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Authors: Heather Graham
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that if she hurried, she could be out of the dining room before Dr. O’Neill reappeared.
“Wait a minute,” Marc said. “Just let me set the painting before the wall.”
Serena left Marc adjusting his portrait and hurried into the kitchen. It was exactly eight, and Martha was piling a plate high with blueberry biscuits. “Take these, will you, dear?” Martha told Serena, handing her the plate without bothering to wait for a reply. “The Bakers and the Donnesys aren’t having breakfast this morning,” Martha told Serena, her brown eyes sparkling as she smoothed back neat gray curls before reaching for the massive coffeepot. “They all left at the crack of dawn to go whale watching.”
Serena laughed, the sparkle in her eyes matching that of Martha’s affectionately. The Donnesys and the Bakers were all four on the far side of seventy, but more active, life-loving people she had yet to meet. She had looked forward to their coming for the summer leaving their southern retreats to stay at the inn. “Good for them!” Serena said, but then her smile faded as she followed Martha from the kitchen to the elegantly cared for dining room. Only one of three tables had been set—Martha had planned for Dr. O’Neill to join them.
“I heard Marc’s voice,” Martha said with a shade of exasperation. She wasn’t terribly fond of the number of meals she afforded the young man. “So I assumed he was staying.” The prim note left her voice. “Wait until you meet Dr. O’Neill! You’re really going to enjoy him, Serena! Not that he’s a thing like I expected—I mean a professor?—but you’ll see! He’s doing a book up here, you know. Kind of a heavy thing, I take it. He’s totally against the witchcraft trials being presented historically as cases of fraud and the like—he was trying to explain to me how very terrible and physical the clinical type of hysteria could be! And he can tell you all sorts of fascinating things! He’s studied voodoo and African arts and Indian shamans and—but he’s not at all the bookish type. Like I said, just wait till you see him, dear—my Lord, I do run on.”
She certainly had run on. Serena hadn’t been able to find a second in which to interrupt. “Martha,” she murmured, following the older woman back into the kitchen to be handed a large platter of bacon, “I’ve met Dr. O’Neill.”
“Oh!” Martha paused and scrutinized Serena sharply. “Well?”
“Well what?”
“What did you think?”
Serena lowered her eyes. I wasn’t actually thinking when we first met, she thought bitterly. She shrugged, turning with her bacon. “He seems all right,” she said nonchalantly.
“Did I hear you say something about a book?”
Marc entered the dining room and pulled out a chair for himself.
“Yes,” Martha said, her eyes narrowing upon her unwanted guest. “Dr. O’Neill writes textbooks that are used in colleges and universities all over the country.”
“Who told you that?” Marc inquired a bit sourly. “Dr. O’Neill?”
Martha gave him a thin-lipped smile. “No, Marc. When he called to reserve the room, he mentioned he was writing a book. I happened to mention him to Mrs. Baker. She told me that he was considered the best in his field!”
Serena hated to hear the sharp edge passing between two of her best friends. But there was no help for it. Martha and Marc simply didn’t get along, and although open warfare had never been declared, situations had been known to get tense. She took the seat beside Marc and lied valiantly with false cheer. “It should be an exciting summer—a clinical writer and an imaginative one—both haunting the Golden Hawk!”
Just as she finished speaking, the “clinical” writer made his appearance. Bathed and shaved, and both casual and overwhelmingly vigorous in jeans and a sport shirt, he offered a pleasant “Good morning” to Martha before taking the chair beside Serena.
“I hear you’re a writer,” Marc said to
“Wait a minute,” Marc said. “Just let me set the painting before the wall.”
Serena left Marc adjusting his portrait and hurried into the kitchen. It was exactly eight, and Martha was piling a plate high with blueberry biscuits. “Take these, will you, dear?” Martha told Serena, handing her the plate without bothering to wait for a reply. “The Bakers and the Donnesys aren’t having breakfast this morning,” Martha told Serena, her brown eyes sparkling as she smoothed back neat gray curls before reaching for the massive coffeepot. “They all left at the crack of dawn to go whale watching.”
Serena laughed, the sparkle in her eyes matching that of Martha’s affectionately. The Donnesys and the Bakers were all four on the far side of seventy, but more active, life-loving people she had yet to meet. She had looked forward to their coming for the summer leaving their southern retreats to stay at the inn. “Good for them!” Serena said, but then her smile faded as she followed Martha from the kitchen to the elegantly cared for dining room. Only one of three tables had been set—Martha had planned for Dr. O’Neill to join them.
“I heard Marc’s voice,” Martha said with a shade of exasperation. She wasn’t terribly fond of the number of meals she afforded the young man. “So I assumed he was staying.” The prim note left her voice. “Wait until you meet Dr. O’Neill! You’re really going to enjoy him, Serena! Not that he’s a thing like I expected—I mean a professor?—but you’ll see! He’s doing a book up here, you know. Kind of a heavy thing, I take it. He’s totally against the witchcraft trials being presented historically as cases of fraud and the like—he was trying to explain to me how very terrible and physical the clinical type of hysteria could be! And he can tell you all sorts of fascinating things! He’s studied voodoo and African arts and Indian shamans and—but he’s not at all the bookish type. Like I said, just wait till you see him, dear—my Lord, I do run on.”
She certainly had run on. Serena hadn’t been able to find a second in which to interrupt. “Martha,” she murmured, following the older woman back into the kitchen to be handed a large platter of bacon, “I’ve met Dr. O’Neill.”
“Oh!” Martha paused and scrutinized Serena sharply. “Well?”
“Well what?”
“What did you think?”
Serena lowered her eyes. I wasn’t actually thinking when we first met, she thought bitterly. She shrugged, turning with her bacon. “He seems all right,” she said nonchalantly.
“Did I hear you say something about a book?”
Marc entered the dining room and pulled out a chair for himself.
“Yes,” Martha said, her eyes narrowing upon her unwanted guest. “Dr. O’Neill writes textbooks that are used in colleges and universities all over the country.”
“Who told you that?” Marc inquired a bit sourly. “Dr. O’Neill?”
Martha gave him a thin-lipped smile. “No, Marc. When he called to reserve the room, he mentioned he was writing a book. I happened to mention him to Mrs. Baker. She told me that he was considered the best in his field!”
Serena hated to hear the sharp edge passing between two of her best friends. But there was no help for it. Martha and Marc simply didn’t get along, and although open warfare had never been declared, situations had been known to get tense. She took the seat beside Marc and lied valiantly with false cheer. “It should be an exciting summer—a clinical writer and an imaginative one—both haunting the Golden Hawk!”
Just as she finished speaking, the “clinical” writer made his appearance. Bathed and shaved, and both casual and overwhelmingly vigorous in jeans and a sport shirt, he offered a pleasant “Good morning” to Martha before taking the chair beside Serena.
“I hear you’re a writer,” Marc said to
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