I waited until Matthew was hammering in his next fence post before jumping into Sarah’s Mini. I reversed it and sped away from the house. Matthew hadn’t gone so far as to forbid me from leaving the farm unaccompanied, and Sarah knew where I was going. Happy to be getting away from the tension, I opened the sunroof to catch the July breezes on my way into town.
My first stop was at the post office. Mrs. Hutchinson eyed the tight swell under the hem of my T shirt with interest but said nothing. The only other people in the post office were two antiques dealers and Smitty, Matthew’s new best friend from the hardware store.
“How is that post maul working out for Mr. Clairmont?” Smitty asked, tapping his sheaf of junk mail against the brim of his John Deere hat. “Haven’t sold one of them in ages. Most people want post pounders these days.”
“Matthew seems quite happy with it.” Most people aren’t six-foot-three vampires, I thought, chucking the sales flyer for the local grocery store and the offers for new tires into the recycling bin.
“You’ve caught a good one there,” Smitty said, eyeing my wedding ring. “And he seems to be getting along with Miz Bishop, too.” This last was said in a slightly awed tone.
My mouth twitched. I picked up the stack of catalogs and bills that remained and put them in my bag. “You take care, Smitty.”
“Bye, Mrs. Clairmont. Tell Mr. Clairmont to let me know when he decides about that roller for the driveway.”
“It’s not Mrs. Clairmont. I still use— Oh, never mind,” I said, catching Smitty’s confused expression. I opened the door and stepped aside to let two children enter. The kids were in hot pursuit of lollipops, which Mrs. Hutchinson kept on the counter. I was almost out the door when I heard Smitty whispering to the postmistress.
“Have you met Mr. Clairmont, Annie? Nice guy. I was beginning to think Diana was going to be a spinster like Miz Bishop, if you know what I mean,” Smitty said, giving Mrs. Hutchinson a meaningful wink.
I turned west onto Route 20, through green fields and past old farmsteads that had once provided food to the area’s residents. Many of the properties had been subdivided and their land turned to different purposes. There were schools and offices, a granite yard, a yarn shop in a converted barn.
When I pulled in to the parking lot of the supermarket in nearby Hamilton, it was practically deserted. Even when college was in session, it was never more than half full.
I maneuvered Sarah’s car into one of the plentiful open spaces near the doors, parking next to one of the vans that people bought when they had children. It had sliding doors to allow for the easy installation of car seats, lots of cup holders, and beige carpets to hide the cereal that got flung on the floor. My future life flashed before my eyes.
Sarah’s zippy little car was a welcome reminder that there were other options, though Matthew would probably insist on a Panzer tank once the twins were born. I eyed the silly green witch on the antenna. As I murmured a few words, the wires in the antenna rerouted themselves through the soft foam ball and the witch’s hat. No one would be stealing Sarah’s mascot on my watch.
“Nice binding spell,” a dry voice said from behind me. “I don’t believe I know that one.”
I whirled around. The woman standing there was fiftyish with shoulder-length hair that had gone prematurely silver and emerald green eyes. A low hum of power surrounded her—not showy, but solid.
This was the high priestess of Madison’s coven.
“Hello, Mrs. Harrison.” The Harrisons were an old Hamilton family. They’d come from Connecticut, and, like the Bishops, the women kept the family name regardless of marriage. Vivian’s husband, Roger, had taken the radical step of changing his last name from Barker to Harrison when the two wed, earning him a revered spot in the coven annals for his willingness to honor tradition and a fair amount of ribbing from the other husbands.