“Her husband was a collector of antiques. She’d commissioned us to sell a few things over the years. She and I hit it off.”
Helen parked the car, and the two of them walked the short path to the front door.
Mrs. Dawson greeted them herself. The older woman had to be in her eighties. The cane in her hand helped her stand to a maximum height of maybe five-foot-three. A pair of kind eyes sparkled when they landed on Helen.
“I thought you were in Scotland,” Mrs. Dawson said.
Helen leaned down and kissed the woman’s cheek and pulled her into an affectionate hug. “I was.”
“But you’ve only been gone two days.”
Helen slid Simon a glance. “It’s a strange story.”
Mrs. Dawson turned her attention his way. A corner of her mouth lifted, and she shifted her eyes back to Helen. “Who’s the hottie?”
Helen’s face instantly blushed and Simon laughed. He hadn’t expected the older woman’s delightful words.
“He’s a…. You’re not going to believe—”
Simon stepped up and bent slightly at the waist. “The hottie,” he said winking, “is very pleased to make your acquaintance.” He reached for Mrs. Dawson’s free hand and lifted her fingers to his lips.
“I like your hottie.” Mrs. Dawson placed the hand he’d kissed against her chest and smiled.
“He’s not my hottie,” Helen said.
“Well I like him anyway. Where are my manners? Come in. Come in. No need to stand on the porch.”
Helen stood at Mrs. Dawson’s right, and Simon offered her a hand on her left.
“Let’s go to the day room. Have you eaten?”
“We ate before we left.”
“How about coffee, then? I think Mavis made some chocolate chip cookies yesterday.”
Chocolate wasn’t something Simon ran across often in the sixteenth century and he wasn’t about to pass up an opportunity to taste it now. “That would be wonderful.”
Helen frowned. “But not necessary. We don’t want to impose.”
“You’re never an imposition, Helen. You know better than that. Mavis?” Mrs. Dawson called out to the empty hall.
The woman Simon assumed was Mavis stepped into view. “Yes, Mrs. Dawson?”
“Please bring a pot of coffee and your delicious cookies for my guests.”
Mavis nodded and disappeared as Mrs. Dawson led them into her day room.
Once seated, Mrs. Dawson asked. “Tell me what I’m not going to believe.”
Helen ran her hands over her thighs and her spine stiffened.
“’Tis best to just say it,” Simon suggested. He already knew Helen trusted Mrs. Dawson and intended to tell her the truth.
After meeting the woman, he understood a little more about the bond these two had formed. Helen told him Mrs. Dawson and her late husband weren’t able to have children of their own. Mrs. Dawson treated Helen like a granddaughter. And Helen loved her for it. The woman was the closest thing to family Helen had.
“Okay, here it goes. But keep an open mind.”
“Don’t I always, dear?”
Helen smiled. “This is…Simon McAllister.”
A slow, methodical shift of the old woman’s chin and her eyes met his. Her stare pinned him down. She said nothing while considering Helen’s words.
The clock on the mantel above the fireplace ticked.
Helen held her breath.
Simon waited.
A small ache touched the back of his head. Instead of fighting the ache, he took a deep breath and opened his thoughts. Mrs. Dawson might not be asking one question with her lips, but she was searching for the truth with her mind. Simon felt her inside his head.
Druids had a way of reading other people’s intent. He couldn’t help wondering if the act was subconscious or intentional.
Mrs. Dawson was Druid.
No wonder she and Helen ‘hit it off’. They were kindred spirits.
Did Mrs. Dawson know of her gift? Or had she walked through life oblivious of her heritage?
“Aren’t you going to say something?” Helen asked.
Mrs. Dawson lifted a hand, quieting Helen.
Mavis stepped into the room and filled the table in front of them with the refreshments. Mrs. Dawson thanked her and asked her to close the door behind her.
“When did you leave Scotland, Helen?” Mrs. Dawson didn’t move her eyes from his as she spoke.
“Yesterday.”
“If you left Scotland yesterday, and you are Simon McAllister.” She pointed a finger at his chest. “Then every question I have is going to have a magical answer and not a logical one.” Mrs. Dawson finally turned toward Helen. “Start at the beginning and don’t leave a thing out.”
“You believe in magic?” Helen asked.
“There’s a lot about me you don’t yet know. Now from the beginning.”
Helen blew out a sigh and started to talk.
Simon relaxed into the sofa after swiping two cookies from the plate.
* * * *
The events of the past two days rolled off Helen’s tongue in a steady stream of words. Mrs. Dawson kindly folded her hands in her lap and listened. Not once did she scoff or raise an eyebrow in disbelief.
Simon devoured the plate of cookies and didn’t offer one syllable while Helen told her tale.
“I still have a hard time believing magic is real. But you can’t argue with living proof.” Helen pointed at Simon.
He awarded her with a wink and heat surged to her face. They really didn’t have room in all this for flirtation. So what if he wasn’t married. He still lived in a completely different time. A time he wanted to return to. Not that he didn’t appear completely comfortable sprawled on Mrs. Dawson’s sofa sipping coffee as if he had nothing better to do. There was nothing about his demeanor screaming anxiety. He didn’t even seem prepared to defend what Helen was telling Mrs. Dawson.
“I think Mrs. Dawson believes in magic, lass.”
After a half an hour he finally spoke. His tone was a little condescending, and his assumption of Mrs. Dawson’s beliefs niggled at Helen’s nerves.
Simon didn’t know Mrs. Dawson. Did he?
“We’ve been here for less than an hour and suddenly you’re the authority on Mrs. Dawson’s emotions?”
Simon sat forward. “Aye.”
Talk about arrogant. Before Helen could protest, Simon directed his next words to Mrs. Dawson. “This lovely woman believes in magic because she’s experienced it herself. Haven’t you?”