Postcards from Cedar Key by Terri Dulong Page A

rejection.”
    He was right. Didn’t I still feel a nagging sense of abandonment because my mother had left me with my grandmother that summer?
    â€œSo, I don’t know,” he said. “I’m having mixed feelings about contacting her, I guess. How would you feel? What if your father hadn’t been killed in Vietnam and he now tried to contact you?”
    I blew out a breath of air. “Wow, I’ve never once considered that scenario. Well . . . ah . . . yes, I think I’d like to get to know him. You know, find out if we had any similar interests, did we look alike, that sort of thing.”
    â€œReally?” He stood up and smiled. “That’s good to know. So you’re saying that you’d probably forgive him for being out of touch for so many years?”
    I stood up and reached for the coffee mugs to head to the kitchen. “Well, I’m not sure about forgiving. That can be a difficult thing to achieve sometimes, but yeah, I do think I’d like the opportunity to at least meet him and try to get to know him.”
    Saxton nodded. “Right. And maybe the forgiveness would follow.”
    â€œAnother cup of coffee?” I asked.
    â€œThat would be great. Excellent coffee, by the way.”
    I smiled as I poured two more cups. “I grind my own beans,” I told him as I walked back into the living room.
    Saxton laughed. “I should have known. What’s this?” he asked, pointing to a circular stained glass piece hanging on my wall. “It’s a Wheel of the Year, isn’t it?” Removing a pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket, he walked closer to get a better look.
    â€œI’m surprised that you know what it is,” I said, coming to stand behind him and passing him the mug of coffee.
    â€œYou seem to forget—I’m from England. Where Wicca was popularized in the 1950s and early 60s. This is an exceptionally nice piece.”
    I looked at the vibrant shades of blue, gold, green, and other colors depicting the annual cycle of the earth’s seasons.
    â€œIt belonged to my mother. Except for me, it was one of the few things she brought back from being a student at Berkeley.”
    â€œI once wrote a mystery novel about a stolen Wheel of the Year, so I did quite a bit of research about them. As I recall, these are the eight festivals throughout the year referred to as Sabbats. I believe that term originated from Judaism and Christianity and is of Hebrew origin.”
    â€œThat’s right,” I said, impressed with his knowledge. “The festivals themselves have historical origins in Celtic and Germanic pre-Christian feasts.”
    Saxton reached out a finger to touch the midsummer part of the wheel where June 19–23 was etched into the glass. “The time of year that I came to earth,” he said quietly.
    â€œReally? Your birthday is in June?”
    â€œJune twentieth, the summer solstice. At least this year it will be, but most years it’s on June twenty-first. I’ve always admired the Wheel of the Year. It shows time as cyclical and the progression of birth, life, decline, and death as experienced in human lives.”
    I nodded. “And this is echoed in the progression of the seasons.”
    Saxton removed his glasses and turned around. “And so . . . do you practice Wicca as a religion?”
    I shrugged before answering. “Not really, although I do believe in some of their views and theories.”
    He took a sip of coffee and nodded. “And your mother? Obviously she must have had the same views to bring this back from California?”
    â€œShe did and so did my grandmother.”
    â€œSo you weren’t brought up with organized religion?”
    I laughed. “Oh, but I was. Catholic Church and even Catholic school for eight years, but when I reached high school, all three of us stopped going. I’m not really sure why. All I know is that we seemed to