicably beautiful in its own way.

  The one disappointment for Rowan was that a boat couldn't be docked here, that she would have to drive a couple of miles to the marina on the bay side of the highway, and take the boat out through Destin harbor into the Gulf. But that was not so terribly inconvenient when one measured it against the luxury of this long stretch of unspoiled beach.

  As Rowan and the agent wrote up the offer to purchase, Michael walked out on the weathered deck. He shaded his eyes as he studied the water. He tried to analyze the sense of serenity it produced in him, which surely had to do with the warmth and the deep brilliance of the colors. In retrospect it seemed that the hues and tints of San Francisco had always been mixed with ashes, and that the sky had always been half invisible beyond a fog, or a deep mist, or a fleece of unremarkable clouds.

  He could not connect this brilliant seascape to the cold gray Pacific, or to his scant awful memories of the rescue helicopter, of lying there chilled and aching on the stretcher, his clothes drenched. This was his beach and his water, and it wouldn't hurt him. What the hell, maybe he could even, get to like being on the Sweet Christine down here. But he had to confess, the thought of that made him slightly sick.

  Late in the afternoon, they dined in a little fish restaurant near the marina in Destin, very rough and noisy with the beer in plastic cups. The fresh fish was better than very good. At sunset they were on the motel beach again, sprawled in the weathered wooden chairs. Michael was making notes on things back at First Street. Rowan slept, her tanned skin quite noticeably darkened from the last week
of time outdoors, and this one hour perhaps on the burning beach. Her hair was streaked with yellow. It made a pain in him to look at her, to realize how very young she was still.

  He woke her gently as the sun began to sink. Enormous and blood red, it made its spectacular path across the glittering emerald sea.

  He shut his eyes finally because it was too much. He had to veer away from it, and come back again, slowly, as the hot breeze ruffled his hair.

  At nine o'clock that evening, after they had enjoyed a tolerable meal at a bayside restaurant, the call came from the real estate agent. Rowan's offer on the house had been accepted. No complications. The wicker and painted wood furniture was included. Fireplace fittings, dishes, everything would remain. They would move to clear title and close escrow as soon as possible. She could probably claim the keys in two weeks.

  On Sunday afternoon, they visited the Destin Marina. The choice of boats was fabulous. But Rowan was still toying with the idea of sending for the Sweet Christine. She wanted something seaworthy. And there was really nothing here that surpassed the luxury and solidity of the old Sweet Christine.

  It was late afternoon when they started back. With the radio playing Vivaldi, they saw the sunset as they sped along Mobile Bay. The sky seemed limitless, gleaming with magical light beyond an endless terrain of darkening clouds. The scent of rain mingled with the heat.

  Home. Where I belong. Where the sky looks as I remember it. Where the low country spreads out forever. And the air is my friend.

  Fast and silent the traffic flowed on the interstate highway; the low cushy Mercedes-Benz cruised easily at eighty-five. The music ripped the air with its high pure violin glissandos. Finally the sun died to a wash of blinding gold. The dark swampy woodlands closed around them as they sped into Mississippi, the eighteen-wheelers rumbling by, the lights of the little towns flickering for an instant, then vanishing, as the last of the tarnished light died away.

  Did she miss the drama of California? he asked her. Miss the cliffs and the yellow hills?

  She was looking at the sky just as he was. You never saw such a sky out there. No, she said softly. She missed nothing. She was going to be sailing different waters, warm waters.

  After a long while, when it was truly dark, and the only view now was the view of the glowing red tail lamps before them, she said:

  "This is our honeymoon, isn't it?"

  "I guess it is."

  "I mean, it's the easy part. Before you realize what kind of a person I really am."

  "And what kind is that?"

  "You want to ruin our honeymoon?"

  "It won't ruin it." He glanced at her. "Rowan, what are you talking about?" No answer. "You know you're the only person in this world I really know right now. You're the only one I don't handle literally with kid gloves. I know more about you than you realize, Rowan."

  "What would I do without you?" she whispered, snuggling back against the seat, stretching out her long legs.

  "Meaning?"

  "I don't know. But I've figured something out."

  "I'm afraid to ask."

  "He's not going to show himself till he gets ready."

  "I know."

  "He wants you here right now. He's standing back out of the way for you. He showed himself to you that first night just to entice you."

  "This is giving me the creeps. Why is he so willing to share you?"

  "I don't know. But I've given him opportunities, and he's not really showing himself. Strange things happen, crazy things, but I'm never sure ... "

  "Like what things?"

  "Oh, not worth dwelling on. Look, you're tired. You want me to drive for a while?"

  "Good Lord, no. And I'm not tired. I just don't want him here with us right now, in this conversation. I have a feeling he'll come soon enough."

  Late that night, he woke up in the big hotel bed alone. He found her sitting in the living room. He realized she'd been crying.

  "Rowan, what is it?"

  "Nothing, Michael. Nothing that doesn't happen to a woman once a month," she said. She gave a little forced smile, faintly bitter. "It's just ... well, you'll probably think I'm insane, but I was hoping I was pregnant."

  He took her hand, not knowing whether it was the right thing to kiss her. He too felt the disappointment, but more significant, he felt happy that she had actually wanted to have a child. All this time, he'd been afraid to ask her what her feelings were about such a thing. And his own carelessness had been worrying him. "That would have been great, darling," he said. "Just great."

  "You think so? You would have been happy?"

  "Absolutely."

  "Michael, let's do it then. Let's go on and get married."

  "Rowan, nothing would make me happier," he said simply. "But are you sure this is what you want?"

  She gave him a slow patient smile. "Michael, you're not getting away," she said, with a small playful frown. "What's the point of waiting?"

  He couldn't help but laugh.

  "And what about Mayfair Unlimited, Rowan? The cousins and company. You know what they're going to say, honey."

  She shook her head, with the same knowing smile as before. "Do you want to hear what I have to say? We're fools if we don't do it."

  Her gray eyes were still rimmed in red, but her face was very tranquil now, and so pretty to look at, so soft to touch. So unlike the face of anyone he'd ever known, or loved, or even dreamed of.

  "Oh, I want to do it," he whispered. "But I'm forty-eight years old, Rowan. I was born in the same year your mother was born. Yes, I want it. I want it with all my heart. But I have to think of you."

  "Let's have the wedding at First Street, Michael," she said in her soft husky voice, her eyes puckering slightly. "What do you think? Wouldn't it be perfect? On that beautiful side lawn."

  Perfect. Like the plan for the hospitals built upon the Mayfair legacy. Perfect.

  He wasn't sure why he was hesitating. He couldn't resist. Yet it was all too good to be true, too sweet actually, her openness and her love, and the pride it engendered in him--that this woman of all women should need and love him just the way he needed and loved her.

  "Those cousins of yours will draw up all the papers to protect you ... you know, the house, the legacy. All that."

  "It's automatic. It's all entailed or something. But they'll probably manufacture a storehouse of papers of one kind or another."

  "I'll sign on the dotted line."

  "Michael, the papers really don't mean anything. What I have is yours."

  "What I want is you, Rowan."

  Her face brightened; she drew her knees up, turning sideways on the couch to face him, and she leaned over and kissed him.

  Suddenly it hit him, grandly and deliciously. Getting married. Marrying Rowan. And the promise, the absolutely dazzling promise of a child. This kind of happiness was so completely unfamiliar to him that he was almost afraid. Almost. But not quite.

  It seemed the very thing that they must do at all costs. Preserve what they had and what they wanted, against the dark current that had brought them together. And when he thought of the years ahead--of all the simple and heartbreakingly important possibilities--his happiness was too great to be expressed.

  He knew better than to even try. After a few moments of silence, bits of poetry came to him, little phrases that barely caught the light of his contentment the way a bit of glass catches light. They left him. He was contented and empty, and full of nothing but a quiet inarticulate love.

  In perfect understanding, it seemed, they looked at each other. Questions of failure, of haste, all the what if's of life, did not matter. The quiet in her was talking to the quiet in him.

  When they went into the bedroom, she said she wanted to spend their wedding night at the house, and then go on to Florida for the honeymoon. Wouldn't that be the best way to handle it? A wedding night under that roof, and slipping away afterwards.

  Surely the workmen could get the front bedroom ready in a couple of
weeks.

  "I guarantee it," he said.

  In that big antique bed in the front room. He could almost hear the ghost of Belle say, "How lovely for both of you."

  Thirty-seven

  UNEASY SLEEP. She shifted, turned and put her arm over his back, drawing her knees under his, warm and snug again. The air-conditioning was almost as good as the Florida Gulf breeze.

  But what was it tugging at her neck, tangling in her hair, and hurting her? She moved to brush it away, to free her hair. Something cold pressed against her breast. She didn't like it.

  She turned over on her back, half dreaming once again that she was in the Operating Room, and this was a most difficult procedure. She had to envision carefully what she meant to do--to guide her hands every step with her mind--commanding the blood not to flow, commanding the tissues to come together. And the man lay split open all the way from his crotch to the top of his head, all his tiny organs exposed, quivering, red, impossible for his size, waiting for her somehow to make them grow.

  "Too much, I can't do this," she said. "I'm a neurosurgeon, not a witch!"

  She could see every vessel now in his legs and arms as if he were one of those clear plastic dummies threaded through and through with red, to teach children about circulation. His feet quivered. They too were small, and he was wriggling his toes trying to make them grow. How blank was the expression on his face, but he was looking at her.

  And that tugging in her hair again, something pulling at her hair. Again, she pushed it away, and this time her finger caught it--what was it, a chain?

  She didn't want to lose the dream. She knew it was a dream now, but she wanted to know what was going to happen to this man, how this operation was to end.

  "Dr. Mayfair, put down your scalpel," said Lemle. "You don't need that anymore."

  "No, Dr. Mayfair," said Lark. "You can't use it here."

  They were right. It was past the point for something so crude as the tiny flickering steel blade. This was not a matter of cutting, but of construction. She was staring at the long open wound, at the tender organs shivering like plants, like the monstrous iris in the garden. Her mind raced with the proper specifications as she guided the cells, explaining as she went along so that the young doctors would understand. "There are sufficient cells there, you see, in fact, they exist in profusion. The important thing is to provide for them a superior DNA, so to speak, a new and unforeseen incentive to form organs of the proper size." And behold, the wound was closing over organs of the proper size and the man was turning his head, and his eyes snapped open and shut like the eyes of a doll.