The Trouble with Magic (Loveswept) Read Free Page A

terra-cotta on the bargeboards, scalloped friezes, and porch brackets, with just a touch of Indian red here and there for accent.
    “Those are the original colors, aren’t they?” he asked, turning to look at her with some degree of respect.
    He was certainly no authority, but somewhere along the way, he’d heard that most Victorian homes had been painted white in later years to impress people with their unique lines and size. However, true Victorians, were not only colorful in their thinking and in their life styles, but also in the tints they applied to their homes.
    “Yes, they are,” she called back, equally impressed with his knowledge of Victorian architecture. He had nice hands, too, she noticed distractedly. Big hands. If he were to touch a woman with those hands, the woman would know it, from the roots of her hair to her toenails, she’d know it. “My father did it,” she said abruptly.
    “What?”
    “The house was white once,” she said. Making a sweeping gesture with her hand, she added, “Like all the others. But my father was a bit of an amateur historian. And of course he came to love the house, so he restored it after my mother died. People said he was crazy to paint it those colors, but I love it.”
    “Why after your mother died? Wouldn’t she have approved?”
    She shrugged. “I’m not sure. I always thought it was more a matter of not wanting to hurt her feelings by changing too many things on the island. ... It was her island, you see. Then it was mine.”
    “Not your father’s?”
    “He wasn’t a Jovette.”
    “Neither are you.”
    She laughed. “It’s a blood thing. My ancestors were French,” she shouted over the wind and water, grinning. “Blood’s very important to the French, you know.”
    “Well, I do now,” he said, shaking his head and turning back to look at the house, revamping it in his mind.
    With no little skill, she maneuvered the tiny boat into irons, into the wind, several boat lengths from the dock and let the wind act as a brake, bringing it to a standstill close to the mooring rings. He jumped out while she brought the sail down and then tossed him a line.
    “So? Are your shoes wet?” she asked, coming to stand next to him on the dock. They both looked down at his still shiny—and still dry—shoes. “I’m glad I didn’t say anything about your hair or your jacket.”
    He looked up into her eyes and felt the clutching in his abdomen again. He knew an overpowering urge to reach out, grab her into his arms, and kiss the smirk off her face—and then he wanted to slap himself back to his senses. Was he losing his mind?
    “They’re not too bad,” he admitted, checking both jacket and hair with one hand. Then, feeling incredibly magnanimous, he added, “You’re a fine sailor.”
    “Thank you,” she said, pleased by his praise.
    They stood on the dock, staring hard at each other for a long moment before an awkwardness set in and they looked off in different directions.
    “I ... I suppose we could start the tour here,” she said, pointing. “The boat house has three slips. It’s weather tight. The roof was new four years ago.”
    “What about this dock?” he asked.
    She shrugged, and he watched her eyebrows raise in that intriguing little quirk of hers.
    “The piling’s been the same for as long as I can remember, though I recall my father replacing some of the boards after a storm once or twice.” She stomped her foot twice. “I believe it’s very solid.”
    He nodded, and she turned to lead the way up to the house. The dock ended at a small rock ledge cut into the side of the hill. From there, broad, shallow steps had been carved into the granite foundation of the island in a zigzag, forming an S to the top of the bluff.
    All along the path the shrubs and trees grew thick and plentiful, and he imagined that in the warmer months the underbrush would be lush and lavish as well. The deciduous trees stood tall and ancient and bare of life at