Suddenly there was a burst of laughter from the living room and Rory returned, a relieved grin on his face. “Everything’s fine,” he said, and Arthur sagged against his chair. “The test came back negative.”
“I told all of you to stop worrying about me,” Lane said as she came into the kitchen. “Just because I’m getting old doesn’t mean you stop listening to your mother and gramma,” she chastised gently, kissing Simon on top of his head. She gave Arthur’s shoulder a squeeze, too.
He reached up and patted her hand, leaning into her touch. “I’m so happy to hear the good news.”
Rory herded his mother into one of the seats at the table and disappeared to find her something to drink. “Stop fussing, Rory,” she insisted.
“Listen to your mother,” came Barry’s gruff command. He took the seat next to Lane, pulling a still-steaming slice of pizza onto his plate.
“I refuse,” Rory responded, beaming at his mother. As the tension melted from the room, everyone’s expressions infused with that unique joy that can only come when the worst has been dodged. As they talked and ate, laughter filling the tiny kitchen, Arthur suddenly felt like time had folded in on itself and he was fourteen to Rory’s twelve, a sometimes interloper inthis family unit that, for better or worse, was stuck with him for most of the summer.
Lane yawned and Rory stood, clearing her plate from in front of her before she could get to it. “I’m driving Mom home,” he announced.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she argued. “It’s down the block, and I’m perfectly capable of walking.”
“Youdon’t be ridiculous,” he answered. “I’m driving you home.” She rolled her eyes but smiled despite herself. Lane planted a kiss on Barry’s balding head, whispering something in his father’s ear that Arthur couldn’t quite make out, and then followed Rory out of the kitchen.
“Simon, I’m taking Gramma back to her house,” Rory called out. “Watch your uncle for me.” Simon nodded solemnly, as if Arthur needed a lot of supervision, which, gods below, he probably did.
—
Arthur made goodon his promise to get Simon ice cream, sending the boy home with his dad on a sugar high later that evening. They would be back early in the morning so Barry could take Simon fishing, and Arthur decided he would tell Rory about Beltane and Maggie then. Maybe. He’d sleep on it.
Arthur left his dad to snore in his reclining chair with the weather radio station on in the background, returning to the same childhood bedroom he’d always had at his dad’s house. Though he only used it over the summer, Barry had kept it set up for Arthur how he’d liked it as a kid, and it looked much the same now as it did then. There was a small twin bed that Arthurwas much too tall for. On the walls, there were posters, pictures cut out from newspapers and magazines, and photos. The themes shifted from the trains he’d been obsessed with as a young boy to book and album covers to a Dartwood pennant he’d hung the summer he applied to colleges, as well as photos of him and Rory at twelve, fifteen, and twenty. He’d recently added one of him holding a tiny Simon and another that they took after one of Simon’s baseball games last summer. Above a desk he’d never fit in now, there was a corkboard full of pretend runes and fake spells he’d invented as a kid. His dad had saved them and pinned them on the board for “inspiration” when Arthur moved back in. And then, in the corner of the corkboard, was the mask from that night, the blooms starting to curl at the edges as they dried.
He flopped on the bed, idly opening his phone and pulling up the text exchange with Maggie. He typed out a message and then stared at it, trying to gather enough courage to send it. In one motion, he hit send and then tossed the phone across his bed like it was on fire.
Arthur:What are you doing Thursday after classes end?
When she didn’t answer right away, Arthur’s stomach dropped. It was obviously too late to be texting a colleague. He shouldn’t have done it.Is it weird to text her at all?he thought, forgetting that she had been the one to message him first. He was about to throw his phone into the sea and pretend it never happened, when she responded.
Magnolia Linden, PhD:Ideally, I will be horizontal. Bed. Couch. I’m not a picky woman.
Arthur nearly choked. His skin flushed hot, realizing what she meant, but even imagining Maggie curled up on the couch after a long day of teaching, wearing a pair of skintight leggings, hair piled in a bun, was enough. He tried, unsuccessfully, to banish the image from his mind.
Arthur:What if, instead, we went to Bean There, Done That?
Gods, that coffee shop had such a ridiculous name. He couldn’t believe someone had putthaton a business license. It was as if these small-town shops had one marketing plan and it was a pun.
He looked back at the text and realized he didn’t say anything aboutwhyhe was asking her to get coffee. He quickly typed out:
Arthur:I’ll bring all my research. My last class ends at 4.
Magnolia Linden, PhD:Only if you buy me one of their cream cheese pastries.
Arthur:It’s the least I could do.
Magnolia Linden, PhD:I’ll meet you there at 5.
Thursday. He had almost a week to figure out what, exactly, he was going to tell Maggie about their shared night on Brig Beach, about the pall. His mouth was suddenly dry. He was sure Maggie would be incandescent with rage when she found outhewas the man she’d kissed and that he’d kept it from her. It would be all over. They obviously wouldn’t be able to share an office. Shouldn’t work together at all. He just wanted a few more days before she was out of his life forever. Before all the color that had come back to him would be banished back to gray.
He was about to hit the power button so he could stop thinking about text messages and the pall and just sleep, when Maggie’s name popped up again:Good night, Taliesin.
Chapter Eleven
The next morning, Rory and Simon returned at an hour that Arthur could only describe as horridly early. In fact, if pressed, he would have said it was the middle of the night, actually. There was barely a hint in the sky that dawn was approaching, but at least the overly strong coffee that their father liked to brew was percolating away. In the near darkness, a bleary Arthur filled a mug halfway with cream and leaned against the counter, waiting for the coffee to finish brewing. Rory barely said a word to him, his eyes practically closed at the table as he tried to persuade Simon to stop bouncing from side to side and eat his toast.
Barry emerged from his room wearing his fishing vest, stinking like decades-old seawater and remnants of fish guts. “Ready, kiddo?” Barry shouted, and Arthur and Rory groaned while Simon whooped.
