Page 43 of Which Witch is Willing?
Moira tried to conjure a time when the prospect of ground meat—typically of dubious origins—drowned in tomato sauce served over a starchy bun had filled her with delight.
Truth was, her palate had grown a little more finicky in the days since she’d left Stump Bayou. No longer did she pass the carcass of an animal on the side of the road and wonder how fresh it might be. And it had been ages since she’d ingested any kind of rodent.
“How about we get us something in town?” Moira suggested. “There’s a few places that still let you pick up things to take home with you.”
“Oh, no,” Mookey insisted, lifting a trucker hat bearing the words Camel Towing… Wedged in Tight, We’ll Pull it Right. He replaced it after wiping the sweat from his forehead with a stained red bandana. “I don’t trust none of them fancy restaurants. Last time I ate at one of them places I wound up with hemorrhoids the size a radishes.”
“You idiot,” Little Earl said, delivering Mookey a sound clap upside the head. “I told you you c’aint get hemorrhoids from eatin’ fancy food. They’re the Lord’s way of punishing you for doin’ that butt stuff.”
“That ain’t it either,” Red insisted. “You get ‘em from that cheap toilet paper you’s always buyin’ at the A&P. Rather wipe my ass with a corn cob.”
Moira winced, even as a feeling of inexplicable fondness filled her chest with a drift of warm sand. This kind of good-natured wrangling had once been the sound of days and nights. Her fondest memories. Her home.
Though she was tempted to share what Tierra had taught her of the miraculous effects of fiber and probiotic smoothies, Moira decided she might have more straining matters—so to speak—in mind.
“Does that mean y’all ain’t coming?” she asked, turning her shoulders toward the door.
“Nah,” Little Earl, self-appointed statesman of the group said, a meaty hand scratching the back of his thick neck. “We’ll stay here. Give y’all a chance to get all caught up.”
“Suit yourself,” Sal said. “I don’t want to hear no bellyachin’ when I get back.”
“How does fish and chips sound?” Moira asked as they crested the deck.
“All right,” Sal agreed, eyes narrowed. “But only if you let me pay. Turns out, I have me a windfall at present.” He produced a wad of money from his overalls, throwing it up in the air like green confetti.
“All right,” Moira agreed, threading her arm through his. “You pay. Just don’t throw any more of that stuff around, okay? It’ll last longer that way.”
They had barely reached the gangplank when Sal stopped abruptly.
“Hey!” he said, pointing a bony finger toward the dock. “That’s him.”
Moira looked up, afraid she already knew what she would see.
She both was and wasn’t disappointed.
There, standing on the dock with the sunset at his back, was Nicholas Kingswood.
20
How it was possible to feel both touched and horrified, Nick did not know.
Touched at the name.
Horrified at the manner of its application.
Big, dripping hand-painted letters on the side of his yacht. Or the yacht that had been his, before he traded it to Gomer Pyle in act of contrition.
An act he wasn’t yet certain had actually had the desired effect.
He watched Moira descend the plank on her uncle’s arm, trying not to think how it might look if she were clad in billowing white, and he, in a tuxedo. More helpful to focus on the ghost of the terrible pain she’d wrought in his crotch.
“Hey,” Nick said when he was certain they were within earshot.
“Hey yourself.” Moira’s face bore its usual smirk. A maddeningly inscrutable expression that suggested she knew some secret thing about you that you didn’t want her to know, but which amused her greatly.
Not exactly the untrammeled amazement for his generosity or undying ardor Nick had been hoping for. But not out and out dislike either.
Progress.
