The Wishing Jar Read online

  Neal turned and looked over her shoulder. “Birdie’s here,” she said. “And it looks like Charles is driving up right behind her.”

  Abby bit her lip. “I spent a good part of last night wondering if I should give Charles another chance,” she admitted. “Maybe I was too hard on him.” Her eyes wandered back to the gutted house. “Maybe we need him right now.”

  Neal put a hand on her mother’s shoulder. “That’s your decision, Mom,” she said. “Just remember that need isn’t a very good foundation for a relationship. I learned that the hard way.” She patted her belly and grinned wryly. “I’d better give you some space to talk to him. If you want me, I’ll be at the Thorntons’, checking on Granny Q.”

  Birdie jumped out of her SUV, lifted Abby bodily from the lawn chair, and enveloped her in an enormous hug. “I am so, so sorry,” she said, her voice choked with tears. “I came as soon as I heard.”

  Abby leaned back and looked at her. “How did you hear?”

  “Neal called from the neighbors’ house. She said she thought you’d want me to come.”

  “Of course.” Abby bit her lip to keep back the tears. “It’s so awful!”

  “But everybody’s OK, right?” Birdie looked around. “Your mother?”

  “She’s fine. Resting next door.” Abby forced a smile. “In case you hadn’t noticed, Neal Grace has taken charge.”

  “I did notice. She’s a great kid.” Birdie sat down in one of the chairs and motioned Abby to take a seat. “Listen, I’ve talked to Taylor. You’re welcome to stay with us while—” she motioned toward the burned-out house—“while repairs are being made.”

  “That’s very generous,” Abby said, “but you don’t have room. I’m guessing the rebuilding will take months. We’ll get one of those long-term hotel suites, probably. The insurance will pay for it.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes, I’m—”

  A voice behind her interrupted. “I have a better idea.”

  Abby turned to see Charles standing in the street a few feet beyond the sidewalk. He was dressed in a white shirt, tie, and wool sport coat—obviously on his way to teach his morning classes.

  Birdie stood up. “Three’s a crowd,” she whispered, giving Abby a kiss on the cheek. “I’ve got to go, anyway. Come for dinner tonight, all three of you. We’ll make plans then.”

  Charles waited until Birdie drove away, then folded himself into the chair next to Abby.

  “I’m sorry about what happened last night,” he said, staring at the ground and twisting his fingers together.

  “The fire, you mean?”

  “No. I mean, yes, I am sorry about the fire. But I was referring to our—” he paused and groped for words—“our misunderstanding.”

  Abby watched him and waited for him to continue. He was apologizing. And he did seem genuinely sorry. Maybe he was now prepared to be a part of her life as it was, not as he wanted it to be.

  “I spent a long time last night thinking about . . . about us,” he said. “I do want to marry you. To take care of you.”

  Something in his tone annoyed Abby, but she couldn’t pinpoint the precise source of the irritation.

  “Then, this morning, when Birdie called and told me about the fire, I saw everything in a different perspective. It was like a sign.”

  “A sign?” Abby parroted.

  “Yes. Don’t you see? You’ve been burdened far too long. With this house. With caring for your mother. And now Neal Grace’s baby.”

  “Those are not burdens, Charles.”

  “Of course they are. You told me so yourself. How you wished for a simpler, less complicated life. And now, because of the fire, your wishes can come true.”

  Abby started to speak, but he held up a hand. “Let me finish, please. Surely after this tragedy you can see the wisdom of finding a safer place for your mother, somewhere she can be looked after. With the insurance money, we could build a house of our own, just right for the two of us. Given the circumstances, I’m sure Neal could stay with her friend T. J. until graduation. We could get married right away, Abby. We can live in my apartment for the time being. Until we get our house built.”

  Abby stared at him, rendered completely speechless by this twisted interpretation of her life and desires. He saw her as weak and needy, wanting him to take charge, to care for her. And to be honest, Abby had to admit that for a time that was exactly what she thought she wanted.

  Perhaps she had been unfair to Charles. Perhaps, subconsciously, she had even used him. But how could he fail to understand what she had told him last night? How could he imagine that at such a vulnerable time in her life she would merely hand over the reins to him and let him control the course of her future?

  Devin Connor would never do such a thing. Devin would understand how she felt, and he would help her find her own answers, and support her—and Mama and Neal Grace—in what they decided was their best course of action. Devin would—

  A bittersweet longing welled up within her as the truth insisted its way into her consciousness. For weeks her rational mind had resisted the idea. Devin was an artist, a philosopher, an unrealistic idealist with no material assets. He scraped together a meager living playing his music on the streets and serving as a caretaker for someone else’s property. He had nothing to call his own.

  Nothing except character. Faithfulness. Love. Passion for life. A soul at peace. All the things that really counted.

  Her mind wrapped around the astonishing awareness: she was in love with him.

  The moment Abby’s consciousness gave way to the admission, an extraordinary transformation began to take hold of her. She sensed it, welling up inside of her—a warmth spreading through her body, an energy, a surge of strength and courage, as if someone had injected adrenaline directly into a vein. She had no idea if Devin could ever feel about her the way she felt about him. But none of that mattered. What did matter was that she felt nothing for Charles Bingham. And whether or not Devin ever loved her in return, she had no intention of marrying a man she did not love in exchange for the security of a less complicated life.

  Charles lifted his head and smiled at her, and she could see in his eyes that he didn’t have a clue about who she was or what she wanted. “Admit it, Abby. It’s a perfect solution.”

  She gritted her teeth. Count to ten, she warned herself silently. Keep your temper.

  She got as far as eight before the pressure cooker blew.

  “You just don’t get it, do you?” she said in a low, controlled voice. “You honestly think that all you have to do is snap your fingers, present your well-devised plan, and I’ll farm out my family— Mama to a nursing home, Neal Grace to T. J.’s, and my grandchild to God knows where—just so I can be with you?Well, let me clarify a few things. Yes, I wished for a simpler, less complicated life. And for a while I was naive enough to think a relationship with you might give me that. But I’ve come to my senses. I’ll take these complications over your simplicity any day of the week.

  “And here’s another news flash for you: I don’t need to be taken care of. Especially not by some testosterone-loaded macho man who can’t see past his own agenda. Go find yourself some simpering brainless dimwit whose sole purpose in life is to worship the ground you walk on. Trust me—you can’t handle a Quinn woman. And you certainly don’t want to be tangling with three.”

  By the time Abby was finished, all the blood had drained from Charles’s face. His eyes were glazed, and his jaw gaped open. Without a word he got up from the lawn chair, staggered to his car, and drove away.

  “Mom?”

  Abby heard Neal Grace’s voice before she felt the touch on her shoulder.

  “Are you OK, Mom?”

  “I’m fine. Or will be.” Abby rubbed a hand across her face, and her fingers came away from her cheeks smudged with black ash. “I must look awful.”

  “Yeah, you’ve been better,” Neal agreed. “There’s someone here to see you.”

  “I don�
��t want to see anybody,” Abby protested.

  “Yes, you do.” Neal took a tissue from her pajama pocket and wiped the soot from her mother’s face. “Trust me.”

  She pointed toward the house. Framed in the charred doorway stood a lanky, bearded man, his flannel shirt and jeans covered with grime. He held something in his hands—a towel, she thought, stained black from the scene of the fire.

  It was Devin Connor.

  “When did he get here?” she asked Neal. “And how—?”

  He approached slowly and hunkered down on the ground next to Abby’s chair. “I’ve got some news for you,” he said. “The fire chief is a friend of mine, so he told me. The fire was definitely arson. The back door had been broken in, and an accelerant was used—gasoline, they think.”

  “So Mama didn’t have anything to do with it,” Abby said, with just a hint of question and relief.

  He shook his head. “Why would you think that?”

  Abby bit her lip. “I didn’t want to. But she has left the stove on a couple of times. I didn’t dare say anything. Didn’t want people to think she’s incompetent.”

  Devin smiled. “Incompetent? Your mother is one of the most competent people I’ve ever met,” he said with a chuckle. “She’s quite a wonderful woman.”

  “Yes, she is.” Abby looked up at Neal.

  “The investigators believe the fire started around four-thirty this morning,” Devin went on. “Your neighbors at the end of the street were up feeding their baby and saw a motorcycle roar by their house about that time.”

  “Mike Damatto?”

  Neal Grace nodded. “Earlier this morning the police questioned me, and I told them about our argument last night.”

  “They arrested him a few minutes ago,” Devin added. “He confessed. Said he did it to get Neal back.” He shrugged. “Incredible, what some people will do.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” Neal said in a quiet voice. “I guess this is all my fault.”

  “No, it’s not your fault,” Abby corrected. “You made a mistake getting involved with the wrong person, but—” She paused. “If that were a crime, half the population would be behind bars— myself included. You’re not responsible for what he did.”

  Devin cleared his throat. “Once the hot spots were controlled, the chief let me in, and I poked around a little. Hope you don’t mind. I’m afraid most everything is ruined. But I did find this—” He held out the dirty towel.

  Abby took the lumpy parcel from his hands and unwrapped the towel. She looked up into his soot-streaked face. “I can’t believe you found this, Devin. Thank you.” Carefully she laid the towel on her lap and took in a quick breath. “The Wishing Jar!”

  “Wishing Jar?” he repeated.

  “Yes. This has been in our family for nearly a hundred years. My great-grandmother, Gracie Quinn, called it the Wishing Jar and said it had magical properties.” She traced her finger over the red and gold of the phoenix. “But only for those who were pure of heart and faithful of soul.”

  Devin smiled. “Then I suppose all your wishes have come true,” he said gently.

  “Not exactly.” Abby turned the jar over in her hands. The white porcelain was crusted and smudged, but other than a small hairline crack running down either side, the jar was intact. “I can’t imagine how this survived.”

  “Magic,” a voice behind her said.

  Abby turned. “Mama! Are you feeling better?”

  “I’m fine. Hello, Devin. Nice to see you again.”

  Devin took her mother’s hand and helped her to one of the folding chairs as if he were ushering a queen to her throne. She leaned over and touched the phoenix jar gently. “Well, at least one bit of Quinn history came through the fire.”

  Abby nodded. “It’s cracked, but still in one piece.”

  “Cracked?” An inscrutable expression flitted over her mother’s face. “Hmm. I wonder—” She sighed and shook her head. “Like our family, I suppose. A few flaws here and there just add character.”

  Abby stared down at the jar. The sunlight coming over her shoulder flashed across the gilding of the phoenix’s feathers, and even amid the grime and dirt, the bird seemed to stir and flutter.

  “Are you going to make a wish, Mom?” Neal Grace asked.

  “I think I’ve made enough wishes.” Abby reached out and gripped her daughter’s hand. “As long as you and your grandmother are with me, what else do I have to wish for? Except maybe an answer to our current housing dilemma.”

  Devin gazed at her, his bright eyes warming her soul even as the morning sun warmed her back. “If I might be permitted a suggestion—”

  “There are three of us,” Abby reminded him, “and one on the way. We’re likely to be homeless for several months.”

  “But you will rebuild,” Devin said firmly. “Quinn House will live again. And in the meantime, I think I might have a solution for you.”

  Abby rode in Devin’s truck with the Wishing Jar on her lap. Neal Grace and Mama followed behind in the car. She didn’t for a moment think that anything Devin had access to would be workable for them, but she was intensely curious about what he had in mind. And it was an excuse to be near him, even if—

  “Abby,” he said as they turned off Charlotte Street onto the highway, “there’s something I’d like to say to you. I’m not sure it’s quite the right time, given everything you’ve been through, but if I wait too long, I may regret it.”

  She turned toward him. “Say whatever you want, Devin.”

  His Adam’s apple worked up and down. He cleared his throat, mumbled something she couldn’t hear, then tried again. “The first time I met you,” he managed at last, “I felt something I hadn’t felt in a very long time. Not since I lost my wife and daughter.”

  “You’ve never told me about them.”

  “I know. It’s difficult to talk about. But someday—soon—I will tell you. I’ll tell you everything.”

  “I’d like to know everything, Devin,” she said quietly.

  He turned to look at her, his blue eyes bright with astonishment. “I’ve spent a lot of years carving out a life for myself,” he went on. “A life that has meaning. A life of peace and beauty and music and creativity. And for a very long time I thought it was enough. But something’s missing.”

  “What’s missing?” Abby asked.

  He bit his lip. “Someone to share it with. But not just someone. You.”

  Her heart began to hammer in her chest. “Me?”

  “Yes.” He exhaled heavily. “I didn’t plan for this, Abby, but I think I might be falling in love with you.”

  She clutched the Wishing Jar tighter to still the shaking of her hands. “And you never told me?”

  “I didn’t want to interfere with your plans, your dreams, your wishes. Your engagement.”

  “I’m no longer engaged,” Abby whispered.

  “I’m glad to hear it.” He blushed a little and gave her a half-smile. “But even so, I wasn’t sure that—”

  “Devin,” she interrupted, “let me respond before I lose my nerve. Since the day we met at Pack Square, I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind. Even when I thought I wanted to marry Charles, my heart kept coming back to you—your music, your eyes, your smile, your . . . your soul. I know you don’t have much in the way of material possessions, but none of that matters to me. What matters is who you are.”

  His features softened, and his eyes took on an expression of wonder. “You’re saying it’s a possibility you might be able to love me, too? A simple fiddler who plays his music on the streets?”

  Abby nodded. She longed to throw herself into his arms, to confess to him that she already loved him. To tell him how his music twined around her soul and invaded her dreams, how his smile brought light and color to her world. But she didn’t. Instead, she reached out and touched his hand lightly. “Yes,” she murmured, “it’s a very definite possibility.”

  He grinned at her, and his eyes glowed with a light as
blue and vivid as the Carolina sky on a cloudless autumn morning. “A very definite possibility,” he repeated. “Sounds good to me.”

  At the road that led to his cabin, he turned the truck off Old Charlotte Highway and began the drive up the mountain. But before they reached his turnoff, he veered to the left and kept climbing—the best Abby could figure, they were circling around, up into the woods behind his place. Maybe there was a cabin for rent up here.

  They came to the top of the ridge, crested the rise, and stopped. Below them, spread out in subdued waves of blue and gray and purple, the mountains stretched all the way to the horizon. Abby had lived in the Blue Ridge all her life, and she had never seen a vista quite as stunning as this one.

  But it wasn’t only the panorama that took her breath away. Built into the rock and facing out toward the view sat a house that rose up like an extension of the mountain itself. It was all crafted in stone and glass and natural wood, with enormous beams and a slate walkway leading to double oak doors that must have been nine feet high.

  As Neal Grace pulled the car in beside them, Devin got out of the truck. He motioned Abby and the others to follow, and led them through the oak doors into a great room where a massive stone fireplace rose up two stories into a cathedral ceiling. Glass doors on either side of the hearth led to a wide deck that overlooked the mountains.

  Neal Grace poked her in the back. “This is awesome, Mom.”

  “I think you’ll be comfortable here,” Devin was saying. “There’s a master suite with a private bath on this level.” He turned and offered a jesting bow in Mama’s direction. “For you, milady.”

  “Well, thank you, kind sir,” she responded with a little curtsy.

  “Upstairs”—he pointed to a broad sweeping staircase that led to a loft overlooking the great room—“you’ll find suitable accommodations for the mother and the mother-to-be. The kitchen is stocked, the beds are made, and the bathrooms have everything you’ll need, I think—shampoo and soap and towels and all that. You’ll just have to buy personal items . . . and some clothes.”

  Abby glanced down at her bedraggled, soot-stained nightgown and robe. Mama didn’t look much better, and Neal Grace was still in her flannel pajamas and borrowed tennis shoes. They all looked like refugees, survivors of some terrible war. “I guess we will,” she said with a grin.