Mac’s face turned a bit pink as it always did when his mother called him Phillip.
“Hi, Mom,” he said.
Two of the other knitters, about the same age as Mom, Vi, and Lucille had joined us at the door. The younger ones showed a bit more decorum and remained in their seats. One of them had tattoos snaking up both arms, one sported hot pink spiky hair, and the other looked like a human Tinkerbell—tiny with a blond pixie cut.
“Oh, Lucille. Is this your son?” a short round woman with bright red lipstick on her lips and teeth asked. “He’s much more handsome than you said.” She batted her eyes at Mac.
Mac stepped back, onto my foot, and recovered by draping an arm over my shoulder. Lucille introduced the woman as Mavis Poulson and claimed Mac as her son. Mavis looked me over and returned to her seat without further comment. Her friend, Selma Stone, thin, tall, and entirely beige, shook my hand and then followed Mavis back to her seat.
The other knitters said hello and I quickly forgot their names in the sea of comments and yarn.
“Okay everyone, let’s get back to our projects!” The instructor clapped her hands. “We only have a few more minutes to work on them before dinner.”
She walked over to us and smiled. “Hello. I’m Isabel Keane.” She was petite, with short dark hair and large, expressive eyes. She had tossed a multicolored scarf artfully around her neck.
She shook my hand briefly and then took Mac’s hand and held on to it.
“It’s lovely to meet you . . . both,” she said.
Mom, Vi, and Lucille had returned to their chairs as instructed. Isabel asked us if we’d like to join them in a knitting lesson.
Mac shook his head. We smiled and backed out of the room.
“I don’t know if I can do this for the whole weekend,” Mac said. “My mother is here and that woman looked at me like I was dessert.”
“I noticed. She’s very pretty.”
“Who?”
“Isabel.”
“No, not her. Mavis—with the lipstick.”
I smiled. “Oh, her. I don’t think you have anything to worry about. I’m sure you can outrun her.”
“Let’s go talk to Wally and see when this storm is supposed to end. Maybe we can book another hotel and leave first thing in the morning.”
He steered me back toward the front of the building. We stopped when we got to the turn in the hallway.
“Any idiot could do your job—I don’t know why you can’t!” a shrill voice announced from around the corner. “You must be a special kind of idiot.”
I glanced at Mac. I didn’t want to embarrass whoever was being yelled at by walking in on this scolding, but I wanted to stop it as well. Mac and I nodded at each other and swung around the corner. A young woman in a maid’s uniform stood alone in the hall but I caught a glimpse of shiny black heels as they went up a nearby staircase.
The woman scrubbed at her eyes and turned away from us as we approached.
“Are you okay?” I said to her.
She nodded and sniffed. “I’m fine, ma’am. Thank you.”
She smoothed her skirt and walked down the hallway away from the stairway.
Mac sighed and shook his head. “Let’s go.” He tugged on my arm as I watched the young woman turn the corner at the end of the hall.
* * *
Wally clacked away on his keyboard as we approached.
He flipped it shut when he spotted us.
“How can I help you?”
“Do you have a weather report?” Mac asked.
“I just checked the radar.” Wally shook his head. “It doesn’t look good. High winds and more snow tonight. They say it will be blizzard conditions in another hour or so.”
The wind rattled the windows to punctuate Wally’s claim.
Mac slumped. “How long is it supposed to last?”
“They say it could blow through overnight, unless it meets another storm front they’re watching from the south. If they meet, the whole thing could stall right over us and then they don’t know how long it will last. The newspeople are saying everyone should check their supplies and stay off the roads.”
I glanced at Mac and felt my shoulders droop.
Mac’s grimace reflected my own emotions. When would we escape?
“We’re having a cocktail party tonight to kick off the knitting conference and Isabel Keane’s new book. I’m sure you’d both be welcome,” Wally said. He tilted his head and gave a sympathetic smile.
Mac blew out air, but then pulled himself to his full height. “I’ll go grab our suitcases before the weather gets even worse.”
“I’ll help you.” Wally hurried from behind the desk.
“Thank you,” I said. I followed them to the back door, where they donned coats and hats. The snow crunched underfoot as they stepped into the parking lot. A gust of wind almost pulled the door out of my grasp and I wrestled it closed as they made their way to my SUV.
Other than my toothbrush, there was very little in my Mexico suitcase that would be useful in a snowbound castle. I had the jeans I was wearing and one other long-sleeved T-shirt I had planned to wear on the plane ride home. The rest was swimsuits, shorts, and tank tops.
I opened the door again when I heard them approach. Stepping back, I barely avoided the spray of snow as they brushed it off while still outside.
“I’ll set these in your rooms while you’re in the lounge—unless you need something.” Snapping open the pull handles on the suitcases, Wally nodded toward the stairs.
Mac echoed my thoughts and said, “I’m not sure I’ll use any of it here—we were headed to warmer weather.”
Wally dragged the wheeled suitcases down the hall. Mac pulled me into a side hug and dropped his voice. “I think I’m going to need a drink to get through the rest of the evening.”
5
We approached the lounge and peeked inside. Women were scattered throughout the room with drinks and balls of yarn. Apparently the knitting wasn’t limited to the workshop room.
Mac and I took a deep breath and squared our shoulders.
“There you are!” Mom said when she spotted us.
Mac nodded to her and planted a kiss on the top of my head before heading to the drinks table. I held onto his hand as he walked away, feeling that this was the last moment of any semblance of a vacation. I turned to my mom with a forced smile.
She leaned toward me and said, “Vi is going to tell you that she knew your flight would be canceled, but that’s just because the tarot had indicated that something would happen to ruin your trip.” She used her I’m-sorry-things-didn’t-go-as-planned smile. She patted my shoulder. “I’m sure you and Mac can take another trip. And I’d rather you were safe. If I thought you were on an airplane in this kind of weather . . .” She put a hand to her chest in a dramatic display of distress.
A few months ago, Mom’s constant worry would have irritated, but now I understood its roots. Neila Whittle, who was helping me understand my own psychic gifts, had once predicted that Mom would attend a funeral for one of her children. It was Neila’s dubious talent to sense when a parent might lose a child.
I had yet to discuss Neila with my mother—unsure if she would be thrilled I was pursuing my gifts or furious I was spending time with Neila. As if proximity would make her prediction come true. But Neila had helped me and I felt I was finally gaining control of some of the premonitions that came unbidden in dreams or flashes of history when touching an object, and I was better able to find lost items. For whatever that was worth.
Mac caught my eye from across the room and held up a glass. I nodded gratefully and he turned to fix my drink.
Thoughts of Neila reminded me that I was supposed to practice whenever possible. A room full of strangers was a great opportunity to test my skills. My insights are enhanced through touch—mostly skin-to-skin contact. In my days with the police it was often difficult to maneuver that type of contact. Officers don’t tend to shake hands with suspects. But the information, if it came, was invaluable and I trusted it.