Haunted Ground by Irina Shapiro Page B

dear?” she asked in sugary tones.  “Always a pleasure to see a new face hereabouts.  I always tell my husband, “There’s not a single person I don’t know for miles around.  I never forget a name or a face.  Never.” 
    The woman was close to sixty, with wiry gray hair and a spherical shape that was displayed in all its rotund fullness by a sweater set in an unfortunate shade of canary yellow, paired up with a skirt of brown and beige plaid.  Her dark eyes were lively as a young girl’s and nearly devoured me with undisguised curiosity.  Her gaze travelled from my pony-tailed hair, over my face, down to my lime-green V-neck top and my jeans and flats, snapping back up to my face as I answered.
    “Yes, for now.”  I normally enjoyed talking to people, but this woman was appraising me as if I were a brood mare, no doubt collecting vital details to be shared with other patrons about the newcomer to their village.  She was likely the village’s premier gossip, so being rude was not a good idea.  It would just feed into the notion that all Americans were ill-mannered. I smiled brightly and introduced myself.
    “I’m Lexi Maxwell,” I ventured.  “I just bought the old Hughes place.”
    “Don’t I know it?!” she exclaimed.  “Such a shame that no one wanted the house after Eleanor died.  But, it couldn’t have turned out better, could it?” she said cryptically.
    “In what way?” I asked, confused.
    “Well, it’s been in the family for generations.”  She made this statement as if she were telling me something obvious, but I had no idea what she meant.
    “And you have Aidan MacKay doing the work, I hear?  Recommended by Paula Dees?” she asked with a look of naked disapproval.  “Thick as thieves, they are, but he does good work, or so I’m told.  Frankly, I have my doubts about him.  He’s a Scot, a Highlander, and you know how they are.”  She gave me a meaningful look, but I really had no idea how Scots were. Did she expect him to charge down the hill wild and barefoot, waving a sword and shrieking, his face painted blue with woad? Or were those Picts?  Clearly I had my barbarians confused, but I wasn’t about to share that fact with the erstwhile shopkeeper.  I could only imagine what she’d make of Aidan and I having a Midsummer Bonfire, but I wasn’t about to enlighten her.   
    “Ah, thank you,” I mumbled as I grabbed my shopping and stowed it in the canvas bag I’d brought along.  I had to dash if I were to make sandwiches before sunset. 
    “It’s Mildred Higgins, dear,” the woman called after me as I left the store.  Mildred Higgins , I thought, a perfect name for a busybody .
    ***
    I handed Aidan another sandwich and watched him swallow it in two bites.  He’d been quiet for the past few minutes, just staring into the flames clearly as mesmerized as I was, the pyre reflected in his clear blue eyes.  No sign of the wild Highlander , I thought, as I took in his pensive expression.
    “Are many people lighting bonfires tonight?” I asked, less because I wanted to know and more because I wanted to draw him into conversation.
    “There are some.  Mostly young people.  They don’t really care about tradition, just like the romance of a roaring fire on a summer’s night.  It’s still celebrated in Cornwall and Wales, and of course, Scotland since it’s the week of Beltane.”
    “So, it’s a Pagan tradition then?”
    “It used to be a celebration of the summer solstice, but the Church decided to appropriate it, as it did the winter solstice and turned it into Christmas.  They made June 23 rd St. John’s Eve, since supposedly John the Baptist was born on June 24 th .  It used to be a time of merriment and feasting, but the Church wasn’t pleased with the pagan elements of the celebrations and demanded that June 23 rd should be a day of fasting instead.  They sure know how to ruin a good time, don’t they?” he said with a grin. 
    “So, not