He began to look for her, and she was there most days. She usually brought her sketchbook, but sometimes she sat and read, the book tilted to catch the slanting light, drinking coffee from an insulated travel cup. Some days she wore jeans and a T-shirt; on others she wore long tiered flowered skirts and sheer cotton blouses that slipped off her shoulders.
He thought she noticed him, but she was careful not to look at him, and something in her expression and body language kept him at bay. He began bringing books along, an excuse to linger, sharing the same stretch of beach. Finally, after a long, frustrating afternoon in the hot sun, he decided to introduce himself.
As soon as his shadow fell over her, she clutched the sketchbook to her body as if to protect it.
“You're in my light,” she said, without facing around. Her accent reminded him of Trevor's, with its soft southern vowels.
“Sorry.” He circled around, squatting next to her. She'd hitched her skirts up to mid thigh, exposing her legs to the sun. The wind had torn locks of her hair free from the elastic, and she tucked them behind her ears. Up close, he saw that her hair was all different colors, like butter and sugar and caramel, painted by the sun. “I see you here all the time,” he said. “I was wondering what you were drawing.”
“Your being curious don't make it your business, now does it?” Her eyes were watercolor blue in her sun-gilded face.
Seph blinked and sat back on his heels. “Well, no, I guess not. …”
She laughed. “You should see your face. You aren't used to girls saying no to you, are you?”
He shrugged and rested his arms on his knees. “We haven't even come to the hard questions yet.”
“Save them for someone else. I come up here to sketch, not to flirt with the summertime boys.”
“You're not from around here, are you?” No. He couldn't believe he'd said that.
“No. I'm not.” Sand adhered to her long legs, to the tops of her feet. Following his gaze, she scowled at him, then redistributed the fabric of her skirt, covering herself to the ankle. She wore a ribbon with a familiar cameo around her neck, and he suddenly realized where he'd seen it before.
“You work at the Legends?” The Legends was an inn and restaurant in a Victorian mansion overlooking the lake. Linda and Becka liked to go there for brunch.
“I'm waitressing there, okay? I'm from Coalton County, a place I'm sure you never heard of.” She snatched up the case of pastels and snapped it shut, shoving it into her tote bag, following with her sketch pad.
Seph watched this, unsure what he'd done wrong. “Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to run you off.” Why was he always apologizing?
“Never mind. The light has changed, my mood is ruined, and my shift is about to start.” She stood, brushing sand off the back of her skirt.
A pile of drawings sat nearby, anchored by a large rock. Seph reached for them.
“No! Leave them alone!” She shoved him, hard, and the pages went flying, caught by the shore breeze.
Bewildered, he scrambled after them, snatching some of them practically out of the waves. When he had them all, he turned and found she hadn't waited for him. In fact, she was already a good distance away, striding down the beach, shoulders hunched, head thrust forward. “What the … ?” He looked down at the wad of paper in his hand. The drawing on top was a face in charcoal, a three-quarter profile, long, curling dark hair, high cheekbones, a Romanesque nose, half smile, eyes set under a smudge of dark brows.
His own face.
He pawed through the others. Seph McCauley sprawled on his back in the sun in his bathing trunks, muscles picked out under the skin of his chest, one arm flung over his eyes. Seph walking along the shore, a tall, angular figure silhouetted against the bright water. Seph sprawled on the rocks at the water's edge, looking toward Canada. Studies of his back and shoulders, his arms and hands, tendons and muscles faithfully rendered.
In each, he was surrounded by a nimbus of light, as if illuminated from within. Like images of the saints in the old manuscripts. They were all of him, save a few still lifes of shells and rock at the bottom. Thoughts surfaced, as from a dark pool.
Why is she drawing pictures of me?
She knows I'm a wizard.
And then he was running, pounding down the beach after her, leaping over boulders and half-submerged driftwood. He was perhaps a hundred feet away from her when she heard him coming. She didn't look back, but increased her speed until she was running herself. Her hair escaped from its elastic and streamed out behind her as she dodged around tree stumps and late-day beach strollers.
He ran faster.
He'd almost caught up with her when she tripped over a tree root and went sprawling, sliding forward in the sand.
He fell to his knees next to her. He put his hand on her shoulder and she flinched at his touch. “You okay?” She didn't reply, but folded into herself as if she wanted to disappear. He rolled her over onto her back and wiped the sand from her face with the hem of his T-shirt. She squinched her eyes shut, like she could pretend he wasn't there. Her white lace blouse was smeared with wet sand, her chest heaving as she fought for breath.
“Who are you, really?” he demanded.
“I … told … you. I'm a waitress.”
“What's your name?”
“Madison Moss.”
“Did Leicester send you?”
Now she opened her eyes and squinted at him. “I don't know what you're talking about.”
“How did you know that I'm … a wizard?”
She said nothing.
He dropped his hands onto her collarbone on either side, fingertips pressing lightly against her skin. Her stealing of his image somehow gave him permission. “Now you're going to tell me the truth,” he muttered. He released power into her—gentle persuasion. At first it felt good, like a long breath exhaled. A trickle at first, and then a flood, and then he tried to pull away and couldn't. And more, and more, until he was drained and nauseous and dizzy, like his very essence was being pulled out through his fingertips.
Finally she reached up and pulled his hands away, then rolled him over on his back, folding his hands across his chest like a corpse laid out on a bier. Black spots circled through his vision like vultures, blotting out the sun.
She leaned over him. Touched his cheek gently and kissed him on the forehead. “Good-bye, Witch Boy,” she whispered. She stood, retrieved her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and walked away, not in any hurry this time, as if she knew he couldn't follow.
He wasn't sure how long he lay there, unable to move. Like a drunk on the sidewalk. Or a creature that had washed up in a storm. Finally, he propped up on his elbows. His head swam, and he thought for a moment he might be sick, but it passed. He rolled to his hands and knees. Several of the drawings had been trapped under his body. He folded them carefully and stuffed them into his back pockets, then stood, listing a little, shaking the sand out of his hair. He felt empty. He looked up and down the beach. The sun had passed midday, and the beach was crowded. No sign of Madison Moss.
He hauled himself up the wooden stairway from the beach, laboring like an old man. He found Jack, Ellen, Fitch, and Fitch's girlfriend, Miriam, sitting at the picnic tables under the trees, slurping down frozen-custard cones.
Miriam was from Cleveland, and her family owned a cottage at Trinity Lakeside. She wore black crushed velvet, kohl eyeliner, and fishnets to the beach. Seph thought it was cool, in an impractical sort of way.
“Hey, Seph. Want to play tennis later?” Ellen asked when she spotted him. Then she frowned, shading her eyes. “Are you all right? You look like you've got sunstroke or something.”
Seph dropped onto the bench next to her, exhausted by the climb from the beach. “I'm okay.”
“Here. Have some.” She handed him her cone. He licked off half and handed it back.
“Who was that girl you were dancing with at the pavilion last night?” Fitch asked.
“Christy Laraway. She's taking classes at the Institute.” He closed his eyes, trying to remember her face.
“Dude. I thought you were going out with Julie Steadman.”
“I've hung out with Julie a few times,” Seph said, without opening his eyes. “I'm not going out with her.”
Jack finished his cone and licked his fingers. “The local girls are just thrilled to meet someone they didn't hate in second grade.”
“C'mon, Jack, it's more than that,” Ellen said. She switched to a ditsy high falsetto. “He's so hot. He's practically European. I mean, he's lived all over the world. And he speaks French!' She nudged Seph with her shoulder. ”And have you seen his eyes? They change colors, and he has these long, dark lashes. And the way he kisses." She rolled her eyes.
“Shut up, Ellen,” Seph said. Their conversation was necessarily edited because of the presence of Miriam, who knew nothing of the magical subtext.
“So. What's the secret of great kissing, Seph?” Jack asked. “Is it technique, duration, intensity, or power?”
Seph sighed theatrically. “Oh, all right, Jack. I'll kiss you. But just this once.” He rolled sideways to dodge Jack's half-hearted swipe at him. Somehow, Jack always came off sounding critical. Like he thought Seph was taking advantage of Persuasion.
“Guys are grumbling about the out-of-town competition,” Jack went on. He stripped off his T-shirt and mopped his face with it.
Seph shrugged. “Don't you think everyone brings something to the game?”
“What do you mean?”
“We all use our assets. For instance, some people are really buff.” Seph glanced sideways at Jack. “Or they're great conversationalists. They play football or they're in a blues band. They write poetry or they paint or they're good listeners. They have great hair, great legs, a boatload of money and a boat. Or they have that je ne sais quois …”
“Or that je definitely sais quois, as the case may be,” Jack replied.