The Pagan Stone Read Online Free PDF Page A

to sit again, his back braced on the gravestone of his mother and sister, until the sickness passed, until the world steadied. In the pretty May sunshine, with only the dead for company, he breathed his way through the pain, focused his mind on the healing. As the burning eased, his system settled again.
    Rising, he took one last look at the grave, then turned and walked away.
    HE STOPPED BY THE FLOWER POT AND BOUGHT A splashy spring arrangement that had Amy, who worked the counter, speculating on who the lucky lady might be. He left her speculating. It was too hard to explain—and none of Amy’s damn business—that he had flowers and mothers on the brain.
    That was one of the problems—and in his mind they were legion—with small towns. Everybody wanted to know everything about everyone else, or pretend they did. When they didn’t know enough, they were just as likely to make it up and call it God’s truth.
    There were plenty in the Hollow who’d whispered and muttered about him. Poor kid, bad boy, troublemaker, bad news, good riddance. Maybe it had stung off and on, and maybe that sting had gone deep when he’d been younger. But he’d had what he supposed he could call a balm. He’d had Cal and Fox. He’d had family.
    His mother was gone, and had been for a very long time. That, he thought as he drove out of town, had certainly come home to him today. So he’d make a gesture long overdue.
    Of course, she might not be home. Frannie Hawkins didn’t hold a job outside the home—exactly. Her work was her home, and the various committees she chaired or participated in. If there was a committee, society, or organization in the Hollow, it was likely Cal’s mother had a hand in it.
    He pulled up behind the clean and tidy car he recognized as hers in the drive of the tidy house where the Hawkinses had lived as long as Gage remembered. And the tidy woman who ran the house knelt on a square of bright pink foam as she planted—maybe they were petunias—at the edges of her already impressive front-yard garden.
    Her hair was a glossy blond under a wide-brimmed straw hat, and her hands were covered with sturdy brown gloves. He imagined she thought of her navy pants and pink T-shirt as work clothes. She turned her head at the sound of the car, then her pretty face lit with a smile when she saw Gage.
    That was, always had been, a small wonder to him. That she smiled, and meant it, when she saw him. She tugged off her gloves as she rose. “What a nice surprise. And look at those flowers! They’re almost as gorgeous as you are.”
    “Coals to Newcastle.”
    She touched his cheek, then took the offered flowers. “I can never have too many flowers. Let’s go in so I can put them in water.”
    “I interrupted you.”
    “Gardening is a constant work in progress. I can’t stop fiddling.”
    The house was the same for her, he knew. She upholstered, sewed, painted, made crafty little arrangements. And still the house was always warm, always welcoming, never set and stiff.
    She led him back through the kitchen and into the laundry room where, being Frannie Hawkins, she had a sink for the specific purpose of flower arranging. “I’m just going to put these in a holding vase, then get us something cold to drink.”
    “I don’t want to hold you up.”
    “Gage.” She waved off his protest as she got down a holding vase, filled it. “Go, sit out back on the patio. It’s too pretty to be inside. I’ll bring us out some iced tea.”
    He did as she asked, mostly because he needed to figure out exactly what he’d come here to say to her, and how he wanted to say it. She’d been busy in the back garden as well, and with her container pots. All the color, the shapes, the textures seemed somehow magically perfect and completely natural. He knew, because he’d seen her, that she routinely sketched out her plans for her beds, her pots every year.
    Unlike Fox’s mother, Frannie Hawkins absolutely never allowed other hands to