CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Moira~
She was far too buzzed and frustrated to go to bed. Whoever heard of a rattled fairy? Was this peculiar emotionality her new normal? Maybe she should see a doctor. There were sensitives on the island who were used to treating the Fae.
She booted up her laptop and ran a google search on Quinn. Lots popped up. That wasn’t too surprising. The Drakes had big money. Big money had social and political prestige. The Drakes were newsworthy. Wherever he went, Quinn garnered plenty of attention.
There wasn’t so much as a hint in the business news that the only son of the CEO of Drake Investments, Inc. had quit his job. Not a whisper. Interesting. Was that because Quinn was leaving himself a fallback position? Or because the Drakes refused to accept his decision?
More troubling were the dozens of photographs of Quinn escorting his fiancée to the opera, to charity balls and fund-raising dinners. His fiancée! Suddenly she had first-hand experience of jealousy. Cynthia Fitzhugh was a tall, willowy blonde from another prominent Seattle family. A former model turned clothes designer, Ms. Fitzhugh had a successful line of clothes marketed under her own name.
She looked good on Quinn’s arm. Proportional. Beautiful. Elegant. If you liked the skinny clotheshorse type. On impulse, Moira looked up Cynthia’s clothing line. Cynthia modeled her own garments on her website. Either she was an egomaniac, or she couldn’t pay a model. Or maybe she saw no reason to hire another woman to do what she herself could.
Moira clicked on The Everywoman Basic Collection. Every woman sounded like Moira with her generous bust and hips. Cynthia was rocking a simple, bright-blue tunic worn over black jeggings. A black belt was draped at an angle from waist to hip. She looked casually tasteful, and sexy. Moira, however, wasn’t sure that every woman could carry that look off.
Like all fairies, Moira made her own clothes. She had altered her style when she returned to Mystic Bay. Sleek black shifts and tailored jackets were too formal for a resort in the San Juans. But she had not adopted caftans or any other concealing garment. She still preferred clothes that showed she was a woman.
She stood before her mirror and replaced today’s skirt and blouse, which nipped in at the waist and made her look like Marilyn Monroe, with a tunic identical to the one in the website photo. Paired it with black leggings. The top hung past her knees, shapeless and frumpy.
She played fair and waved a hand, giving herself a less droopy neckline. She added darts at bust and waist, and shortened the garment to mid-thigh. Better, but nothing special. She added the belt, transforming ho-hum into a bright blue flour sack. Like many fashion designers, Cynthia did not create garments for short women with curves. Yet another reason for Moira to keep making her own clothes.
Another wave of her hand and the tunic and leggings vanished and so did her bra and panties. She looked better naked than clothed. But naked would not do for everyday. Another wave and she was wearing one of her favorite nightgowns. Even her sleepwear looked better than that tunic.
Sleeveless silk might be a bit skimpy for May on West Haven, but Rosewood Cottage had triple glazing to keep out the wind, as well as central heating. Her rose pink creation cradled her breasts in diaphanous fabric that held them separate yet softly rounded. The gown flowed from beneath her breasts all the way to the ground, hinting at her waist, hips and thighs.
But it was too long. She shortened the hem to tea length, conjured some slippers and returned to her computer to look at Cynthia. Seething. Because Quinn hadn’t kissed her like a man with a fiancée. He had kissed her like a man who wanted everything. She kept cruising. There was Cynthia with a rock like a pigeon’s egg adorning her left hand and her right hooked possessively around Quinn’s arm.
The pit of her stomach clenched. So did her teeth. So this was what jealousy felt like. A burning acid dripping on your heart, coupled with spiteful rage. She read on.
Last year, there had been an engagement party at the home of Anthony and Lorraine Drake. The Fitzhughs had responded with a masked ball to introduce their daughter’s fiancé to their friends and family. Quinn and Cynthia went sailing, took a trip to Montreal, attended a dinner honoring his grandfather. And so on.
Until April. Of course there was no way they could be photographed together if Quinn was on West Haven, and Cynthia was in Seattle. Cynthia was still on the social circuit. She stood with her parents while they opened a children’s hospice. She spoke at a women’s luncheon. She danced at the yacht club with a variety of partners. Including Adrian Whitlock.
Moira stared at that image until it swam before her eyes. Pair of users. They deserved each other. Now where had that judgment come from? Her intuition was powerful. But it was useless over the internet. Or the phone. Or on a photograph. A letter could trigger a genuine perception, but that was because the intention of the writer would permeate the paper. Emails and texts were neutral.
But there was Cynthia smiling for the camera for all she was worth, while Adrian clasped her left hand – her naked left hand – in his right. Moira knew that expression. It told her that Adrian thought he had found a new mark. So was Cynthia stepping out on Quinn, or was their engagement over? And should she tell Quinn that his ex or his fiancée or whatever Fitzhugh was, was the target of a con artist?
Or should she mind her own damned fairy business. Fairies didn’t cry, but her pillowcase was damp in the morning.