Return of the Light

“And as for not letting it get around, you know me better than that, don’t you?”

“Do I?”

“You did once. You knew me well enough to make love to me, Dori. Or did you forget that, too?”

“Jason…”

“Knew me well enough to let me believe we had something special, then left me in the dust, wondering what truck had just run me down.”

She lowered her eyes.

“You trusted me then, didn’t you, Dori?”

“People change.”

“You sure as hell proved that.” He sighed. “But I’m the same guy I was back then. A little older. A little wiser, maybe. But you can still trust me.”

She sighed. “I haven’t changed as much as you think I have,” she said softly. “I couldn’t be who I was. Not here. Not in this town.”

“It wasn’t the town holding you back, Dori. That was all you.”

She sighed. “Maybe. Maybe I was just afraid.”

“Maybe you still are.”

She was quiet a moment, seeming to think things over. “I was thinking about reserving a table at the Holiday Craft Fair. Doing tarot readings for people.”

He lifted his brows. “Yeah?”

“I wasn’t sure what the reaction would be, though.”

He shrugged. “As a rule, the word psychic doesn’t stir up the same feelings as the word Witch.”

“I could really use the extra money.”

“So do it. Give folks a little credit, Dori. Just ’cause this isn’t a major metropolitan city doesn’t mean we’re all ignorant here. This is Vermont, for goodness’ sake. Most open-minded state in the union.”

She lifted her head. He saw a light in her eyes for the first time. Maybe she was a little excited about the idea of cracking the door of that broom closet where she’d been hiding, letting a bit of light shine in. He hoped so.

“Meanwhile, keep an eye out for those kids. Okay? They haven’t done any harm so far, but that lake is no place for a bunch of rowdy teenagers.”

“I’ll keep an eye out.”

He finished his coffee, got up from the table. “It was good talking to you again,” he said. “It’s been way too long.”

“We’ve talked. At the diner.”

He set his cup in the sink and went to the door, stomped into his boots. “I barely get a word in at the diner. They keep you too busy. Or maybe it’s that you’ve been actively avoiding me.”

She brought his coat from the back of his chair and handed it to him. “I guess I’ve been feeling guilty. About the way we left things.”

“The way you left things,” he corrected. “The way you left, period.”

She pursed her lips, lowered her head. “I’m sorry I hurt you, Jason. It’s long overdue, but—”

“But you’re not sorry you left?”

“I had to leave. For me.”

He nodded, looking a little sad. “I hope you found whatever it was you needed. I hope it was worth what you gave up to get it. ’Night, Dori.”

Chapter Two

Jason didn’t ask her out again, even though she’d been convinced it had been on his mind when he’d first come over. He would probably never ask her out again, now that he knew the truth about her. He just gave her the wisdom of his sound advice and left her with an unanswerable question niggling and gnawing at her brain.

Had she found whatever it was she had needed in New York? And had it been worth what she had given up?

She hadn’t thought she’d given up anything, beyond a summer fling with a great guy and a part-time job with her beloved uncle. But now she wondered. Could it have been more? What was Jason thinking about their relationship back then? That it could be something…more? How could she weigh what she had given up when he’d never told her what that might be?

She knew what she had found in leaving. She’d found the freedom to practice her religion. A handful of other women to practice it with. A succession of willing teachers, each a master of some occult discipline; the cards, the runes, healing, meditation. She’d studied and learned and taught. Become a master in her own right. A leader of the community. A true High Priestess of the Craft.

And while she was at it, she’d worked her way up through the ranks at Mason-Walcott Publishing. First as an editorial assistant, then an associate editor, full editor, senior editor and, finally, as editorial executive director, with a clear path ahead to publisher. She’d been out and open about who she was at work, at home. Everywhere she went. She’d become the most in-your-face Wiccan she knew, with a Spiral Goddess on her desk and a huge pentacle hanging from a chain around her neck—to match the smaller ones on her ears, to match the middle-sized ones on her fingers.