"It was a silly argument over a decal someone wanted to sell. And bless her, Morwenna backed down rather than punch out Aunt Martha. Who knows—Martha might have been the one to deck her, she is one feisty lady."
Megan laughed and moved her stirrer through her mocha. "What's the story with Andy Markham?"
Mike lifted a brow. "The story? Well, he tells stories. That's how he survives."
"He seems to believe them."
"Hey, you know what? People around here can convince you of almost anything. It's how they make a living. Megan!" he murmured suddenly, setting his hand upon hers. "It really does sound as if you're letting some of this get to you. Kid—you come from these parts! This stuff has been going on all your life, and you should remember it, even if you moved away for a while. You've got to remember that this place can be great—there's nothing as beautiful as autumn in New England. It's great that you're here, and I've never seen such a total community success as you and Finn have been, playing at the hotel. Relish the triumph! Savor it. Don't let the creepy-crawlies get into your dreams. Watch game shows before you go to sleep—even Huntington House offers dozens of cable channels these days. Cartoons—whoops, maybe not Once, I dreamed I was the Road Runner and Wily E. Coyote was after me."
Megan laughed again, remembering how she had always liked Mike, even in his ultraserious and academic moods. He had a nice, wry way of looking at the world, and could find humor in almost any situation.
She hesitated, then admitted, "Mike, I'm telling you, I've had such bad nightmares that Finn has suggested we just up and leave."
He digested her words, watching her, and answering carefully, "Megan, it's really a small, tight area, like I said. And we do remember the old families, and the past. You're basically a native child. To some people, your husband is still a Confederate, a Rebel—certainly not good old Yankee stock. You're loved
—he's under suspicion. But you two are a great pair. Don't let other people dictate your lives, or ruin something that is going great for you both. You spoke earlier about the power of suggestion. I'm dead serious. Make sure that any power of suggestion that's around you before you go to sleep is totally good, and then you'll have nice, sweet, dreams. You could wake up ruing the fact that your life is great but you're still broke, but that will be better than waking up in cold sweats and terror."
"You're right. I told Finn that I wasn't going to give in to any kind of idiotic suggestion and run. And still…"
"He's not the one having the nightmares, huh?"
"He doesn't wake up screaming. But… I think we're both sleeping… weirdly."
"Weirdly?"
She didn't want to explain that her husband didn't even remember intimacy when he woke up in the morning. That was too personal—as much as she did like Mike, and feel really comfortable about being with an old friend.
"Restlessly, I guess."
"A different bed," Mike said sagely, wiggling his brows.
She smiled. "Maybe. Except that we're both pretty good on the road. You have to get accustomed to different beds when you're musicians."
"Listen, everyone knows that you two had split, and gotten back together not all that long ago. So here you are—your hometown. Naturally, you're both going to be uneasy. Even though you're the loved one here, you're worried about his reactions to your hometown. He's worried about what people think of him, because he knows they all love you. I had to take a fair amount of psychology to get out of school with my doctorate, you know."
Megan leaned back, smiling. Mike had a nice, neat ability to put the world into perspective. Yet, as she sat back, she glanced out the window, and found herself frowning.
Finn was there.
Just outside, staring in. She could see his face over the glass where a large cup of steaming coffee had been painted on it.
She froze for a moment.
It didn't look like Finn. It was Finn, but…
She suppressed a little shiver, aware that his eyes were on her, and for a fleeting moment, they appeared to be red again.
Fiery red, like those eyes she had seen in her dream…
And his features… they were taut, so strained that he appeared almost skeletal. And the look he was giving her was filled with rage, menace, and…
Evil.
Evil. The word kept coming to her mind, in so many ways now, so very often.
She blinked, and swallowed. She'd imagined it all…
No, she hadn't. Finn was indeed there. But his eyes were their customary color, and his face wasn't pinched or taut at all. He'd donned one of his favorite coats, a black leather railroad jacket, and it fell nicely from his shoulders to his ankles, somehow very nicely emphasizing his height and the breadth of his shoulders and the clean lean lines of his waist, hips, and long legs. His hair was clean, a little shaggy, giving him an ever so slight rough-around-the-edges quality that was very appealing. He wasn't smiling; he looked a little grim, but not at all evil. In fact, she felt a little chill of excitement at the sight of him. Finn was, beyond a doubt, sexy.
He walked in.
"Finn!" she acknowledged.
He bent from behind, kissed her cheek, stood tall again, and nodded to Mike. "Hi, there. Nice to see you."
The words were spoken with even civility. It was still clearly evident, to Megan at least, that Finn wasn't in the least pleased to see Mike.
Mike rose, offering Finn a hand. Finn took it—then let go of it quickly, drawing over an empty chair from the table beside theirs, and straddling it. "Break time from the museum?" Finn queried.
"I take a break when I choose," Mike said pleasantly, as if he didn't notice in the least the note of hostility in Finn's voice. "Hell, I put in about eighty hours a week. That buys me the right to take a break whenever I choose. Hey, you guys were great last night."
"Thanks. I didn't see you there," Finn said.
"Oh, well, what the hell. When in Rome, you know. I wore a costume. And I'm not big on makeup, or fussing around in a way that takes a lot of time. Masks are the way to go for me."
"Still!" Megan said. "You need to come up to the stage and say hi!"
"Next time, I will," Mike promised.
"Do," Finn said. His fingers had curled around Megan's empty cup. She thought that if it hadn't been made of thick ceramic, it would have crushed beneath the tension in his fingers. "Did you two run into one another in the street?"
"No," Mike said.
"Yes," Megan began. Finn arched his brows. "In a way," Megan continued. "I was just out walking, one of the young museum employees saw me, Mike saw us… we went in to see a new exhibit going up, and came out for coffee then."
"New exhibit?" Finn said.
His voice was bass deep. Hard.
"I planned it, and I really think it's one of my best," Mike said, still being friendly and polite. How could he not hear the menace in Finn's voice? Megan wondered. She longed to kick Finn under the table, but oddly, she was afraid if she did so, he'd go straight for Mike's throat.
Or her own.
"What people don't grasp today about the situation in 1692 is just how serious the majority of the people considered the crime of witchcraft to be—and what they believed witchcraft to be. Remember, this is the same general time when young boys could be hanged for stealing loaves of bread—and before we hanged horse thieves in the American West with little thought of due process of law. So—"
"I'm sure it's a great exhibit," Finn said.
Mike was perplexed by the interruption, but he still didn't seem to realize that while he was being friendly, Finn had suddenly decided to act like a horse's ass.
"Is it all set up?" Finn asked pointedly.
"Still in the process."
"I can't imagine how you're tearing yourself away from it."
"Good point." Mike laughed a little awkwardly and rose. "I should get back. Please, both of you, stop by anytime. And if I can help in any way—clearing up any local hogwash or the like!—please don't hesitate to come by. I'm more than happy to help if I can."
Finn's brow was seared by a deep furrow as he stared at Megan. "Did we need help clearing up any local hogwash?"
"I did," she snapped, and rose as well. For a moment, she was almost afraid to tell Mike good-bye with a kiss on the cheek.
But Finn was being a total ass, and he'd surely realize it.
"Mike, we'll see you soon," she said firmly.
Finn rose as well. "Good afternoon," he managed to murmur. Mike had a hand out. Finn pretended not to see it.
"Have a great night then," Mike said, and offering a smile to Megan that assured her everything was all right, he made his way through the tables and exited.
Megan sank back into her chair and stared furiously at her husband. "What the hell was that all about?"
"You tell me," he said coolly.
"What are you talking about?"
"What did you do, come running to your old friend for help? 'My husband has become a monster! What do I do? I have nightmares, and he's in them all!' "
For a moment she was so startled that she didn't reply. Then she leaned toward him, heedless of the darkness in his eyes. "You are truly being a jerk, and surely, you must see that yourself!"
He stared back at her. There was still a fury so intense in his features that she again felt a second's fear that he would leap; there was also something disturbingly seductive about the hot tension that radiated from him.
She was losing her sanity, that was for sure. Maybe he was right—they should screw everything else and leave.
But…
What if nothing changed? What if the problems were between them, and had nothing to do with time and place, or even All Hallow's Eve?