Page 65 of The Women of Wild Hill
“Absolutely,” Brigid said. Then she remembered her nosy relatives and thought better of it. “You know what? Why don’t I come to you instead?”
“Even better,” Liam told her. “Shall we say lunchtime?”
They stood there, face-to-face in the drive, for the longest time.
“Good night,” Brigid said, only because somebody had to.
“Good night,” Liam replied. And then he did her the favor of riding away.
YOU FUCKING BITCH. BRIGID CURSEDthe Old One as she walked back to the cottage.We both know I don’t deserve this.
Love
There are countless books devoted to the miracles of saints. It’s a pity nature’s miracles go unappreciated. To understand even the tiniest tidal pool, you must know the heavens, the sun, then the moon and her orbit. You will need to study the poison the anemone uses to stun her prey. All the small creatures who learn to avoid her. The forces that always haul the tides in on time. The molten rock that emerged from an ancient volcano. The water that wore that rock into a bowl so a wee world would one day take shape.
If you look closely enough at a tidal pool, you’ll see the Old One looking back at you. And yet everyone at the beach hops right over them—little miracles that are far more impressive than loaves or fishes.
Lust is a delight, but love is a miracle of nature. We’re right to see the hand of the divine in it. Love requires a meeting, and that’s hard enough to arrange. Two people out of billions find their way to each other. Then one must catch the other’s eye. Up close, the attraction will always be put to the test. The smell of the body must appeal, and with it the sound of the voice, the spark of intelligence, the volume of laughter. The number of factors can’t be listed or enumerated. And yet, still—against every odd imaginable—it happens.
Of course, true love is far rarer than people believe. Like truffles and ambergris, most make do with look-alikes or impostors. Perhaps that’s for the best. Real love is a force of nature that most human beings—even witches—aren’t strong enough to withstand.
The Mogul
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Brigid lay on her back and fumed. She hadn’t had a vision of her own death, but there was little doubt she was going to bite the dust soon. Over the decades, she’d devoted a fair number of days to sex. In fact, she’d long considered herself a connoisseur. But nothing had ever compared to sex with Liam. She couldn’t get enough of the way he smelled. And she liked being with him even when they weren’t in flagrante. She found his jokes funny.Fuck. It couldn’t be anything other than terrible news. That’s how it worked in her family. Anyone dumb enough to fall in love died. Aside from Phoebe, of course, but she was the golden one—and Lilith, who’d always forged her own path. But Brigid knew that wasn’t how things were going to work for her. No, there was no telling what horrible fate the Old One had in store for poor Brigid.
AT NINE A.M. THAT MORNING,she’d woken to the sound of a chain saw. When she went downstairs to check it out, she found Phoebe and Sibyl sitting side by side on the front porch, watching two strapping young men carve up the tree that the storm had blown down across the drive.
“Liam must have sent them,” Sibyl said by way of explanation.
“You think it’s a good idea to let them remove it?” Brigid asked.
“The gate was open when they arrived,” Phoebe said. “I figure Bessie let them in. Besides, aren’t we just supposed to follow the path we’re on now?”
“Besides, there’s no television or internet out here,” Sibyl added without taking her eyes off the two men. “This is the best entertainment we’ve got.”
Phoebe looked up with a twinkle in her eye. “You’re going to have sex with Liam today, aren’t you?” she asked.
“None of your business,” Brigid responded and Sibyl snickered.
“Go ahead and get it out of your system,” Phoebe said.
“Better make it quick, though,” Sibyl told her. “Mom’s right. We’ll probably have to kill him.”
“Fine by me,” Brigid replied. “While I’m gone, why don’t you two figure out which one of you is going to do the honors?”
“Funny,” Phoebe said.
“Wasn’t joking,” Brigid told her.
SHE CYCLED AWAY FROM WILDHill on a bright yellow ten-speed she’d ridden as a teenager. The gates to the Geddes estate, three miles away, were considerably newer—and open just enough to slip through. There was no one stationed at the guard booth. The grass hadn’t been mown for at least a week, and it was tall enough to sway in the breeze, flashing silver on one side and a darker green on the other. Brigid wondered if it might be sending her a message. If so, she couldn’t interpret it.
She continued down the drive, between flowering rhododendron bushes and feral boxwoods that were growing into misshapen monsters. Then the house appeared at the end of the drive, a gorgeous modern structure composed of white concrete and glass. There were no cars in the drive and no people milling about behind the glass walls. And yet the front door was open. Brigid walked straight in. From the threshold, she could see through the glass on the opposite side of the house and over the ocean.
“Out here,” called a voice, and she followed it.
Liam lay on a lounge chair beside the pool, wearing nothing butsalmon-colored swim trunks and a pair of sunglasses. He had the kind of physique Brigid’s actors had to train for months to achieve.
“Didn’t you have a head wound a few hours ago?” she asked.
