Читать книгу If You Could Read My Mind... - Jeanie London, Jeanie London - Страница 7

NIGHT HAD FALLEN by the time Michael finally steered his SUV past Camp Cavelier’s weatherworn sign. His headlights sliced through the darkness to illuminate the winding dirt road and throw the surrounding forest into gloom.

During the drive, he’d imagined several scenarios at arriving nearly two hours late for Jillian’s interview—all of them involving a very unhappy Jillian. But dealing with her annoyance wasn’t his primary concern at the moment. Not when he pulled up to find the office dark.

He’d have to find her to know how annoyed she was.

Circling into the lot in front of the building, Michael pulled his SUV beside a Lincoln Town Car that had seen better days. Most likely the potential caretakers. He put his car into Park and got out.

He didn’t think Jillian would tour people through the camp in the dark. Even flashlights wouldn’t afford enough light to see much, as he well knew from combing these woods as a kid.

Camp Cavelier was an institution. So many campers flew in from all over the country that the camp ran a shuttle service to the airport. Most local kids, too, spent summers as resident campers. He and Jillian had been no exception, which was precisely why he was now an owner of the property.

A grudging owner, he amended.

Jillian and her causes—they’d be the death of him yet.

Shaking his head, Michael headed up the steps, hoping she’d left a note and some clue as to where he could find her. He was in enough hot water without wasting more time hunting her down. Then something caught his eye…

Her purse.

She’d left it sitting on the bench, and he flipped it open to find her car keys and cell phone inside, which explained why she hadn’t been answering her phone. He viewed the display. Sure enough, there was a log of her four missed messages.

All from him.

Damn it, but he should never have sat back at his desk tonight. He should have grabbed his wallet and headed out, as he’d told Charlotte he’d do. Or he should have accepted Jillian’s offer to wait for him to make the drive together.

Or maybe they should never have taken on this camp at all. They were just too busy to do right by the place.

The presence of the unfamiliar car drove home a sharp reminder that the interviewees were strangers. Michael’s only consolation was that she wasn’t entirely alone on the property. Camp Cavelier was more than a seasonal camp—these hallowed acres also played home to a small working farm. Year round, schools scheduled field trips, various organizations booked group tours and families hosted children’s birthday parties.

Ike Fleming had been running the farm since Michael and Jillian had taken their own school field trips. He was even older today than he’d seemed back then, which was saying something since he’d always looked seriously old and seriously big—a mountain of a man. But he was a warm body, at least, and a warm body that packed a loaded shotgun when patrolling the area at night.

Of course, Ike’s eyesight had to be failing by now….

An inspection of the office didn’t yield up any note from Jillian. Job applications scattered over a desk, assuring him that she’d stuck to her original plan. Helping himself to a flashlight, he locked her purse in his car then took off in the direction of Ike’s cottage on the south side of Lake Lily.

The dark night didn’t bring back memories of summers spent boating, horseback-riding or working the farm, although he had many. As a young camper, he’d not only communed with nature and wildlife in a place where technology wasn’t allowed, but had formed friendships that had weathered the passage of time.

Including a love affair with his wife.

But tonight Michael wasn’t remembering when he and Jillian had ducked out of a trail ride to make out in the hayloft, or the time they’d stolen out of the cabins late at night to skinny-dip in the lake.

No, tonight these well-worn trails only yielded grisly images of what could happen to a woman alone in the dark. By the time Michael saw the dull glow of Ike’s porch light, his heart was pounding unnaturally hard.

“Ike,” he called, knocking on the door. “It’s Michael. You in there?”

No response.

Michael waited on the doorstep, growing more agitated with each passing second.

“Ike!” He pounded harder this time. Looked like Ike’s hearing was going, too.

Nothing.

Impatiently, Michael tried the handle to find the door unlocked. He pushed inside, calling out loudly as he did, but it didn’t take long to realize that no one was home.

Yet Ike had obviously left in a hurry because a full coffee cup—now stone-cold—sat on the table beside an open newspaper.

The shotgun rack above the sofa was empty.

Michael was getting a bad feeling. He couldn’t be sure whether guilt or the darkness fueled his imagination, but his head raced with every horror story he’d ever seen in the news.

Had Jillian gotten into trouble? Had Ike taken the shotgun out to rescue her?

Had the old guy succeeded?

Racking his brain to remember what Jillian had told him about her interviewees, Michael found himself cursing that he hadn’t paid closer attention. But Camp Cavelier was Jillian’s pet project and he’d apparently only listened with one ear.

Guilt, definitely.

Heading back outside, he pulled the door shut behind him. Sounds from the stabled horses and forest wildlife filtered through the darkness, and he made his way to the trail. He’d circle around to the cabins. It was the only thing to do. There were cars, which meant Jillian was somewhere.

He’d damn sure find her.

Something crashed in the underbrush, startling the night quiet and drawing Michael to a sharp stop. With his heartbeat spiking hard, he waited for something—Ike, wildlife or a murderer?—to appear on the path ahead.

As the seconds ticked past, stillness settled over the night again.

He came upon the boys’ cabins first, and the rustic structures that had once seemed so offhandedly inviting now loomed eerily empty in the moonlight. There were no windows in these cabins, only screens to keep out the snakes and spiders. No air-conditioning, either, which made the bunks inside a stifling ride during the sultry summer.

He mentally rattled off the cabin’s names by rote: Company Thirteen. Pirates. Lightning Bolt. Dreadnought. Wave Runners. Hackers.

“Jillian,” he called out then waited to hear a reply, or any sound to indicate she was in trouble and needed help.

Nothing.

Making his way toward the girls’ cabins, he stumbled over what he belatedly realized was the ring of stones surrounding the bonfire pit. He almost landed face first inside a crater filled with winter-rotted leaves and ash.

He caught his balance at the last possible second, but dropped the flashlight.

“Oh, man.” He sank his fingers into the decomposing debris to retrieve the flashlight, which had managed to bury itself deeply enough to cut off the light.

An owl hooted sharply.

“I don’t need this grief,” he informed the wildlife. “I knew this camp was going to be trouble the instant Jillian came home with the idea.”

Not only had the investment run their credit dry, but the workload was creating conflict in their otherwise perfect lives.

Scowling into the darkness, Michael heard another sound, so faint at first that he might have imagined it.

Laughter?

He didn’t think it was a cry for help.

Rooted to the spot, he tried to make out the sound, but the night had fallen silent. Then he heard it again.

Laughter, definitely.

Following the direction of the sound, he found himself following the trail around the cabins toward the river.

What would Jillian be doing out on the bluff…? Then Michael saw light glowing through the darkness.

The caretaker’s cottage.

With a tentative sense of relief, he headed down the winding dirt path until he found soft light glowing from open windows and heard the sounds of more laughter.

And a fiddle?

Yes, a fiddle. He bolted up the porch steps and knocked loudly on the door.

He had to knock again to be heard, but finally a rather round woman with curly gray hair pulled open the door and broke into a big smile.

“Well hello, handsome. I don’t suppose you’re looking for me, since I just got here.”

The young man playing the fiddle screeched to a halt, but before Michael could reply, he heard Jillian’s silvery laughter.

There she was, standing by the kitchen sink with an apron around her waist. While he’d been getting an ulcer on his midnight tour of the camp, she was having a party.

The trade-off seemed wrong in the extreme.

“Heya, Michael.” Ike sat at the picnic-style dining table with the shotgun propped beside him. “You tracked us down.”

“Good evening, Ike.” Michael flipped off the flashlight. “I dropped by your place, too, looking for my beautiful bride.”

Jillian wiped her hands on the dish towel and joined him. “Widow Serafine, this is my husband, Michael.”

“The dentist,” said the woman with the unusual name, eyeing him with an approving smile.

He nodded. “I take it we have new caretakers.”

“In fact, we do.”

Given Jillian’s thorough screening process, he hadn’t expected this problem to be solved anytime soon. But when she introduced the younger generation of the Baptiste family, he thought the group seemed a nice enough bunch.

After exchanging greetings, Widow Serafine motioned him inside the kitchen. “Are you hungry, Dr. Michael? Marie-Louise whipped us up a welcome feast. You need to sit yourself down and get some before it’s all gone. Got growing boys around here.” She eyed Ike, who rubbed his stomach appreciatively.

Michael hadn’t ever seen Ike smile that widely, and his own stomach growled, recalling how long it had been since lunch. Casting Jillian a sidelong glance, he gauged her mood while deciding whether to deal with the issue between them now or wait until later when they were alone.

One way or the other, he’d better address his tardiness.

Since her honey-gold eyes didn’t give him a clue to what was happening behind them, he decided on the path of the least resistance.

Pressing a kiss to her cheek, he said, “Sorry, Jilly. I almost made it out the door on time.”

“What happened?”

As much as he hated to admit it… “Thought I had enough time to dictate a few of my patients.”

“You fell asleep.” Not a question.

Widow Serafine shot a curious glance between them. “You need some coffee then, don’t you, Dr. Michael?” She didn’t give him a chance to answer before she was gesturing to her granddaughter. “Put on the pot, Marie-Louise. We could all do with some waking up.”

With a nod, the dark-haired teenager busied herself at the counter. Widow Serafine ushered Michael to a seat at the table. He helped himself to a feast of shrimp, buttery oysters and a rice dish seasoned with bell peppers and green onions.

The great meal made up for the lousy start to the night. He ate while listening to Jillian, Ike, Widow Serafine and the boy Raphael discuss the various tasks to be accomplished to ready the camp for the summer campers. From the conversation, he pieced together the talents the Baptistes brought to the table.

Widow Serafine clearly reigned like a queen over her younger generation, and Michael felt his first hope that Jillian might actually pull off this stunt and survive the first season.

“I’M NOT MAD,” Jillian told Michael, not slowing her stride as they made their way back to the camp office.

But that wasn’t true. Still, several hours spent with the Baptiste family and Ike, discussing the various jobs to be accomplished during the next few weeks, had alleviated some of her unease about the Baptiste family’s unorthodox hiring.

And her concern about running this camp without reliable support from Michael.

“You look mad,” he persisted.

Jillian knew he felt guilty for being late. He wanted reassurance but, unfortunately, she was just tired enough, and angry enough, not to give him any. Why should she put forth more effort than he? She’d wanted his help tonight, but he hadn’t been available.

“Let’s let it go, Michael, please,” she said. “It’s been a long day for us both. I’m not up to this conversation right now. I have caretakers in place. That’s really all that’s important.”

If the man was smart, he’d cut his losses, but apparently good Creole food had dulled his senses.

“Why didn’t you call me?”

Jillian took a deep breath. The rational part of her mind reasoned he only persisted because he felt bad. Michael didn’t ever like to let her down—when he realized he was letting her down, of course.

But somewhere along the line, their priorities had gotten confused. Their relationship had taken a back seat to dental school, then his practice. Jillian didn’t mind caring for the day-to-day things that kept their routine running smoothly. But on the rare occasions she asked for help, she thought Michael should step up to the plate.

Camp Cavelier proved they weren’t even playing in the same ball field.

A part of Jillian understood. Michael had devoted himself heart and soul to getting through school and establishing his practice so they could live a comfortable life. She’d supported him unconditionally because she’d wanted that, too. But they were living a very comfortable life.

So when would their relationship come first?

They’d discussed the situation numerous times, but didn’t seem to be managing any changes.

She was beginning to think they never would.

And as Michael walked beside her, waiting expectantly as if he’d deserved another reminder to show up tonight, Jillian couldn’t help but question how many reminders she was obligated to provide. Two? Four? Why couldn’t one be enough?

Along with those questions came a niggling voice in the back of her head, a voice that jogged her memory about all the times she’d reminded him and he’d forgotten anyway.

She’d found a lump in her breast and just last week had gone in for a mammogram. Michael still hadn’t asked about the outcome. She’d been just busy enough since then, and annoyed enough, not to volunteer the information.

She didn’t think he’d ever notice.

“I didn’t see the point in calling,” she said matter-offactly. “The clinic phones would be on the answering service, and I knew you wouldn’t have your cell phone on.”

“You didn’t try?”

“No, I didn’t.”

Such simple words, but his frown told her he heard everything she wasn’t saying aloud.

If my wishes had been important to him, he would have shown up on time without another reminder.

That truth hung in the air between them, the weight of disappointment so tangible and real. She felt cloaked in that heavy silence.

And righteous.

Michael should feel bad. Was what she’d requested of him really so much to ask? He didn’t have to ask her to balance his books every day, schedule his appointments, buy birthday gifts for his staff, for his family…. He wouldn’t have even remembered his own parents’ anniversary had she not stuck a card under his nose and placed a pen in his hand to sign it.

“Don’t you think you’re being a little unfair, Jillian?”

“Unfair? I told you about this interview a week ago. I mentioned it again at the house this morning. And I reminded you before I left the office. How many reminders did you want?”

Emotions played across his handsome face, beginning with a startled hurt and working quickly to anger. He was wrong. He knew it. And he didn’t like it.

“Is that why you left your phone in your purse, so I couldn’t reach you?” he asked. “Did you want me to worry?”

“Did you worry?”

The exact wrong thing to say. She’d known it as the words had formed in her head, yet she’d let them out anyway.

Michael’s expression darkened into a scowl that transformed his face into a stranger’s. She’d known her good-natured husband most of her life but always found herself shaken by the heat of his anger when it reared its head, which wasn’t often.

They didn’t argue.

They discussed. They negotiated. They compromised.

But there didn’t seem to be any compromise with Camp Cavalier.

Michael liked to think he was the perfect husband. He always felt bad whenever he didn’t live up to his expectations. Unfortunately, she was too angry about his tardiness, and his disinterest in her mammogram appointment—not to mention a host of other things she usually dismissed—to let him feel no guilt. She should have reassured him. Reassurance would have taken so much less energy than this argument.

“Michael, I’m sorry I asked you to come tonight.” She didn’t make much of an effort to tone down her resignation. “I know it’s difficult for you to know exactly when you can get out of the office. I do understand.”

But there was no retreat from the road they’d started down. Especially not with such a half-hearted attempt.

“Jillian, the problem isn’t me getting out of the office. It’s you taking on this camp.”

Ouch. He’d made it clear from the start he wasn’t gung-ho about the whole idea, yet hearing him toss it out in anger still stung. “I know you had concerns, but I thought you loved this place as much as I do.”

“Not enough to run it.”

She came to a stop and stared. “It’s not as if I’ve asked you to do a whole lot. You make it sound as if you don’t think I can handle it alone.”

“Camp Cavelier is a full-time job. You’ve already got one of those. So do I—a practice and more patients than I know what to do with.”

“Now there’s the truth. It’s a catch-22. We shouldn’t work all the time, but you know as well as I do that if we didn’t work together, we’d never see each other.”

He arched a dark eyebrow in a look that she’d once thought was sexy. Now the expression only cut his point deep. “You don’t call running this camp work?”

“Not once we get good people hired and a feel for what needs to be done. I was hoping to renovate Bernice and Carl’s cottage. Then we’d have a great weekend getaway. We’ve wanted one for a while but have been too busy to find one. The camp is the perfect compromise. It’s an easy drive from the office. We won’t have to maintain the place, or a boat or a stable. All that’s already here. Yet, we’ll still be able to do all the things we enjoy and don’t have time to care for.”

“We’re caring for the whole damn camp, Jillian. A boat doesn’t sound like such a big deal by comparison.”

She didn’t know why she was trying to sway him to her side, but couldn’t seem to stop. “What about our children? Shouldn’t we make the effort to preserve history for them? I’d hate for them not to spend their summers at Camp Cavelier.”

“What children? We didn’t have time to make any even before we bought the camp.” He gave a sharp laugh. “But you’ve solved that problem. You’ll have kids swarming all over this place in a few weeks. How many are coming this season—eighty, ninety?”

One hundred and three, but she managed the impulse control not to admit it. Not when Michael was looking all inconvenienced and superior, as if he’d been the one doing all the work around here when he couldn’t even make an interview on time.

“I admit this place gets crazy in the summer, but the campers are only here for two months.” She tried to interject reason into a subject that didn’t feel reasonable tonight. “We still have the rest of the year. Spring and fall are gorgeous. Winter can be, too. Can you imagine celebrating Christmas here?”

“I can imagine celebrating selling this land to a development company and making a fortune. Then you can spend Christmas on that Tahitian island you’re always talking about.”

“I haven’t mentioned visiting a Tahitian island since we were planning our honeymoon. Are you saying you’d actually leave your office long enough to take a vacation?”

He scowled harder and didn’t answer.

She scowled right back. Of all the low blows…

“I can’t believe you’d even bring up developing this land. You know I promised Bernice and Carl. That was the whole reason they sold it to me for the price they did.”

“There’s nothing in the contract prohibiting us—”

“It was a verbal agreement I took seriously. Bernice and Carl trusted us to bring the camp into the twenty-first century. They had enough heartache losing their only son in the Vietnam War. Doesn’t trust mean anything to you?”

Her reminder fell flat between them. She could see Michael trying to rein in his anger, recognized how much effort it took, effort that felt as hurtful as his whole uncaring attitude.

What did he have to feel angry about?

She hadn’t asked anything of him except for a little support. She’d honestly thought he’d come through. And not the half-hearted, whenever-it’s-convenient efforts he’d been making. Not when she’d always done her one-hundred-and-ten-percent best to support everything he’d ever wanted.

Why else would she have given up a full ride to Duke if not to accompany him to college?

Why would she have crammed her course load into half the time if not to accompany him to dental school?

Why would she have turned down so many job opportunities if not to start up his practice?

Folding her arms over her chest as if that would help her keep her mouth shut, Jillian glared at him.

“Camp Cavelier is a life calling, not a hobby,” Michael said through clenched teeth. “Look at the Virgils. Look at Ike. Unless you want to close my practice and relocate here to do this job right then developing this land only makes sense. Bernice and Carl couldn’t find anyone to buy the place because it’s a lot of damn work.”

“That’s why I hired caretakers.” She shoved the words through teeth as tightly clenched. “We chose to return to Natchez to start up your practice and rear our family, so shouldn’t we be willing to put some effort into steering Natchez into the future? Life might be a little hectic for a while, Michael, but how is that any different than it’s ever been to reach our goals?”

“Your goal, you mean.”

That’s what the whole situation really all boiled down to—Michael was only interested in what he wanted.

The realization felt like a slap in the face, when she supposed it shouldn’t. Suddenly, she could see the emerging pattern so clearly.

She lived with him, worked with him, slept with him—it had always been about him. Ever since they were young, their lives had always been about what Michael wanted.

Michael, Michael, Michael!

She’d always gone along because she knew successful couples didn’t argue—they negotiated and compromised.

Jillian was getting tired of compromising.

“You know, Michael, that’s the real problem here. Life is fine as long as you get what you want, but the second you have to return the favor, you can’t be counted on.”

“That’s not fair—”

“I don’t know why I’ve let this be okay for so long, but this isn’t fair. I refuse to be married to a man who only thinks about himself.”

Now it was Michael’s turn to reel as if he’d been slapped, and mingled with her horror over what had degenerated into a nasty fight was satisfaction that she’d shocked him.

It was an unfamiliar, ugly feeling.

“What the hell does that mean?” he demanded.

“It means I’m too upset to continue this. We need to table this conversation until we’ve both had a chance to think about how we want to handle this.”

Because if she didn’t get in the car and have time to cool off on the drive home, she was going to say something that would end her marriage right here and now.

“YOU’RE EAVESDROPPING, Widow,” Raphael announced as he stepped through the cottage door to find Serafine sitting in the porch swing, rocking herself to the music of the rushing river.

Back home in Bayou Doré the nights were already sultry and hot, even after the sun went down. Here in Mississippi, darkness cooled the air, and the Landrys’ voices carried on the breeze.

“Need to test the water around here, don’t you think?”

“The Landrys seemed like nice enough people until you got them arguing.”

“That argument’s been brewing a lot longer than I been in Natchez,” Serafine scoffed. “Y’know, boy, I’ve got a really good feeling about this place. I knew as soon I read Mrs. Jillian’s advertisement we were meant to be here. Didn’t question it for a second. I just wasn’t sure why. I mean I knew the obvious—this job is a perfect fit for you and your kin, but there was more.”

“Don’t be meddling with these people.”

The warning in Raphael’s voice made her smile. He didn’t quite come out and argue, and that show of respect—however slight—marked a self-discipline she was happy to see finally in this young man.

“Haven’t been here long enough to be meddling with anyone, I just said.”

“You bullied Mrs. Jillian into giving us these jobs. You made her feel guilty, and she was nice enough to let you.”

“Ah, Raphael. You know how it is. I know we’re here for a purpose. Just have to figure out what it is, and how to do the job. Can’t get about business if Mrs. Jillian kept with her ideas about interviews and reference-checking. Why should we waste time when Mrs. Jillian only needed a bit of convincing?”

“I’d say you’ve been here long enough to meddle.”

“I’m only moving things along in the direction they’re meant to be moving. Your granny had the gift of knowing even stronger than I do. And Marie-Louise, too, even though you tell her to keep her feelings to herself.”

“My granny didn’t take with your hoodoo ways, Widow. You know that.”

“Your granny couldn’t deny who she was no matter how far and fast she ran from the bayou. She finally accepted it, too. Why do you think she sent you back to the family for rearing when she passed?”

Raphael frowned, an expression that bore so much responsibility for a boy who should have been exploring his youth with laughter. She wished he could bridge the distance between pride and his rejection of their family.

“For the record, I don’t practice hoodoo. I’m a God-fearing woman through and through. Just like the rest of your family.”

Baptistes were Baptistes were Baptistes. Life would be simpler all the way around if Virginie’s brood would accept they had people who cared for them. If they’d make an effort to fit in and accept a little help and guidance, they might just stand a chance of making something of their lives. That’s exactly what her baby sister had wanted, Serafine knew.

Virginie had known her eldest sister would feel obligated to do right by these kids, whether she’d admitted the truth to Raphael or not. There’d been bad blood between Serafine and her baby sister. Not intentional, of course. Serafine hadn’t wanted to marry Virginie’s beloved no more than Virginie had wanted to fall in love with the dashing politician from New Iberia Parish.

Neither sister had had a choice.

Not Serafine, whose daddy had decreed his eldest daughter should marry the boy he thought destined to become the next Louisiana governor.

Not Virginie, who’d been in love with falling in love and had used the whole situation as an excuse to break free of the bayou with the next rogue who’d sailed through their swamp.

Serafine had stood by her man’s side until the day he died, not because she’d loved Laurent Mercier but because that had been her duty.

Once she’d pressed her lips to the cool granite of his tomb, her duty had been done. She’d adopted the sobriquet of Widow, stepped into her husband’s place to rule their brood and refused to marry again.

This time her daddy hadn’t insisted otherwise.

He’d left Serafine free to do what she did best—set people to rights. And here she was in Natchez, doing just that. She’d thought only Virginie’s brood needed setting, but after eavesdropping on the Landrys, she knew more than three young ’uns needed her help.

She only wished Raphael would accept the situation so easily, and if his scowl was any indication…

“If you’re going to meddle, maybe me and my kin should keep moving on to Shreveport,” he said grimly. “Marie-Louise will turn eighteen soon.”

The reminder irked Serafine. Raphael and Philip had only stayed in Bayou Doré because they wouldn’t leave their sister behind. Once Marie-Louise reached the age of majority, the girl could make her own choices. No question she’d follow her brothers wherever they wanted to go.

“What are you planning to do in Shreveport, boy? Keep working on your jobs that take from sunup to sundown and barely pay the bills? You want a better life for your kin, but with you working so hard, you can’t keep your eyes on them. Philip’s already running wild, and Marie-Louise hasn’t turned up with a big belly yet because she’s holding out for true love—like your granny did. Better hope true love doesn’t turn out to be a scoundrel like your granddaddy. He spirited my baby sister from the bayou with his smooth talk and pretty smiles then left her breeding and too proud to come home.”

Raphael speared his fingers through his hair. To the boy’s credit, he didn’t deny her claims, though Serafine knew he wanted to. But Raphael had been privy to that part of his grandparents’ history, at least. He’d been reared without parents for the very same reason and was smart enough to know that, left to run wild, Philip and Marie-Louise would get themselves into trouble.

“You’re their only hope and you know it,” Serafine pointed out. “They listen to you. Your fortune’s going to change in Natchez, boy. I feel it. We’re here for a reason, and if you’re smart, you’ll keep that chip on your shoulder under your collar. For your kin’s sake. Your own, too.”

Raphael narrowed his gaze, but Serafine only clapped a hand on his back and smiled.

“Like it or not, boy, I love you and your kin. You remind me of my baby sister. I lost too many years with her. I plan to make the most of what I can get with you. You hear me?”

“I hear you, Widow.”

“Good. Then you might try working with me instead of against me for a change. Together, we might work some magic around here.”

Raphael met her gaze with those eyes that saw so much more than she’d wanted to reveal, a look that was pure Virginie. “That’s what I’m afraid of. That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”

But not all magic was hoodoo. Not all magic need be feared. A lesson Raphael was about to learn.