by Eve Langlais
“I wanted to say thank you for sending Brigda to help me.”
“It was the least I could do given what happened.”
“I also wanted to say I’m paying for it.”
“Who says there will be a cost?”
“I highly doubt Brigda is working for free,” was my dry reply.
“What makes you think she isn’t doing this out of the kindness of her heart?”
“Because she hates me.”
“Hate is harsh. Intensely dislikes. But I’m sure she’ll come around. Eventually. Once she gets over her jealousy.”
“Why would she be jealous of me?”
“Are you fishing for compliments?” Mockery tinged his words.
“I highly doubt that’s the reason for her dislike.”
“Get used to it. I imagine you’ll encounter many who won’t like you simply because of my interest.”
The fact he admitted it out loud had me stunned. It took me a moment to gather my wits and say, “Why are you interested in me?” A bold question. Bravery came more easily on the phone compared to in person.
“You’re a fascinating lady.”
“Not really.”
I didn’t hold any illusions where I was concerned. I’d gone right from college to housewife, to mother, to empty nester, and now divorcee. I’d not lived a very interesting life. Most of it had revolved around caring for my family, whereas Kane lived a jetsetter style. Beautiful women, exotic places. I defined drab in comparison.
“Would you feel better if I said I want to stay on the good side of a witch?”
The word made my lips press into a tight line. No matter what the town thought my grandmother had done, I’d not followed in her steps. “I’m not a witch.”
“Better safe than sorry.”
“I want you to send me the bill for the supplies and Brigda’s hours.”
“You know I can’t do that. Wouldn’t want to tempt the curse.”
“There is no curse.” Not anymore. I’d used science and social media to prove the townsfolk were superstitious. Used to be they gave me everything I wanted for free. It was a deal that went back centuries. While my grandmother might not have minded taking advantage of them, I didn’t feel comfortable with it.
“Still in denial I see. How much longer will you reject who you are, Naomi?”
I would have retorted, probably something stupid and inane, but he hung up. I stared at my phone.
“Arrogant jerk,” I muttered.
“Who is?” Startled by the voice, I whirled to see Jace. How had I not heard him arrive?
Not even thinking, I blurted out, “Your brother.”
“I agree. But I am wondering why he’s on your mind.”
I waved my phone. “Because I was just talking to him.”
“I see.” Flat words.
“He called me.”
“And you came running to find him.” He cast a glance at the mill.
“I came here to find him and make sure he didn’t try and pay Brigda for her work at my shop.”
“Ah yes, I heard about your troubles. Have they arrested the culprit?”
I shrugged. “Nope, and according to the police, they likely won’t. Could be teenagers or someone who doesn’t like the local witch starting up a business.” I did finger quotes.
His jaw tightened. “Were any other businesses touched?”
“Just lucky me.”
“You’re like a lodestone for ill events,” was his muttered retort.
“As if I didn’t know. Thanks for pointing it out.” I stepped past him, heading for my car, but he kept pace.
“Have you thought about leaving?”
“Trying to get rid of me now? Was it you that broke the windows? Is this some ploy to get me to sell my place and move?” I whirled and tossed the accusations at him.
“I don’t need a ploy. I’ve told you before, and I’ll tell you again, leave. This place isn’t safe for you.”
“Why is that? And don’t tell me because my family managed to con the town into thinking they were witches and warlocks. How is it not safe? You can’t tell me the crime rate is higher than the city or the suburbs where I used to live. You can’t bullshit me about the lake monster. I know it’s just a machine.”
“There are things you don’t understand.”
“That you won’t explain. Is it orcs? Because Trish seems to think we’ve got an orc problem. Whereas, Marjorie is worried the small-minded town is going to have a problem with who she loves, and Winnie is—make that was—dating a creep old enough to be her father.” Which had nothing to do with anything but bothered the heck out of me.
“Orcs?” His brow knitted. “Those foul creatures are extinct.”
I gaped at him. “Lunatic. I swear. Everyone in this town is crazy.”
“Or it is you who are ignorant. For reasons I daresay your grandmother knew, she didn’t teach you a thing.”
“She taught me plenty.”
“Except how to see. Open your eyes, Naomi, and see the truth before it’s too late.”
12
See the truth before it’s too late.
What was that supposed to mean? I saw perfectly fine. I was the one who saw through the whole hype around Maddy the lake monster. The only one who didn’t assume all the weird shit happening to me occurred because of something supernatural.
The only thing I didn’t see? The fact my ex-husband was to blame for lots of my previous woes. Could I be acting blind again where he was concerned? Martin could be the one who’d vandalized my store. It was the kind of easy and petty thing I could see him doing. Yet, at the same time, why would he jeopardize the freedom he’d attained by breaking out of jail?
And what if Martin had nothing to do with it? Could be someone random. Someone else with a vendetta.
I counted myself lucky that whoever targeted me hadn’t set fire to my store. I’d had more than my share of flames and destruction lately.
I returned to the shop in time to see my windows cleaned out, and Brigda preparing to put plywood over them. She screwed the boards on as I slowed to a stop in front of the shop.
“What happened to fixing them?” It emerged a little more tartly than I meant. What could I say? Her attitude toward me grated. She hated me, and yet I’d done nothing to her to warrant it.
The screws kept going in, and Brigda focused on those rather than face me as she said, “I need to get some glass cut to size. I’ll be back in a day or two to set the pieces.”
Meaning another few days before I could re-open my shop.
Great. With Christmas less than a week away, I would be squandering some of the best shopping days.
My teeny violin let out a tiny screeching note.
Shoulders back, head up. Yes, this was a setback. However, that didn’t mean I should pout in a corner. There was still plenty to be done. Online ads to place, announcing my grand opening. Taking pictures of the treasures and uploading them onto my new website that Winnie helped set up.
My whiz kid gave me a log-in and everything. All I had to do now was add pictures, descriptions, prices, and SKUs. Words that sounded daunting at first until Winnie sat down and showed me how to add a few items. It turned out it was simply a matter of filling the blanks. Once I saved an item as active, it automatically showed up on the website. We didn’t have online ordering completely set up yet; however, Winnie said the business might not thrive if we didn’t have some kind of option for it.
So much to do. So little time. I shouldn’t waste it. I spent the next hour and a bit taking pictures, which proved challenging. I had only limited lighting once the plywood was in place. The gloomy interior did not produce the kind of vibe I thought we should project. Good thing Mr. Peterson up the street had utility lights I could borrow that turned the shop bright as day.
I took my time cataloguing the various items and snapped several of the ornate box Darryl had pointed out from all angles. However, rather than put it away when done, I held it
in my hands. It wasn’t especially heavy. Not hot or cold. The wood grain stained dark, almost black, with hints of auburn.
I traced the lines carved into it. Seamless and even. The person who chiseled the marks had spent time smoothing them and ensuring it was uniform all the way around. I might have suspected machine made, and yet, my gut said it was handmade. A closer inspection of the box had me remarking on the similarity of the symbols to those scattered around my home.
Could it be the same artist that carved the inside of my house had built this box? I intensified my perusal of the markings, seeking a signature of some kind. Perhaps a stamp that told where it was made. The pattern repeated on every side without any variation.
I had no idea how it sprang open, or if indeed it could open. Squishing it in various spots didn’t depress a secret mechanism. Could be it was solid, and yet I knew it to not be true, as every time I rotated it, I could feel the subtle tick of something shifting inside.
The faces of the box met in dark lined seams. Sticking a nail in them didn’t go far, nor did I want to pry it open and damage it. It must have a trick.
Not having the time to play with it, I placed it into my handbag. Perhaps later at home, in a relaxed environment, I’d know what to do. If not, perhaps the house would give me a tool that would.
Would it?
I couldn’t ignore the uncanny nature of my home. Furniture suddenly appearing and no one knowing where it came from. Design details changing. Garages replacing sheds…
I had a magic house. Just how far would it go to please me?
Done with my photography, I headed for the back where my pottery wheel beckoned. I really should have been taking pictures of the stuff stored back here, waiting its turn. But I still had tomorrow. Maybe even the next day what with my window setback.
Also, I’d been thinking. What if the mud in our lake suddenly became the next big thing? At any moment, the company would be going public. I knew they were gearing up for a New Year release. I should be prepared and have something in stock that might appeal to possible collectors. I ignored the niggle that said I’d be taking advantage of people looking to believe in something that didn’t exist.
Healing mud. Kane claimed it could fix ailments. Maybe it could, but it wasn’t a miracle. I’d wager it was more on the lines of an aloe plant. You smeared a bunch of it to heal a little bit faster than other methods and claimed it was miraculous.
I didn’t believe in miracles. But I could use one to get this shop making a profit.
With such sound reasoning to bolster me, I spent the next hour shaping some bowls. Not great ones and yet recognizable and ready to be fired in the oven. My next daunting task. I could only assume the chimney was okay because, when I wiggled the doohickey thing that the internet claimed controlled the air flow, I could see daylight. I threw in a chunk of wood from the house then crumpled paper around it. Unlike my pot belly stove at home, the oven smoked, meaning I quickly slammed the door shut, ran for the narrow window and cranked it open, and then proceeded to wave the flap on the oven until the smoke stopped edging past the metal hatch.
As a future mental note, less paper, more open flue thingy. The good news was I got that oven heated, meaning I could bake my bowls. By the end of the day, I had my first cooling pieces.
Tomorrow, after I finished taking pictures and cataloguing them online, I could paint. Look at me, accomplishing stuff. I was rather pleased with myself even if I smelled a bit hickory smoked.
I washed up and noted the time. Just after six. I should get going or I’d be late for girls’ night. I shoved my hand into my bottomless purse, looking for my keys and instead found the puzzle box. My fingers curled around it, and I pulled it out of my bag.
Why did it fascinate me so much? Something so small wouldn’t hold anything super valuable. Unless it was a ring with a large gem. Hmm. Wouldn’t that be a coup even at thirty percent?
Only if I could open the box, though. I turned it over in my hands. Over and over. Spinning it, faster and faster—
Honk.
A car outside leaned on its horn and startled me. Blinking, I wondered how long I’d been standing there. I shoved the box back into my purse. I really should go. I hustled to my car, nervous about the fact daylight had been chased by winter’s early darkness. Despite not feeling threatened, I drove as fast as I dared along the country roads to my place. The entire time, I watched for falling trees and Molotov-cocktail-wielding individuals. Would the person stalking me try something new? Which led to thoughts of who was behind it.
Could it be Martin? The more I thought of it, the more I wondered if I should call Officer Murphy and let him know I might have a suspect. Would he even bother trying to look for Martin? What if I steered him at my ex and it turned out to be the wrong person?
The not knowing had me white-knuckling it home. I managed to do it without crashing, being crushed, set on fire, or running into wild animals, and just in time, too.
Flakes drifted down from the sky. I was finally seeing some signs of winter. I just hoped the paint on the sign had set enough during the day because we were going below zero Celsius tonight.
Worst-case scenario, I’d buy the necessary letters at a craft shop and nail them on. The store was going to open one way or another as soon as those windows were fixed!
As I headed up the porch steps, I spotted a wreath on the door. A holiday wreath made of real fir and laced with red ribbon.
Very festive and a reminder Christmas was fast approaching. Meaning, I really should get my ass in gear and start buying some gifts. I had some special people in my life that needed acknowledgement.
I walked into a heavenly scent. My stomach rumbled, and I told it to quiet down. Chances are whatever cooked on the stove wasn’t low carb and therefore not diet approved. The other day I’d managed to eat Winnie’s sauce only because I skipped the pasta and the bread that I used to eat too much of. It wasn’t because I didn’t want it. I craved the buttery toasted bread with its melted cheese and the firm bite of spaghetti that sometimes needed to be slurped.
Saying no sucked. I liked food. The taste. The texture. The way it filled me up. However, I didn’t like the bloating, the lethargy, and the inevitable weight gain that came with it. The reminder was what kept me from cheating.
I hung up my coat and slid off my boots, smiling at tandem hello’s, one from Winnie, who barely glanced up from the book she was reading on the coffee table. Trish tossed me a small smile and a wave.
As for my cat? He didn’t even open an eye from his perch in the window.
“Hey, Trish. How’d you get here?” Because I’d not seen her car out front.
“Winnie came to get me so Marjorie and I didn’t end up with two cars parked out front. I hear you had problems at the shop.” Tricia changed the subject. “I tried to pop by and see you the moment I had a free minute, but Brigda said you’d gone out.”
“I went to see Kane.”
“Why on Earth would you do that?” Trish didn’t hide her dislike.
“Because he’s the one who ordered Brigda to fix my windows. For free.”
“He did what?” Winnie exclaimed. “Is this supposed to be some kind of payment because you screwed him?”
“I did no such thing.” My denial emerged hot and embarrassed.
“They never got past first base.” Trish’s addition didn’t really help.
“He’ll probably expect it now that he’s playing the part of sugar daddy,” Winnie declared. “Men are pigs.”
“Not all of them,” I said, thinking of Darryl. Who, oddly enough, I’d not seen today. Surprising. Or a sign that I’d been misreading his interest in me?
At not yet seven o’clock, we were missing Marjorie. With her absent, now was a good time to pour myself a drink while she couldn’t see. I didn’t want to be that jerk who drank in front of my recovering alcoholic friend. Yet I needed something after the day I’d had.
“Look who’s getting lit.” Winnie nudged
Trish as I poured a second glass of tequila—which was the best for someone losing weight—to sip after choking down a burning first one.
“I have no intention of getting drunk. Just need a glow to calm my nerves.” I’d have to be careful not to make a habit of it.
I wandered over and looked at the book they were intent on. “Isn’t that Grandma’s recipe book?” I remembered her concocting things out of it, stirring savory broths on her stovetop and then putting it in jars that people came to buy. Which, in retrospect, was probably a sign of her being some kind of goodwife or witch that I never realized before.
She also used to feed me from it, a secret we kept from my dad who had nothing good to say. He never did get along with my grandma, and he made sure after we moved away that I saw her only a few times a year.
It had been more than thirty years since he died, and I had a hard time picturing him. He was more like a fuzzy presence in my past. Which was more than my mother. I had nothing of her at all, other than the photographs on the wall that showed me a stranger.
Winnie craned to glance at me. “Hope it’s okay. It was on the coffee table, so I borrowed it.”
“Go right ahead.” I crouched down on my haunches to get a closer look at the page they studied. “Find anything interesting?”
“Not yet. We were looking for something to reveal the writing in the family book.”
One of the three old tomes I’d inherited. Along with one that had no markings but was locked shut by a band wrapping around it. The one Trish spoke of, with the blank pages, had a tree etched on the front, the roots stretching down across the cover. Inside, lots of yellowed parchment and only one word on the title page. Rousseau in an elaborate flourish.
“You think they used invisible ink?” I reached for the tree cover book, the leather still supple in my grip. Holding it open, I lifted it to the light and squinted at the paper. “Why would anyone want to hide a family tree? Isn’t it a matter of public record?”
“Not always,” Trish replied. “Bastards, for example, would not be accounted for properly.”