Page 18 of Charmed
Briefly, very briefly, she was silhouetted against a window. He could see quite clearly that slim feminine shadow as she stripped out of her shirt.
Hastily he swallowed brandy and looked away. However tempting it might be, he wouldn’t lower himself to the level of a Peeping Tom. He did, however, find himself craving a cigarette, and with apologies to his disapproving daughter, he pulled one out of his pocket.
Smoke stung the air, soothed his nerves. Boone contented himself with the sound of harpsong.
It was a very long time before he went back into the house and slept, with the sound of a gentle rain falling on the roof and the memory of harpsong drifting across the night breeze.
Chapter 4
Cannery Row was alive with sounds, the chattering of people as they strolled or rushed, the bright ringing of a bell from one of the tourist bikes, the ubiquitous calling of gulls searching for a handout. Ana enjoyed the crowds and the noise as much as she enjoyed the peace and solitude of her own backyard.
Patiently she chugged along with the stream of weekend traffic. On her first pass by Morgana’s shop, Ana resigned herself to the fact that the perfect day had brought tourists and locals out in droves. Parking was going to be at a premium. Rather than frustrate herself searching for a spot on the street, she pulled into a lot three blocks from Wicca.
As she climbed out to open her trunk, she heard the whine of a cranky toddler and the frustrated muttering of weary parents.
“If you don’t stop that right this minute, you won’t get anything at all. I mean it, Timothy. We’ve had just about enough. Now get moving.”
The child’s response to that command was to go limp, sliding in a boneless heap onto the parking lot as his mother tugged uselessly at his watery arms. Ana bit her lip as it curved, but it was obvious the young parents didn’t see the humor of it. Their arms were full of packages, and their faces were thunderous.
Timothy, Ana thought, was about to get a tanning—though it was unlikely to make him more cooperative. Daddy shoved his bags at Mommy and, mouth grim, bent down.
It was a small thing, Ana thought. And they all looked so tired and unhappy. She made the link first with the father, felt the love, the anger and the dark embarrassment. Then with the child—confusion, fatigue and a deep unhappiness over a big stuffed elephant he’d seen in a shop window and been denied.
Ana closed her eyes. The father’s hand swung back as he prepared to administer a sharp slap to the boy’sdiaper-padded rump. The boy sucked in his breath, ready to emit a piercing wail at the indignity of it.
Suddenly the father sighed, and his hand fell back to his side. Timothy peeked up, his face hot and pink and tear-streaked.
The father crouched down, holding out his arms. “We’re tired, aren’t we?”
On a hiccuping sob, Timothy bundled into them and rested his heavy head on his daddy’s shoulder. “Thirsty.”
“Okay, champ.” The father’s hand went to the child’s bottom, but with a soothing pat. He gave his teary-eyed wife an encouraging smile. “Why don’t we go have a nice, cold drink? He just needs an n-a-p.”
They moved off, tired but relieved.
Smiling to herself, Ana unlocked her trunk. Family vacations, she thought, weren’t all fun and frolic. The next time they were ready to snarl at each other, she wouldn’t be around to help. She imagined they’d muddle through without her.
After swinging her purse behind her back, she began to unload the boxes she was delivering to Morgana. There were a half dozen of them, filled with sacks of potpourri, bottles of oils and creams, beribboned sachets, satiny sleep pillows and a month’s supply of special orders that ran from tonics to personalized perfumes.
Ana considered making two trips, gauged the distance and decided that if she balanced the load carefully she could make it in one.
She stacked, juggled and adjusted, then just managed to shut her trunk with an elbow. She made it across the parking lot and down half a block before she began berating herself.
Why did she always do this? she asked herself. Two comfortable trips were better than one difficult one. It wasn’t that the boxes were so heavy—though they were. It was simply that they were awkward and the sidewalk was jammed. And her hair was blowing in her eyes. With a quick, agile dance, she managed, barely, to avoid a collision with a couple of teenage tourists in a surrey.
“Want some help?”
Annoyed with herself and irresponsible drivers, she turned around. There was Boone, looking particularlywonderful in baggy cotton slacks and shirt. Riding atop his shoulders, Jessie was laughing and clapping her hands.
“We had a ride on the carousel and had ice cream and we saw you.”
“Looks like you’re still overloading,” Boone commented.
“They’re not heavy.”
He patted Jessie’s leg and, following the signal, she began to slide down his back. “We’ll give you a hand.”
“That’s all right.” She knew it was foolish to reject help when she needed it, but she had managed quite successfully to avoid Boone for the better part of a week. And had managed—almost as successfully—to avoid thinking about him. Wondering about him. “I don’t want to take you out of your way.”
