Crystal Cove (Friday Harbor #4)(84)

“Sure. What’s the significance of groups of three?”

Her tone was dry. “It’s the number of passenger seats in the golf cart.”

“Golf cart?”

“No one has cars on the island. The residents use bicycles or light electric vehicles. We keep ours in the green shed outside. Would you mind backing it out and pulling it up to the front door? We’ll have the first group of coveners and supplies waiting.”

“No problem,” Jason said.

Her gaze was speculative and kind. “This isn’t the usual weeknight activity for a man in your position, is it?”

He smiled slightly. “Chauffeuring witches in a golf cart to an abandoned schoolhouse at midnight? Not really. But it’s a nice change in the routine.”

One of the crafters, an elderly woman with white hair and bright blue eyes, approached Rosemary and gently tapped her on the shoulder. “It’s getting late,” she said. “Shouldn’t Marigold have arrived by now?”

“Marigold isn’t coming,” Rosemary said, her mouth tightening. “It seems she had other plans.”

* * *

After a couple of maddening attempts at trying to fix the time and date settings on her phone, Justine gave up and downloaded a Scrabble app. Maybe playing a few rounds against the computer would give her some insight into why Jason was such a fan of the game. Curling up in the corner of her sofa, she adjusted the setting of the game to “easy” and started to play.

A half hour later, she had reached a few conclusions: She would be a much more successful player if the Scrabble dictionary would allow the use of certain four-letter words, that quat was the name of an African evergreen shrub, and that there was something seriously addictive about the sound of the electronic tiles being clicked.

She was mulling over her deficiency in words starting with z when she heard a knock at the cottage door. Wondering if there was a problem with a guest, or if Zoë had decided to drop by, Justine hopped off the sofa and went to answer the door in her sock feet.

Opening it, she felt her heart stop as she was confronted with the last person she expected to see.

“Mom?”

Twenty-five

Whenever Justine had tried to envision a reunion with her mother, she had thought it would take place in cautious increments … an e-mail, a letter, a phone call, a brief visit. She should have known better. Marigold had always been a creature of impulse, following every whim and doing whatever was necessary to avoid the consequences. Showing up at the front door was to Marigold’s advantage; the surprise of it would throw Justine off balance.

Justine had always hoped that someday she and her mother might come to a new understanding and acceptance of each other. Some resolution that didn’t involve winning and losing, but instead … peace. But after four years of estrangement, her mother’s eyes were hard with the same anger that had underpinned every moment of Justine’s childhood. No visible signs of softening.

“Mom, what are you doing here?” Opening the door, she stepped back to allow Marigold inside.

Marigold ventured just past the threshold and looked around.

There was a time when Justine would have worried about her mother’s reaction to the cottage, the inn, the life she had built. She would have desperately wanted Marigold’s good opinion, so seldom given. It came as a revelation that she no longer needed her mother’s approval. It was enough to know that she had made the right choices for herself.

“Is there a problem?” Justine asked. “Why are you here?”

Marigold’s voice was threaded with contempt. “Is it hard to believe that I might want to see my own daughter?”

Justine had to think about that. “Yes,” she said. “You’ve never liked my company, and I still haven’t done what you wanted me to do. So there’s no reason for you to visit unless there’s a problem.”

“The problem, as always, is you,” Marigold said flatly.

As always. Those two words brought the past into the room with them as if it were a living presence. A giant standing over them both, casting an inescapable shadow of blame.

There had been no softening in Marigold’s heart. She had ossified until, like a beautiful stone statue, any change in posture would cause her to break and crumble. She would never be able to turn her head to look in a new direction, or take a step forward, or hold her daughter in her arms. How terrible it must have been, Justine thought with a trace of compassion, to stay so rigid while life changed around you.

“Does this have to do with the geas?” Justine asked gently. “Rosemary and Sage must have told you by now. You must be angry.”

“I made a sacrifice for you, and you threw it away. How should I feel, Justine?”

“Maybe a little like the way I felt, when I found out about it.” She saw from Marigold’s incredulous fury that it hadn’t occurred to her to wonder about Justine’s feelings.

“You’ve always been ungrateful,” Marigold snapped, “but I never thought of you as stupid. I gave you what you needed. I did what was best for you.”

“I wish you had waited until I was older,” Justine said quietly. “I wish you’d explained it to me first. Maybe allowed me to have a say in it.”

“I suppose I should have asked your permission before feeding you, clothing you, taking you to the dentist and the pediatrician—”