Page 41 of Stolen Time

Dear Miss Rowe,

The weather is so fine that I was hoping you might like to have a picnic lunch up on Mingus Mountain today. If that sounds agreeable, just tell Alan, and he’ll bring word back to me. Then I will pick you up at 12:30.

S

He was cutting things a little close, since it was already eleven o’clock in the morning. Luckily, even though the McAllisters certainly didn’t celebrate the Sabbath the way their civilian neighbors did, it seemed they were also inclined to take Sundays off from any heavy labor. That was why, after I helped Ruth with the breakfast dishes, she told me I had the rest of the day free.

Not that I had any real plans. Almost all the stores along Main Street were closed on Sunday, which meant I couldn’t do any real shopping, and while I supposed I could have taken a book out to the garden and read for a while under the shade of the big maple tree there, a picnic lunch with Seth sounded like a much better use of my time.

“You can tell Seth that a picnic would be wonderful,” I said to Alan, who’d been watching me the whole time, still with that glint in his eye that made me wonder if he had some mischief planned for his walk home, like stealing apples from someone’s tree or skipping a few rocks at the white-winged doves that seemed to congregate along the main drag, Jerome’s equivalent of a pigeon population. “And that I’ll see him at twelve-thirty.”

The boy gave me a salute, grinning the whole time. “Will do, miss.”

He hurried down the porch steps and practically ran the length of Paradise Lane, making me wonder if Seth had promised to pay him extra if he carried out his errand within a certain amount of time. Well, if he was waiting to get this picnic together until he heard from me, I could see why Seth might treasure even an extra five minutes.

I went back inside the house, where Ruth had just emerged from the front parlor, a feather duster in her hand.

So much for not doing any household chores on Sundays.

“Who was that?”

“A boy named Alan,” I said. “Seth had him bring me a note. We’re going on a picnic — I assume that’s all right?”

“It sounds like a lovely way to spend a Sunday afternoon,” Ruth replied, allaying any fears that I might have jumped the gun by replying yes to Seth’s invitation. “When is he coming to get you?”

“Twelve-thirty,” I said, and she practically beamed.

“That gives me enough time to bake some cookies for your picnic. Would you like chocolate, or some macaroons?”

Since I wasn’t a huge fan of coconut, I told her chocolate cookies sounded wonderful, and she hurried off to the kitchen, obviously thrilled that I’d given her some purpose on what would otherwise have been a quiet Sunday morning. I almost followed so I could ask her if she wanted any help, but I got the impression this was something she wanted to do for Seth and me.

That was why I headed up to my room instead and changed out of the floaty muslin frock I’d been wearing and into a more practical skirt and blouse, along with the flat shoes Molly McAllister had provided for me a few days earlier. Maybe it wasn’t quite as elegant an outfit, but I knew it would be much better suited to climbing over rough ground or sitting on a blanket, or whatever else Seth might have planned. While in my own time there was a picnic area with tables near the top of the pass that led through the mountains, I had no idea if it even existed in 1926.

Better to be safe.

Soon enough, the warm, rich aroma of baking cookies drifted up the stairs. I headed down to find Ruth pulling them out of the oven and setting them on racks to cool.

“That’s a lot of cookies for two people,” I said with a smile, and she shrugged.

“Oh, I’ll send a dozen with you and Seth,” she responded. “The rest I’ll keep here for Timothy — he does love a good chocolate cookie, even though he knows he shouldn’t eat too many of them.”

Probably not. Timothy stood out among the McAllisters because they generally tended to be slender, like most witches and warlocks. I had no idea why that was, although a few people had postulated that something about our witchy powers sped up our metabolisms, as though using our talents required an extra store of energy.

“Well,” I said, “I’m pretty sure I can help you with those, assuming Seth and I eat all the ones you’re sending with us.”

“I have a feeling you will,” she replied, blue eyes twinkling. “That boy can definitely eat.”

Maybe he could; he didn’t have much left on his plate except the bone when he was done with his steak Friday night, whereas I’d had to stop because I’d known I couldn’t eat another bite. The effects of his appetite didn’t show on his body, though, which was slim and well-muscled.

I probably shouldn’t have been thinking about his body in front of his aunt, not when the memory of how strong his arm had felt was enough to send a not-unpleasant wash of heat through me.

“He does have something of an appetite,” I agreed.

“I’ll go ahead and get these cookies wrapped up,” she told me. “You can wait for Seth in the front parlor, and I’ll bring them to you.”

This sounded like a good plan, so I headed for the room in question and sat down on one of the chairs that faced the front window, giving me an excellent vantage point for watching all the comings and goings on Paradise Lane. Of course, on that sunny Sunday morning, it was mostly quiet, except for a big,shiny black car that I thought belonged to theprima…Mabel…as it cruised by.

Going to Cottonwood for brunch?

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