Page 8 of Solstice

Jason didn’t ask her out again, even though she’d been convinced it had been on his mind when he’d first come over. He would probably never ask her out again, now that he knew the truth about her. He just gave her the wisdom of his sound advice and left her with an unanswerable question niggling and gnawing at her brain.

Had she found whatever it was she had needed in New York? And had it been worth what she had given up?

She hadn’t thought she’d given up anything, beyond a summer fling with a great guy and a part-time job with her beloved uncle. But now she wondered. Could it have been more? What was Jason thinking about their relationship back then? That it could be something...more? How could she weigh what she had given up when he’d never told her what that might be?

She knew what she had found in leaving. She’d found the freedom to practice her religion. A handful of other women to practice it with. A succession of willing teachers, each a master of some occult discipline; the cards, the runes, healing, meditation. She’d studied and learned and taught. Become a master in her own right. A leader of the community. A true High Priestess of the Craft.

And while she was at it, she’d worked her way up through the ranks at Mason-Walcott Publishing. First as an editorial assistant, then an associate editor, full editor, senior editor and,

finally, as editorial executive director, with a clear path ahead to publisher. She’d been out and open about who she was at work, at home. Everywhere she went. She’d become the most in-your-face Wiccan she knew, with a Spiral Goddess on her desk and a huge pentacle hanging from a chain around her neck—to match the smaller ones on her ears, to match the middle-sized ones on her fingers.

Until Beckenridge bought the company. Beckenridge was a publisher of inspirational novels and Christian self-help books and right-wing political commentaries. They didn’t need an openly Pagan left-wing liberal giving editorial input. Even she couldn’t argue with that. It would make as much sense as hiring a vegetarian to edit books about butchering cattle and packaging the meat. It was ludicrous. She understood the new owner’s decision, in hindsight.

What she didn’t understand was why it had to happen. It was as if the Goddess was playing some great cosmic joke on her. And now all that she’d learned and done and become seemed to mean nothing at all.

Nothing. She was back where she’d begun.

Sighing, she turned from the window, headed back into the living room and flipped on the television.

“And the stars are going to be beautiful tonight!”

Dori stopped in her tracks, the remote in her hand, as she stared at the TV screen. The weather girl kept on talking, pointing to a map, discussing warmer-than-average temperatures that might be good right now, though they could be ushering in some serious weather later on. But those first words....

She flashed back to the old woman who’d passed the parking lot when Dori had been leaving the diner tonight. She’d said the same exact words.

Drawing a breath, heaving a sigh, Dori glanced up at the Star Goddess hanging on the wall. Then she went to the window and looked outside.

The stars were appearing in the sky already. How long had it been since she’d spent any time outdoors in nature, or with her own spirituality? How long?

She’d given up. Why bother? It hadn’t done her a bit of good. She’d lost everything. Every penny. She’d had to let the apartment go, liquidate her investments at a crushing loss just to pay her bills. She’d lost her job. No one else would hire her for reasons that defied explanation. And within a few weeks it had become clear the beautiful British Witch, Sara, was after her position in the Pagan community. Before long she’d taken it, and all those women Dori had guided and trained and mentored turned to the newcomer, instead.

Dori refused to believe any of that had been due to her own withdrawal from them. She had lost everything.

And here she was, in the middle of nowhere with nothing and no one.

Maybe it was time—

Her thoughts were interrupted by the telephone ringing. She was still musing as she answered it.

“Ms. Doreen Stewart?”

“Yes?”

“Jen Stevenson, Turner Books. This is a courtesy call to let you know that the position you applied for last week has been filled. Your resume looked very good, but in the end...”

The woman droned on, her message the same one Dori had already heard from ten other companies this week. They hadn’t all given her the courtesy of a phone call. Some had sent emails. Some texts. But the dozen resumes she’d just bragged to Jason about having submitted last week had generated eleven rejections. And she had no reason to believe the next would be any different.

She’d been a high-powered executive with a mid-six-figure income, had had wealthy lovers if and when she wanted them, a Mercedes and a bright future.

Now she slept alone, waited tables and depended on tips from strangers in order to survive.

She had been a revered holy woman within her spiritual community. Now she didn’t even wear her pentacle in public.

“What did I do to deserve this?” she asked the Star Goddess. And then she felt her heart darken. Why was she talking to a hunk of plaster and paint, anyway? What was the point? It wasn’t real.

Nothing was real.

She yanked the plaque off the wall, carried it into the kitchen and dropped it into the garbage can. “I’m done with you. Do you hear? I’m finished. I’m not your priestess anymore.”

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