Free Immortal by Pati Nagle Page A

more.
    Madera smiled slightly. “I will send some home with you.”
    I looked at him. Had that been a not-so-subtle hint? I chose to ignore it.
    â€œDid you grow them?”
    He nodded. “I have orchards to the west. Pears, apples, apricots—”
    â€œSo you made the jam, too?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWow. And nobody’s married you?”
    He looked disconcerted. I picked up the last slice of pear and ate it, watching him. He returned my gaze thoughtfully. I had a feeling I was being studied.
    The kettle started to whistle. Madera got up, breaking the stare-off. While he fixed my tea I had ample time to kick myself for the marriage comment. What if he was a widower?
    â€œYour furniture’s really beautiful,” I said, trying to make up for it. “Was it all made by the same craftsman?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œSame person who did the owl at your gate, right?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWell, whoever made it’s really good. They could sell this stuff in Santa Fe for big bucks.”
    He put the lid on the teapot and turned to face me, leaning against the counter. A small, wry smile slid onto his face.
    â€œThank you.”
    I paused in the act of picking up bread crumbs with a fingertip. “ You made the furniture?”
    He dropped his gaze. “I have a lot of free time.”
    â€œI thought you were a curandero.”
    â€œYes, but this community is small.”
    How could he afford this big place, then? I didn’t voice the question. Maybe I’d guessed right, and he was selling his furniture in Santa Fe. Bottom line, it was none of my business. I didn’t want to cross from chattiness into nosiness.
    I looked out the window. “Your fountain is beautiful.”
    â€œThank you.”
    â€œDon’t tell me you made that, too.”
    He laughed. “No. I did the tile.”
    â€œIt’s lovely. Reminds me of Mexico.”
    â€œYou have been to Mexico?”
    â€œWhen I was little. I remember lots of flowers and fountains. Have you been?”
    He hesitated, reminding me suddenly of Caeran. “A long time ago. Your tea should be ready.”
    He turned away to get out a cup for me, a slim, pottery piece with a gorgeous glaze in shades of green, and no handle. He set it before me along with a cream pitcher and honey jar, then poured tea from the pot.
    All the pottery matched. Had he made it?
    I decided not to ask. It was getting too weird.
    I picked up the cup and blew on the hot tea, then took a sip, burning my tongue. To give it time to cool down, I added some honey and stirred it with the spoon Madera had provided, which looked like real silver.
    â€œI will fetch you some pears.”
    He left, rather hastily I thought, through the west door. I turned over the spoon and peered at the back of the handle. Old maker’s marks. They looked hand-incised, not stamped.
    Old money? That might explain some things. I still felt like I didn’t have the whole picture.
    And he was fetching me pears, so it definitely had been a hint. He wanted me to leave.
    OK, well I knew better than to outstay my welcome, but I was going to see Caeran before I went. That was all there was to it.
    I realized I was frowning, clenching the spoon handle. I put it down and tried the tea again. It was the perfect temperature, and tasted better than any tea I remembered. The honey had added a fragrance of flowers.
    Everything about these people seemed hyper-wonderful. It wasn’t just my imagination.
    I drank the tea and poured more. Stared out the window at the fountain, trying to decide what to say to Caeran.
    Ask for an explanation of the whammy Mirali had laid on me. Ask if he had really read my mind.
    Ask when I’d see him again.
    I swallowed, thinking I probably wouldn’t like the answer to that last one. But I’d ask it anyway. If he was going to push me away, I wanted to know why. The disapproval of his friends wasn’t a good