Ladies Courting Trouble. Dolores Stewart Riccio

was instructed to remain in Amsterdam. So the Esperanza is continuing its voyage to Greece for repairs, and I’m going with it. No one is more surprised than I.”

      “Yeah, yeah. Like these detours never happen in Greenpeace. But when will you be home?” I really hated to hear that whining note in my voice.

      “I’ll be flying back in a couple of weeks or so.”

      “I guess it’s a good chance to visit your mom and brothers, right?”

      “Hmmm. Well, my mother is getting on in years. I should fly to Athens. But trust me, I’ll absolutely be home long before Thanksgiving. So what are you doing right now?”

      “Getting ready to celebrate Samhain. We’re having it here at my house…our house.”

      “Admit it—I would only have been in the way.”

      “Not at all. We might need a male sacrifice for some weird sexual rite.”

      “If only you’d mentioned this earlier, I’d have been glad to sacrifice myself. What exactly is it you gals do at Halloween?”

      “Oh, never mind. We’ll just have to find some other good-looking, lusty Greek guy.”

      We carried that theme about as far as it would go, and the call ended in a pleasantly sexy mood. Still, when we hung up, I was looking at three or more weeks alone just as I had become used to sharing bed and board with a handsome husband, as well as never having to worry about changing fuses or flat tires. Damn!

      Don’t feel sad, Toots. You’ve still got me to cuddle with. Scruffy always understands when I’m feeling a bit melancholy and might need some companionable nudges with a cold nose.

      Samhain began just as the sun was setting. Later, there would be a tipped golden bowl of moon and a brilliant Jupiter blazing in the southeast sky. It was a clear, crisp evening, too cool for an outdoor ceremony, although I did light the walk to the back door with solar torches. I follow the New England Yankee tradition of reserving the front door for visiting dignitaries or departing coffins.

      I’d decorated the living room window seat as an altar in black, orange, silver, and gold, with bouquets of dried mint, sage, and catnip (fortunately, no felines lived here to roll in the arrangements!), gourds, apples, and nuts, and a statue of Hecate, a loan from Heather, who favored that dark goddess.

      Ugh, prickly stuff! And hard old nuts—what do you think I am, a squirrel? If I can’t leap up on my watching place, how can I be expected to guard us? Scruffy paced back and forth, with many canine scowls and mutterings, in front of the new altar, where he normally took his ease on throw pillows and kept an eye on the street.

      “It’s just for one night. If you don’t behave yourself like a gentle-dog, it’s into the bedroom you go for the evening.”

      Hey, Toots—you’re always shutting me into or out of that room of yours. How come I never get to sleep on the big bed anymore since we got that furry-faced guy?

      “Long story, mutt. Count your blessings, and don’t steal anything off the dining room table.”

      A Sabbat at my house meant I would be the priestess, since it was our custom to take turns conducting the ceremony. For this I’d been saving a long, gauzy green dress studded with silver moons and pentagrams that I’d ordered in a mad moment from a metaphysical catalog—not the kind of outfit a gal could wear just anywhere, especially anywhere in Plymouth.

      Twilight was deepening, only a trace of pink over the trees, when we gathered in a flurry of hugs and “merry meet” greetings.

      “You look amazing, Cass. A post-midlife Titania.” Deidre pulled off a peaked wool cap and shook her short blond curls free. An aura of lily cologne surrounded her. “Will’s at the firehouse on Halloween watch. So my mother-in-law, Mary Margaret, insisted on taking the children trick-or-treating. I can’t say I like the idea of their collecting a bunch of suspicious sweets. I did impress on M&Ms—so the kids call her—that nothing is to be eaten until I’ve examined the loot.”

      “Toss ’em out directly” was Phillipa’s glib advice—she who’d never had to reason with thwarted children. Tonight she looked the most traditional of us all, dressed entirely in black. Her straight black hair had the sheen and smoothness of a raven’s wing. Attached to her belt, a single note of color, was the scarlet silk bag in which she carried her tarot.

      “Be sure your darling poodles don’t get into the chocolate,” Heather warned Deidre. “Chocolate is poison to dogs.” In her pumpkin-colored tunic and dark brown tights, a leather-sheathed ceremonial knife at her waist, she looked ready for a run in Sherwood Forest.

      “That’s where dowsing comes in so handy,” Fiona said for the umpteenth time. “I never eat any strange food without testing it with my pendulum.”

      “I can attest to that, having been out to lunch with Fiona,” I said. “And I find that having your companion swing a pendulum over her crabmeat roll and fries while muttering a spell does tend to attract some unwanted attention at The Walrus and the Carpenter. The place was crowded that day, so we were eating at the bar, and soon were the center of attention.”

      “Oh, for Goddess’s sake,” Fiona said. “For all anyone knew, I was saying grace. And what’s more important, anyway—other people’s opinions or safe food? I’d say, with a madwoman running around town poisoning the church brownies and Phillipa’s beautiful breads, it’s no time to take chances.”

      “She has a point there,” Deidre agreed.

      “We can argue later,” I said. “It’s the Sabbat, and I’m ready to celebrate.”

      A general murmur of assent, and we gathered in the living room. Scruffy had already found his sulking spot, stretched out on the hooked rug in front of the fireplace where a small pine-scented fire was ablaze. Between his paws was a Granny Smith apple, stolen from the altar and indifferently gnawed. I gave him my strongest “don’t give me any trouble” look, thereafter ignoring his sighs.

      With my athame, I consecrated a nine-foot circle, a place for us to work “between the worlds.” The mantle was aglow with as many candles as would fit between the animal stone carvings I collected, mostly Inuit and Zuni.

      I invoked the four elements, the six directions, the female and male incarnations of the Creator. We proceeded to the work, a simple banishing of the poisons in our midst, a purification ritual to cleanse their evil influence, then various visualizations for healing and other good things. Heather and Fiona each said a few pungent words that the purchase of acreage around Bonds Pond would somehow, for the good of all, and harming none, be smoothly executed by the Conservancy. Then we reached for the invisible force of spirit and pressed each other’s hands to pass that energy among us faster and faster until we could contain it no longer, and at a signal from me, we threw our arms upward to let the power of our wishes zoom into the universe—a transcendent moment.

      There was a collective sigh, a laugh, a relaxation to our shoulders. It was definitely time to adjourn to the dining room for mulled wine and cakes, pumpkin and apple (lavishly provided by Phillipa). And teasing and fun. We always laughed more deeply after the Sabbat ceremony, the rich, deep laughter of friends who were as close as family. At the brink of winter darkness, we were warmed and cheered by each other.

      “You know I’ve never actually seen a red-bellied turtle,” I said. “If the Conservancy manages to pry those old cranberry bogs out of Clarence Finch’s grasping fingers, I’d like to see what they look like.”

      “When,” said Fiona.

      “When what?”

      “When, not if, Finch gives up that land,” Fiona corrected me. “You must believe for good things to happen.”

      “Sounds like something out of a Disney movie,” Phillipa said.

      “Say what you will, believing is seeing,” Fiona declared. She didn’t spare us the promised lecture on healing, either, pulling out quotes