Page 40 of Haunting the Deep

The waiter kisses the tips of his fingers and lifts them in the air. “Gelato before dinner—a woman after my own heart.” He looks at Jaxon.

“I’ll have the house-made root beer. And actually, you can bring your arugula-and-parmesan salad, fettuccine ai funghi, and your burrata-and-basil pizza with pink sauce.”

The waiter nods approvingly and takes our menus. “Very well, signore.”

“Did you just order for me?” I ask as our waiter walks away.

“Yup,” he says.

I stare at him, trying to decide if I should object. But since I like all those foods, I’m not sure that arguing is to my benefit. “Okay, what gives? I mean, I’m impressed. Don’t get me wrong. But this is way more than casual pizza so we can chat about…everything.”

Jaxon smiles. “Take it as an apology. I definitely could have been nicer earlier. I got my back up. Also,” he laughs, “I’d like to note that any other girl would be oohing and aahing over me right now for planning all this. And here you are searching for ulterior motives.”

“Vivian taught me to be suspicious of nice people,” I say before I catch myself. It just popped out.

Jaxon’s smile fades. “You cool?”

“Uh, yeah. I just didn’t mean to say that. I forget sometimes.”

The waiter returns with my hot chocolate. The peppermint gelato floating in it is a thing of beauty. “After your father died and your mother was having all that trouble, how long did it take before you felt normal again?”

Jaxon’s blue eyes soften. “Man, I think it took me about a year before I felt like myself again. I was depressed for a while.”

I sip my drink. “Some days sail by and I think I’ve never been happier. Then all of a sudden I’ll remember everything that happened and I feel, I don’t know, like I’m kidding myself.”

The waiter returns with our arugula salad, which has the tangy scent of lemon vinaigrette and is teeming with shaved Parmesan.

Jaxon spears some salad with his fork. “You know how I told you that after my dad died, my mom was convinced that he was still around?”

I chew the spicy leaves. “Yeah.”

“Well, I was, too.”

I pause, my fork halfway to my mouth. “Was he?” Is Jaxon saying he used to believe in spirits?

He shrugs. “I don’t know. But the town never liked that my mom dabbled in herbs and potions, and they especially didn’t like that she was so close to your grandmother. The way she used to talk to my father like he was still there pushed them over the edge. And I got caught in the crossfire.”

“But I thought people in Salem live for that stuff. You said it yourself…wand making is athinghere. How could they come down on your mom and you for that?”

“Yeah, but Salem’s selective. Also, my mom’s not a Descendant. Lizzie’s family was one of the ones that didn’t like her. So as I’m sure you can imagine, I became a target in school. Public humiliation was an everyday thing for a while, and as you know, when it’s about people you really care about, you can’t brush it off. It hurt every time someone brought it up. Dillon was actually my only friend through the whole thing.”

I never considered that Descendant politics would affect people like Jaxon, and definitely not in this way. “That’s horrible.”

Jaxon studies my face. “That’s why I have no patience for all this supernatural stuff.”

The waiter returns, placing the fettuccine on the table and the pizza on a stand. The smell of cream and mushrooms and fresh dough swirls around me like a hug.

I grab a slice of pizza. “I get that. My introduction to Salem magic wasn’t exactly gentle. And my dad would flip if he knew how intense things got.”

“So you don’t talk to him about it?”

I look at my food, not completely comfortable with the truth. “No. I basically act like it didn’t happen. We don’t talk about Vivian.”

“I get it,” he says, and I look back up at him. “Protecting your parent through selective information, I mean. I used to do the same thing.” Jaxon takes a sip of root beer. He sets his glass down and taps his fingers against it like he’s trying to decide something. “Also…what about the noise at breakfast the other morning? Was denying it about protecting him, too?”

I take a deep breath. “Yes.”

Just then an awful briny smell fills my nose and I drop my fork. The drowned man appears next to our table, dripping salt water all over the floor. He has stubble on his cheeks, and his hat shadows his eyes.