Page 97 of The Witching Hours

“I know.” I noticed he looked fifteen years younger. I also noticed he hadn’t turned loose of Alex’s blanket since it had landed on his head. “We could both quit. I could start my freelance business. Molly could go back to school or open the pottery studio she always wanted. Lots to think about.”

“Yeah. You could hire a private chef.”

He looked at me. “Hmmm.”

“I know. Tempting. Right?”

He laughed. “Thank you.”

“Pay me.” He pulled the two thousand dollars out of his pocket and handed it over. “This isn’t what we agreed on.”

“None of this is what we expected. You should’ve asked for a commission in perpetuity. There’s going to be a lot more where this came from.”

I chuckled, thinking about the red Kitchenaid mixer I’d been eyeing and reached for the cash. “In that case. I accept. Nice doing business with you.” It was still early in the day, so I decided I might as well pack up and head south. “I’m going to check out and hit the road, but I’m curious as to what Molly will say about all this. So, shoot me a message when you have time.”

His nod was supported by a good-natured smile. “Same here. I mean, I can’t wait to find out how she’s going to take this. But I don’t see how she could object to finding out that all our problems, financial and supernatural, have been whisked away.”

“As long as the kids have come through this without lasting trauma.”

His smile faded. “I worry about that all the time. They seem okay, but…”

“Sometimes things run deep.”

“Yeah.”

“Will you be able to keep them from telling people about your arrangement?”

“They’re smart. For kids. But even smart kids are stupid.”

I laughed. “Uh-huh.”

“I plan to tell them that if they share, people will think they’re looney weirdos and not want to have anything to do with them. Kids are afraid of labels because the wrong ones can end their social lives. So…”

“It’s a pretty good plan. Not flawless, but you’ll figure it out. Tell Molly I said life has given her a high adventure. So, enjoy it. And the money.”

He chuckled. “I will. And she will.”

I’d thought I’d stop for dinner and spend the night, but I was making good time and kept going after indulging my celebration on a job well done with a cheeseburger. I knew Wolf would like it if I made it back earlier than expected even if he didn’t show it.

Instead of taking the 17 exit to Savannah, I stayed on I95 to go around the detours and traffic caused by the fallen bridge. Imagine my surprise when I reached River Street and found the Talmadge Memorial Bridge towering over Hutchinson Island, beautifully lit against the dark water and cityscape.

I parked and stopped the first person I saw. “When did they fix the bridge?” I asked.

The woman looked at me like I’d lost my marbles. “I didn’t know it was broken.”

“Oh,” I said. “Okay. Thanks.”

I stopped a couple who was following not far behind. “Do you live here?” They confirmed that they lived in the next building over. “Do you know anything about the bridge being damaged?”

They both looked alarmed. “Is there something wrong with the bridge?” she asked. After a glance at the man she was with, she said, “We hadn’t heard.”

I turned the key in the lock, opened the door and said, “Wolfie! Guess who’s home?”

“Meow.” Wolf came trotting in from whatever he’d been doing to collect his mama’s-home treat.

I switched on lights on the way to the kitchen, but stopped in my tracks when I came in view of the sunroom I used for a study or office or command central. Take your pick.

In front of the desk was a large polished mahogany easel featuring an oil painting with a big red bow tied around it. The painting was modern, but not abstract. It was an interpretation of my view of the Talmadge Bridge. One glance and I fell hopelessly in love. My gaze jumped to the wall the desk faced.

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