Epilogue~
"It looks like they finally got that hippy," Winslow called out from his chair in the living room.
He lowered his daily paper when he heard his daughter coming down the stairs and noticed her wearing a pair of coveralls with a set of goggles sitting high on her head.
"What's with that get-up, Marcie?" he asked as she walked into the living room.
Marcie looked down at her ensemble, smoothing the fabric and preening self-consciously. "Well, I'm going out with a friend for a little while."
"Anyone I know?"
"Uh, not really, Dad. It's, uh, Daisy Blake."
His eyebrows rose in honest surprise. "Barty Blake's little girl? I didn't know you two had met."
Marcie felt uncomfortable having such a long dissertation about the new friend in her life, knowing that she had so few to speak of.
"Yeah. I just didn't want to make a federal case about it, that's all," she said under her breath.
Her father nodded. "I understand. Anyway, I was saying that the sheriff caught that clown, The Ringleader."
"Clown? I thought he was a hippy," Marcie joked. "Yeah, I know. They caught him a few days ago at that abandoned dance club, and I, for one, am happy he's going away for a good long time."
"Same here," Winslow agreed. "So, how long are you going to be out?"
"Not too long. A few hours."
Winslow raised his paper to his face to continue reading, expecting the conversation to be over after saying, "All right, Marcie. Call me if anything comes up." But Marcie didn't leave the room yet.
"What's wrong?" Winslow asked, bringing the paper down again.
Marcie looked at her father with penitent eyes, trying to find the right way to say what she felt.
"Dad, I'm sorry about what happened at the staff meeting the other day. You work hard to keep this family together and a roof over our heads. I...just wasn't myself that day. I had no right to browbeat you about that."
Winslow looked at Marcie with pleasant shock. She sounded so mature just then. Not many teenagers these days would have made such an admission, especially to a parent.
Not that it was even necessary. He had put that scene out of his mind so long ago that it hadn't even concerned him after that day. But, now she had made it an issue to address, and he would honor her by talking it out.
"Marcie, you have nothing to apologize for," he told her, holding her hand to support his words. "You were worried about me, and that's your right. I would be more worried if you didn't think about my welfare at all."
Marcie said nothing and just kept her eyes averted.
Winslow continued. "I can only imagine how hard it must be for you not having your mother around, but I want you to know that if she were here with us right now, she'd be so proud of how you've grown up. Never stop caring, Marcie. It's the best part about you."
Without preamble, Marcie hugged her father, lest the emotions that swelled inside overwhelmed her.
"I love you, Dad."
"I love you, too, Marcie."
From outside, a car horn bleated, taking attention away from each other. Marcie broke the hold, straightened her goggles, and walked to the door.
"That's her. I gotta run, Dad. I'll see you later."
Winslow raised a hand to halt her. "Wait. What are you two going to be doing out there?"
"Dumpster diving," she confessed. "She's going to show me the ropes. If I get good enough, imagine the equipment I could find on the cheap."
Winslow perked up when he heard his favorite word. "Cheap, huh? Well, I guess you are a chip off the old block, after all. Take care."
"Wish me luck!"
And with that, she happily left her white two-story home, and with the acceleration of Daisy's sports car, stepped out into the wild and woolly world of friendships.
The palatial home was purchased months before his arrival. It sat, perched on one of the woodland hills that overlooked the town and the surrounding Pacific, sharing wide, cultivated space with the homes of other celebrities, or industrial magnates, or simply, the wealthy.
Mr. Greenman, his back to the dinner party he was hosting, took in the coastal vistas that Crystal Cove was blessed with through one of the panoramic windows of his estate.
"Crystal Cove. The Sunniest Place on Earth," he quietly mused to himself. "Well, the sunnier the place, the deeper the shadows."
A man in a business suit broke off from the mingling crowds and walked up to Greenman.
"As your financial advisor, I have to say, Greenman, I am truly amazed at how large your fortune has grown, and all of it in gold!" the man said jovially. "What are you planning to do, corner the market?"
The master of the house turned to the advisor. "As an advisor, I shouldn't have to tell you that it's all about patience and discipline. However, a little divine intervention doesn't hurt, either."
The advisor sagely shook his head in his misunderstanding. "Mmm, charitable deductions. Right."
Greenman chuckled at the man's single-minded concern for money, then he stole a glance at the darkening sunset and finished his drink. It was time.
"Please excuse me, Mr. Cavanaugh. I have to attend to a bit of business in my office."
"Sure thing. Don't buy any wooden stocks," Cavanaugh joked, then added thoughtfully, "No really, don't buy any lumber stocks, right now, it's really dicey."
Ignoring the man, Greenman padded away and soon entered and locked himself in his spacious office.
While other offices might have wanted a warm, wooden look to them, his office was nothing less than a sylvan setting, looking more grown than built. A mini-waterfall and stream flowed in the room's rear, appointed with beautifully carved furniture and walls, all aged to a veneer of dark perfection.
He walked over to his massive oaken desk and touched a hidden switch there, opening a door hidden behind a tapestry-draped wall.
Stepping inside, he walked into a small chamber that ended in an oak and ivy-laced shrine.
A trio of gold-inlaid wooden statues stood above a silver bowl of pure spring water on the altar.
Kneeling on a silk pillow at the base of the altar, Greenman muttered prayers that were considered ancient even from their bygone age, communing through the effigies of his three gods, asking them for good fortune.
"Your truest servant calls to you," he said reverently. "I have followed the lines that you have traced in the earth with your divinity, and they have led me here. Bless the endeavors that I do in your sacred names, with good fortune, in the coming days."
A green, otherworldly light illuminated the altar from an unseen source, and incredibly, the heads of the three idols became animated and spoke in chorus.
"Goodly fortune will be yours, Last of the True Druids," they said simultaneously.
"Bless you, great masters. Ble-"
The idols cut him off suddenly, their unison voice heavy with portent.
"But, be wary of the alchemist. Although her hand shall make a way for you, that same hand may close upon you. Be wary..."
As the supernatural light faded from the statutes, once more making them inert, Greenman sat on his knees, confused by the omen.
A woman alchemist, in this day and age? One that will help his cause or possibly hinder it? The only female he recalled seeing was that lanky girl in Fleach's office.
He stiffened in suspicion.
"Her?" the druid finally asked himself, not even he believing how strongly, or how strangely, the hand of fortune was guiding everything.
