Page 103 of Enchanted to Meet You

“I don’t need to guess,” I said, wrapping my arms around his waist. “I know.”

“Hey!” I heard Dina yell behind us as the Ducati’s engine roared. “Where are you going? The road is closed! You two are gonna get yourselves killed—or arrested!”

Good thing I know a couple of lawyers, is what I would have yelled back—if I hadn’t been too busy clutching Derrick in anxiety as he thundered down the narrow, cobblestoned road, now clogged with West Harbor citizens in formal wear, all attempting to jam themselves beneath the multiple tents that covered the town square.

They had to line up to show their tickets first, however, in order to be admitted, and it was past this line Derrick rumbled. And though his bike’s engine was loud, I could still hear the occasional shout and comment leveled at us: “The road is closed!” “Get to the back of the line!” “People think they’re soentitledthese days.”

I’m sure Derrick heard them, too, but he didn’t stop until we’d reached the red velvet ropes at the entrance to the closest tent at the very front of the line—just as the first drops of rain began to fall from the heavy blanket of clouds that had closed over West Harbor.

“Hey,” I said, flinging myself off the back of Derrick’s bike and rushing to the ticket taker, who was wearing full Colonial garb—a serving wench costume, complete with corset, scullery cap, and a surly expression. “I’m not here for the ball. I just need to run inside and talk to someone.” And save West Harbor from becoming a hellmouth. “I swear I’ll only be a second.”

“No ticket, no entrance,” she said without skipping a beat as she scanned the tickets of the guests in front of her. It had growndark enough that she needed to use a mini flashlight to see them. Either that, or Rosalie was so worried about forgeries, she’d told the staff to use flashlights to check the tickets for authenticity. “And you’ll have to get back in line and wait your turn like everyone else.”

“I have a ticket,” I said, opening my bag and rooting through it. Where had I put those tickets Rosalie had given me the other day? “I just don’t know where they are right now. Is there a list? I’m sure I’m on it.”

“There’s no list.” The barmaid spoke in a bored voice. She’d evidently been asked this question a lot. “Ticket holders only will be admitted.”

“You know, you can’t park that bike there,” a man in full British redcoat uniform said to Derrick, pointing at a sign that had been calligraphed in Old English script. “The street is closed to vehicular traffic today.”

“I was hoping you could make an exception,” Derrick said, removing his black helmet and blinking at the barmaid with his silver eyes. “It’s an emergency.”

Something in Derrick’s voice caused her to actually look up from her ticket inspection—but not magic, which is what I’d thought at first. She lifted the frilly rim of her scullery cap.

“Oh, hey,” Stacy the waitress from Wake Up West Harbor said with a smile of recognition. “It’s you guys.”

I’d pulled off my helmet, as well. “Oh, hi!”

“You found him, I see.” Stacy grinned at me knowingly.

“I did, yeah.” I laced my fingers through Derrick’s. “Finally. So, um, would it be okay if we—”

“Oh, yeah, sure.” She casually waved us through the velvet roped entrance using the beam of her flashlight. “Take all the time you need. I’ll watch the bike.”

“What?” objected the haughty British redcoat. “You made mego back to my car for my tickets, and I’m parked all the way by the train station!”

“Next,” Stacy said, in a bored voice, ignoring him.

“Thank you,” I said to her, and Derrick and I ducked through the entrance just as the cold, stinging rain began to fall with more earnestness.

Inside the tent, however, it was a completely different world. Warm and dry, strands of white party lights hung from the branches of trees to give a festive, even otherworldly glow. Tables strewn with white cloths and decorated with dancing votive candles were placed in front of a stage that backed up onto the courthouse steps, on which sat a podium and small orchestra, playing a piece that certainly sounded as if it had come from the seventeenth century. Servers dressed similarly to Stacy milled around, offering champagne and small dishes to the many partygoers who’d already managed to make it inside the tents.

Looking out over such a picture-perfect scene, listening to the lovely music and seeing all the happy, beautifully dressed people, it was hard to believe anything could be amiss.

Until I heard another crack of thunder—this time sounding as if it was right overhead. People all around us ducked, looking up, then giggled as if at their own foolishness for forgetting how safe they were, beneath this series of tents.

Except of course they weren’t safe. They weren’t safe at all.

Derrick and I scanned the square.

“I don’t see Esther,” he said. “Do you?”

“No.” I’d already fished my phone from my bag and called her. No response. “I doubt she can hear her phone, with all this racket.”

“That ‘racket,’ as you call it,” Derrick said, “is the Allegro from Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto Number Four.”

“Wow,” I said, pretending to be impressed. “You know a lot,for a farm boy from Montana. Oh, wait, I almost forgot. Your mom isthe creator of all life.”

He gave me a pleading look. “I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you.”