The Peach Keeper

ELEVEN

Love Potion

European dance troupes, African a cappella groups, Chinese bell ringers—it didn’t really matter. Every year, the Women’s Society Club chose one obscure international group to sponsor for an American tour, and in return they received a special private backyard concert. It was always the highlight of the summer social season—except for this one. This season, the gala was all anyone was talking about, much to the consternation of Moira Kinley, whose year it was to host the concert.

It was barely a week until the gala, and Moira knew what she was up against. But she was smart. She was savvy. And most of all, she was Southern. So she scheduled the concert as a luncheon instead of a nighttime affair, completely different dressing situations, after all, and she managed to procure Claire Waverley as the caterer. Everyone wanted Claire Waverley, from the nearby college town of Bascom, to cater their affairs. Her food could affect you in magical ways. It was something you remembered fondly for years. Something you compared to every other meal you had. No one was going to pass this up, not even Paxton, who didn’t normally eat in social situations, and who didn’t even have a date for this one.

“Introduce yourself to Claire Waverley,” Paxton’s mother said to her as she followed Paxton to their front door.

“I will,” Paxton said, checking her watch. She had hoped she’d have time to call Willa to see how she was this morning. Last night had been intense. But now she’d run out of time. They had agreed to meet up again at the nursing home on Sunday, though.

“Make a good impression,” Sophia said.

“I will.”

“Give her this.” Sophia handed her a small box wrapped in beautiful blue paper and a plaid bow.

Paxton looked at it curiously. “What is it?”

“It’s a gift for the caterer, a gold pin in the shape of a flower, because she works with edible flowers. And I wrote her a nice note, too.”

It wasn’t a gift, it was a bribe, but Paxton didn’t point that out. “You really want her to cater your anniversary party, don’t you?”

“It’s only eight months away!” Sophia said worriedly.

Paxton had reached the door by this time. “Goodbye, Mama.”

“Yes, goodbye,” Colin said, appearing from out of nowhere and slipping out the door ahead of them.

“Colin! Where are you going?” Sophia called.

“To commune with nature,” he called back.

Paxton walked out, and Sophia said, “Fix the strap on your heel; it’s crooked.”

Paxton caught up with Colin as he was walking to their father’s black Mercedes. “That was entirely too easy for you,” she said. “It took me ten minutes just to get to the door.”

“The trick is to not make eye contact. They don’t charge if you don’t make eye contact.”

She smiled in spite of herself. “You’re in a good mood.”

“Yes, I am.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “But you’re not. When was the last time you were in a good mood, Pax? I know you don’t think I care. But I do. Nothing is going to get better until you get the hell out of this house. Find what makes you happy. Obviously, it isn’t here.”

No, it wasn’t here. She just wasn’t sure where it was. “Are you really going to commune with nature?”

“Actually, I have a date with Willa today. Which is why I have to go.” He nodded in the direction behind her. “Don’t keep your date waiting, either.”

“I don’t have a date. Thanks for pointing that out.”

“Tell him that,” he said as he kissed her on the cheek and got in the car.

Paxton turned to see that Sebastian had parked his car in front of hers in the round brick driveway. He was leaning against the car, his hands in his pockets.

He watched her approach, not smiling, not frowning. Definitely cautious, though.

“I told you you didn’t have to come,” she said, stopping in front of him.

“And I told you I’d do anything for you.” He opened the passenger-side door for her. “Shall we?”

She couldn’t deny the relief she felt. She hadn’t been looking forward to showing up alone. “Thank you, Sebastian.”

They didn’t talk much on the drive. They didn’t mention what they’d been doing this past week that prevented them from seeing each other or returning calls. He told her she looked beautiful in pink. She commented on his car’s nice wax job. That was it. She wondered if anything between them would ever be the same. And the sad answer was probably not, because she still couldn’t be this near to him and not feel that pull, that desire, that something that definitely wasn’t friendship. It never had been. And now that it was out, there was no going back.

They pulled in front of Moira Kinley’s Federal-style house, called Sourwood Cottage, and the valet for the event took Sebastian’s car. They walked up the steps, and as they reached the door, he finally asked, “Who is the gift for? Moira?”

“No. It’s a bribe from my mother to the caterer. She wants her for her anniversary party. At some point I’m going to have to slip away and give it to her, or I’ll never hear the end of it.”

When they walked inside, the maid directed them to the back of the house, where they found the club members and their guests mingling outside on the large lawn. Moira had created artificial shade on this hot day by stretching a canopy of light blue fabric, the color of the sky, across the area where the tables and stage were. Huge cooling fans blew, making the fabric billow. It was a beautiful effect. All this, and Claire Waverley, too. People were going to be talking about this for days. And Moira certainly deserved all the credit.

As Paxton and Sebastian walked toward the canopy, Paxton began to notice that there were quite a few women bearing gifts, including poor Lindsay Teeger, who was trying to balance a wok tied with a bow in one hand and a wineglass in the other. It appeared that Paxton’s mother wasn’t the only one who wanted Claire Waverley’s culinary talents for her next party.

Moira was the first to greet them. She looked happy and proud of herself. She knew what a coup this was. “Welcome!” she said, bussing their cheeks.

“This is stunning, Moira,” Paxton said. “Congratulations.”

“That means a lot, coming from you,” Moira said. “And just so you know, I’m not trying to steal your thunder with the gala. I’m sure it will be nice, too.” She pointed to the gift Paxton was holding. “Let me guess, for Claire Waverley?”

Paxton shrugged. “My mother insisted.”

“I’ll tell you what I told everyone else. The kitchen is off-limits. No one allowed. I don’t want Claire distracted. Sorry! But grab some wine and hors d’oeuvres, and enjoy!”

As soon as she flitted off, Sebastian leaned in and said, “These women should come with danger signs.”

She smiled at that as they walked under the canopy and tried to find their table. They were soon stopped by a waiter in his early twenties, handsome, full-lipped, his eyes all over Sebastian in a blatantly sexual way. He offered Sebastian some wine. Sebastian thanked him and took glasses for himself and Paxton, handed a glass to Paxton, then led her away with his arm tightly around her waist, obviously uncomfortable.

For the next half-hour, they mingled, and eventually they ended up in a group that included Stacey Herbst and Honor Redford. Paxton was getting tired of holding the gift from her mother. She thought she was conspicuous with it, since everyone else had given up hope and had either stuffed their gifts in their purses or put them on their tables, so Paxton excused herself to put her gift at her table, as well.

She wasn’t gone long. As she made her way back, she had to admire Sebastian. He managed to make everyone else here look like they were dressed for manual labor. His suit was smoky gray, his shirt was starched white, and his tie was like water. Everything was completely smooth and unruffled, and he moved like there was no resistance between him and what he wore.

She wasn’t the only one watching. The cute young waiter came back, this time with a tray of appetizers. He offered the tray to Sebastian, who shook his head and turned away, taking a sip of his wine. The waiter seemed to offer the tray to the rest as an afterthought.

Paxton approached the group in time to hear one of the women say to Sebastian, “He’s cute. I think he’s interested in you.”

“Darling,” Sebastian said, when he realized Paxton had joined them again. “Before we were interrupted, we were talking about you and the Blue Ridge Madam. The pall of the skeleton seems to have lifted.” Just as he’d said it would.

“Yes,” Paxton said brightly, too brightly. “In your eye, Tucker Devlin.” She lifted her glass as if in a toast, but the glass tipped slightly and sloshed onto Sebastian’s jacket. It was the oddest feeling. She could have sworn someone had pushed the glass. But there was no way anyone could have done that without her seeing. “Oh, Sebastian, I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right. It’s too hot for a jacket, anyway.”

“Have you had too much to drink already?” Stacey asked her.

Paxton looked at her with exasperation. “No. That was my first glass.”

The waiter was hurrying over, but Sebastian held up his hand and shook his head, stopping him with irritation. He handed Paxton his glass and took off his jacket and shook it.

“My great-aunt used to talk about him,” Sebastian said, draping his jacket over his arm and taking his glass back from Paxton. “Tucker Devlin. She said he held the town hostage with magic when he came. You know that painting in my bedroom, the one that belonged to her, the one with the bird perched on the bowl of berries?” he asked Paxton. That caused some subtly exchanged glances. They all knew now that she’d been in his bedroom. Paxton wondered if he’d said it on purpose. “She told me Tucker Devlin came to visit her once, because he liked to court all the girls, to make sure that they were all under his spell. She said as he stood there talking to her, he reached into the painting and brought out a handful of berries and ate them right in front of her. His hand was bleeding, as if the bird had pecked it. I always thought that was the strangest story. My great-aunt wasn’t one for flights of fancy. But I can’t look at that painting now and not wonder if that’s blood on its beak, or berry juice.”

“Wait a minute. My grandmother used to talk about a magic man, too,” Honor said. “A salesman who traveled through here once when she was a young woman. She said he stole hearts. Every time she told me the story, she used to say, If a man has so much heat he burns your skin when he touches you, he’s the devil. Run away.”

This set off a slew of almost-forgotten stories that grandmothers had passed down to their granddaughters about the magic man, most of them warnings. Nana Osgood hadn’t been exaggerating about just how forceful Tucker Devlin’s personality had been. He was still talked about in awe, even if everyone had relegated him to fiction.

He was living on in stories, stories that had been unearthed because his skeleton had been unearthed. But a man like that deserved to never be thought of again. Why couldn’t he have just stayed buried? No good had come of this.

A ripple of exclamations started to roll throughout the gathering, and Paxton looked up to see that a black-and-yellow bird had found its way under the canopy and was flying around, causing people to duck. It flew in circles for a few minutes, bumping against the canopy, until it finally made its way out.

And when it was gone, everyone had forgotten what they were talking about.

Finally, Moira asked that everyone take their seats. She gave a short self-congratulatory speech about the lunch, then almost forgot to introduce the group they had sponsored that year, a quartet of Ukrainian violinists. Lunch was then served, beautiful food garnished with edible roses and tasting of lavender and mint and lust. People closed their eyes with each bite, and the air turned sweet and cool. The quartet played ravishing melodies that were strange and exotic. There was a curious sense of longing in the air, and everyone felt it. People began to think of old loves and missed opportunities. Unlike most of these functions, no one wanted to leave. Lunch lingered for hours. The quartet went through their repertoire twice. When the plates were cleared for dessert, the quartet announced that they had to leave for the next stop on their tour that night. Everyone stretched at their tables, as if waking up. Moira, standing to the side, looked very pleased with herself.

Paxton turned to Sebastian, who was staring thoughtfully into his glass of wine. “If dessert is ready, I guess that means the caterer is leaving soon. I’m not going to get the opportunity to give my mother’s gift to Claire Waverley, after all. No one is, apparently.”

Someone across the table said something to her, and Paxton turned her head to answer. When she turned back, Sebastian was gone.

She looked around and found him on the periphery of the tables, talking to the young waiter who had been flirting with him earlier. Paxton looked away, a small ache in her chest.

Moments later, Sebastian leaned in from behind her and said into her ear, “I’ve found a way to get you into the kitchen. Come with me.”

Without a word, Paxton grabbed her purse and the gift, and followed Sebastian. There were a lot of people standing now, stretching their legs, so they managed to get back into the house unnoticed.

The cute young waiter was waiting for them. “Follow me,” he said with a wink and a smile.

Paxton looked to Sebastian. He’d done this just for her. “Go on,” he said. “I’ll wait for you in the living room.”

The waiter, whose name was Buster, was both sweet and outrageous. He was working his way through culinary school in Bascom. He got her past the person sitting outside the kitchen door, a guard of some sort that Moira had posted there in order to keep Claire Waverley all to herself, like a witch in a children’s story.

Paxton was so surprised and touched by Sebastian’s act that as soon as she walked into the kitchen, her agenda changed in a flash. It was there so suddenly, she didn’t have time to think it through. She was just going to do it. She put the gift on a shelf by the door and walked forward. She had one opportunity, and she was going to take it. Maybe she could still make this happen.

Two women were standing next to a stainless-steel prep table that was littered with flowers, making it look like bright confetti had been thrown onto it in an impromptu celebration. They were amazingly composed, as still as snow. Paxton felt a little leery as she approached them.

Rich women always have their ears to the ground, listening for the buzz of something new, something that will make them happier, younger, better. Once word of a dermatologist with a miracle cream gets out, that dermatologist is booked for months. Once a personal trainer at the gym is declared the best, everyone wants him. So it was with Claire Waverley, a beautiful, mysterious caterer who it was rumored could make your rivals jealous, your love life better, your senses stronger, all with the food she created. Her specialty was edible flowers, and once it got out that she had something no one else had, everyone wanted her. But she was notoriously hard to book.

“Claire Waverley?”

“Yes?” Claire said, turning around. She was in her forties, with beautifully cut hair and a quiet intensity.

“My name is Paxton Osgood.”

“Hello,” Claire said. She put her arm around the young woman beside her. “This is my niece, Bay.”

“Nice to meet you,” Paxton said.

Bay smiled. There was definitely a family resemblance. The dark hair, the gamine features. But Claire’s eyes were sharp and dark, and Bay’s were bright blue. Bay was probably fifteen—skinny, awkward, and completely charming. She was wearing so many braided bracelets that they covered half her arm, her T-shirt read: IF YOU ASK ME, I’LL TELL YOU, and she had an old Romeo and Juliet paperback stuffed into the back pocket of her jeans.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” Paxton said.

“You’re not. Our work is done. Dessert is ready.” She gestured to the large trays of custard cups, ready for the waiters to pick up. “Cups of lemon crème layered with hazelnut shortbread crumbles, pansies, lavender, and lemon verbena.”

“That sounds wonderful.”

“Bay, take that box out to the van, please.” As soon as the girl was gone, Claire said, “You have a question.”

She was used to this, Paxton realized. She was used to lovesick people wanting something from her—a cure, a potion, a promise. It was in her eyes. She’d seen it all before. The longing. The desperation. She knew what Paxton was going to ask before she said it.

Paxton looked over her shoulder to make sure no one else was near enough to hear. “Can you really make people feel differently with the food you cook, with the drinks you prepare?”

“I can change moods. What I can’t do is change people. There is no magic for that. Who are you looking to change?”

The words brought her up short. She didn’t want Sebastian to change. And being in love wasn’t something that was wrong. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, change that. She realized this was her last-ditch effort to make things go her way. Find what makes you happy, her brother had said. This didn’t bring her happiness, so why was she pursuing it? It was time, she realized, to finally give up. “No one, I guess,” Paxton said.

Claire gave her a small, understanding smile. “It’s for the best. The harder we fight, the worse it gets. I speak from experience.”

Paxton walked out of the kitchen, a little numb. But that was okay. She actually preferred it. She walked to Moira’s living room to find Sebastian.

Despite his delicate features and slim build, he could give off such a lord-of-the-manor vibe when he wanted to, lofty and untouchable. That’s what he looked like now, sitting on the leather couch, staring out the window. He turned when he heard her approach.

He looked surprised. “You didn’t give her the gift.”

Paxton looked at the wrapped box in her hands. “No. I think I’d like to go home.”

He uncrossed his legs and stood. He grabbed his jacket from the back of the couch and walked toward her silently. Once outside, Sebastian gave the valet his ticket. To the right, Paxton could see the Ukrainian performers climbing into a large white van. Without another thought, she went over to them and handed them her mother’s gift and said, “Thank you. It was beautiful.”

They smiled, not understanding these strange Southern American women.

The valet had delivered Sebastian’s Audi by the time she walked back. Sebastian helped her in, then got behind the wheel.

Before he could start the engine, she said, “I almost asked Claire Waverley for a love potion.”

He sat back slowly and looked at her. “Almost?”

“I don’t want you to be something you aren’t. You’re wonderful just as you are. And my feelings are inconvenient, but they’re not wrong. I don’t think I would change them, even if I could.”

With a sigh, he leaned over and put his forehead to hers, then closed his eyes. He, too, seemed to understand the hopelessness of the situation. After a moment, he pulled back slightly and looked at her. His eyes traveled all over her face and then slowly, almost imperceptibly, he leaned in to her again, watching her mouth. This had to be all her doing, somehow. She was creating this because she wanted it so much. “Don’t do this,” she whispered, when his lips got close enough that she could smell the slight tang of wine from his last sip in his glass. “Don’t pity me.”

His eyes darted to hers, confused. “What makes you think I’m pitying you?”

“I know it’s not something you want to talk about. I know you like to maintain this mystery when it comes to your sexuality. But I saw you, remember? Back in high school, our senior year. You were with a group of boys in the food court in the Asheville Mall. One of them leaned over and kissed you, and you looked right at me.” He leaned back in his seat, startled. She missed his nearness instantly, so much that she wanted to curl into herself to keep the last bit of his warmth with her. “I will never ask you to be something you’re not. Never. I know you can’t feel for me what I feel for you. So it’s my problem. It’s my roadblock to get around. Not yours.”

He took a deep breath and shook his head. “I’d forgotten about that,” he said.

There was an uncomfortable pause before he started the car and pulled out. He drove to an intersection and came to a stop, and Paxton recognized the car that had stopped to their left. It was Colin, with Willa in the seat next to him. Colin honked and waved at her.

If she didn’t love her brother so much, she’d probably resent him.

He’d obviously had a much better day than she had.