A Fantasy Christmas

by Cindy Bennett, Sherry Gammon, Stephanie Fowers

  It sure felt worse yesterday when I had tried to climb out of the hole. I glanced again at the pale bruises just below my clavicle on the left. I must have hit my head harder than I thought because I remembered it hurt a lot more. My hand brushed over the scar on the right from the bullet I took last summer. That seemed like a million years ago now. Another lifetime. I hoped my job in Sugar Maple would never see real danger like that fateful night in Port Fare.

  I washed my hair using some flowery shampoo she had. It boasted the scent of lavender and mint. Way too girly on me, but it did remind me of her. She always smelled of wildflowers and meadow grass. I loved that smell.

  As I dressed, I noted the wobbly towel rack on the wall. A simple fix, really. All I had to do was tighten a screw on the wall. I’d fix it for her as a thank you for letting me stay.

  “Wait,” I mumbled to myself. “Just because she’s a woman, doesn’t mean she can’t fix the towel rack herself.” Of course that doesn’t mean she knows how either. This feminism stuff sure made life hard on a man. I finished dressing and went back out to Marigold.

  “Feeling better?” she asked, handing me a cup of warm herbal tea.

  “Much. Thank you.” I took it and sipped the sweet smelling liquid. She added honey, just how I liked it. “The pants aren’t too bad of a fit, either.” I tugged on the loose jeans. “Don’t suppose you have an old belt of your father’s lying around?”

  “No. Sorry.” She shook her head, her loose curls flowing around her shoulders. “I have some cotton rope left over from the clothesline I strung yesterday. A rope belt would thrill the tourists.”

  Again, I thought of my proper mother and the mortification that would be on her face. “Marigold, I think I’ll take you up on your offer,” I said with a chuckle.

  She hurried into her workroom and brought back the white rope. “I’ll need to measure around you to know how much you’ll need. May I?”

  For a split second I thought about doing it for her, then decided that would be foolish on my part. If she did it, then her arms would be wrapped around me. A much better option. “Be my guest.”

  I held my flannel-covered arms up and Marigold came next to me. With shaky hands, she reached around my waist. It took her several attempts to reach the rope before succeeding. She moved closer. Why, I had no idea, but didn’t care. I bent and inhaled the aroma that was Marigold, almost groaning in pleasure as her scent filled me. I wanted to take her in my arms and. . .

  “This should be about right,” she said, moving away and grabbing scissors from a nearby drawer. She cut the rope belt and handed it to me. I slipped it into the belt loops and tied it in front, feeling very Beverly Hillbillies. “What do you think? Vogue enough?” I spun in a small circle.

  She laughed into her hands. “You missed a loop. Here.” Marigold came up to me again and untied the rope. I rested my hands on her slender shoulders as she reached around me and slipped the rope through the missing loops.

  I knew I shouldn’t have, but after wanting to kiss her for nine years, I’d reached my limit. My hands slid up her neck and into her silky hair. Marigold’s gaze darted to mine. Instead of confusion or apprehension, I saw hunger. She wanted the kiss as much as I did. I leaned into her, my lips brushing against hers. Finally.

  And she kissed me back.

  It felt as if I were burning alive from the inside out when a soft sigh escaped her mouth. The long slow kiss clouded my brain. Nine years I’d wanted this. And it was worth the wait.

  Suddenly aware that I may have gone too far, I pulled back. “Marigold, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kissed you like th—” She stopped me by pressing her lips back against mine. I made a mental note to thank whoever it was that taught her how to kiss this good . . . after I beat the crap out of him first.

  All too quickly, Marigold moved back, the look in her eyes making my knees weak. “I guess waiting nine years for a kiss kind of builds up in a person.” She dropped her gaze to the floor, her cheeks flushing. I couldn’t take it. I lifted her chin back to me.

  “I couldn’t agree more.” My lips found hers yet again. And time stood still. I couldn’t explain it, but that’s how it felt. It was the same sensation nine years ago when I’d spent that week with her. Time crawled when we were together, in a good way, as if I willed it to stop so I could be with her longer. I hated her ten o’clock curfew, but respected it. Southern manners dictated respect for one’s parents. As much as my parents hated the south, they were keen on the whole respect your elders theme that ran through people’s veins down here.

  A loud bleating sound interrupted a really great moment. “That would be my goats,” she said, pulling back. “I reckon I’d better go feed them.” She picked nervously at the hem of her sleeve before clearing her throat. “Would you like to see my farm?”

  “I’d love to.” I smoothed down her hair—I’d made quite the mess of it.

  “It’s not much, but it’s enough.” She took my hand—I liked that—and led me out the kitchen door into the yard.

  “Those are the goats.” She pointed to a wooden pen next to the red barn where half-a-dozen long-eared goats gawked at us. “I use their milk to make the lotions and soaps that I sell in town at Betty Jo’s place, The Sugar Maple Stop.”

  “I’ve seen your herbs there. Betty tells me your love potion is her biggest seller,” I said as she opened the gate to the pen. “I didn’t realize you have soaps and shampoos, too. Do you use a witch on those labels also?”

  She grinned mischievously. “Like I said, I decided to embrace the rumors since they refused to die out. My sales doubled the first year I added the witch. Last year they were up fourfold.” She beamed. “I spent my childhood fighting the rumors, and now they afford me a comfortable lifestyle.”

  Though not a very tall building, the inside of the barn felt roomy. There were six stalls to the right for the goats, each with straw bedding. On one end of the building hung a silver water spigot with a four by four foot plastic bin next to it on the floor labeled Goat Fixins. Several bales of hay and straw were stacked neatly off to the left, next to another door.

  “Impressive little outfit you’ve got going,” I said as she pointed out the milking machine hanging on the wall above the stalls. “Do the locals still bother you with all that witch nonsense?”

  She scooped some kibble into the goat dishes hanging in the stalls, then closed the lid tight, probably to keep out the goats since they were already nibbling at the container. “Most locals leave me alone, with the exception of the Fartious twins.” She faced me. “Did you know that they lied to you about me having a boyfriend back in high school?”

  “You mean you didn’t have a boyfriend in Grantsville?”

  “No. I’m still mad at the twins for robbing us of what would have been our first kiss.” Her expression turned playful as she sauntered up to me.

  I wrapped my arms around her waist as hers worked their way about my neck. “I guess I owe you another then.”

  “And I you,” she said before pressing her mouth to mine. My heart fell just a little bit more in love with Marigold Yarrow as we kissed in her red barn to an audience of farm animals.

  Chapter Seven

  Marigold

  “So the Fartious twins still taunt you,” Jack said. Izzy, my demanding brown and white Nubian goat, rubbed against his leg. He stroked her on the head—she could be quite the diva.

  “It’s gotten worse since my father died.” I tried shooing the goat away with a wave of my hand.

  “She’s fine,” Jack assured me, rubbing Izzy’s ears playfully. She shut her yellow eyes and bleated in pleasure. “You’re a sweetheart, aren’t you?”

  “Just don’t turn your back on her,” I warned, setting out some salt block for the goats. “Do you know why the twins still bother me?” I pulled back the thin gauze curtains on the window. “Because of that.” I pointed outside at my garden, trying yet again to focus on anything not Jack Mahoney.

  He glanced out, st
anding close enough that our shoulders brushed. I inhaled him. Even my lavender shampoo couldn’t hide the scent that was Jack. Clean and woodsy. I wanted to feel his touch again, and small talk about a cantankerous goat and the annoying Fartious twins did little to keep my mind off his firm and oh so warm mouth.

  “What do they want out there?” he asked. His gazed dropped from my eyes to my lips. A fire sparked inside me.

  “That’s the herb garden I was telling you about. For my witch’s brew,” I added with a grin. “By the way, in this room,” I opened the door behind me, “is my drying room. The herbs must be dried before they can be stored.” He peered in at the empty racks before shutting the door.

  “The Fartious twins are after your herbs?” Jack turned back to the massive garden.

  “My garden, my house, all my land. They want everything. And they want me out of Sugar Maple.”

  “But why? Their husbands own two-thirds of the mountain already.”

  “I told you. Moonshine. They are the biggest producers of the stuff in three counties, according to my father.” I filled a tin bucket with fresh water from the water spigot on the wall and poured it into the trough for the goats. Izzy butted her way past the other goats for a drink.

  “Izzy, really. Are you a goat or a pig?” I snapped, tugging the goat away. She protested with several loud bleats.

  “I’m guessing Izzy’s not so big on sharing?” Jack asked, patting the goat’s head again. Izzy immediately stopped complaining and nuzzled up to him. He grinned. “I think she likes me.”

  “She has good taste,” I blurted then blushed. Embarrassed, I rushed over to the stack of hay bales in the corner and pulled out a handful. I twisted around and bumped into Jack.

  “Do you really think so?” he asked in a deep, throaty voice. It sent a shiver through me.

  “Ye—” Suddenly, Jack and I were flying through the air onto a haystack, landing side by side.

  “What happened?” Jack asked, startled.

  “Your girlfriend,” I pointed at Izzy, “is mad you stopped petting her. I warned you.” I lay back in the hay and laughed at Jack shooing the goat away. He then planted his hands on either side of me.

  “You have an intoxicating laugh,” he said softly.

  I slipped my hands into his hair and pulled him to my mouth, soon lost in him as his firm, full lips brushed back and forth over mine. I loved how he held me close, and the way he made me feel when I was in his arms. I waved my hand, slowing time . . . slowing the moment. Some things shouldn’t be rushed.

  “Marigold, I get completely lost kissing you,” Jack said several minutes later, his voice low and throaty. Time came back to us all at once. He stood, pulling me to my feet. “You’d better show me around. A man can only take so much.” He bounced his brow and took my hand, leading me outside.

  I loved walking side by side with him as we crossed the yard, as if all was right with the world. Feelings of contentment and peace filled my heart.

  As we approached the massive garden, the undeniable smell of lavender washed over me. Hmm, my favorite scent—well, after Jack.

  Jack’s eyes were on me—he tore them away and cleared his throat. “How much is in herbs, again?” he asked, opening the gate that fenced off the herb garden.

  “An acre in commercial herbs, and another in medicinal.” I forced a smile, wondering what he thought of all of this. Would he think I’m a crazy woman, living in the mountain make witches potions to sell to tourists, or would he see that I worked hard and provide a useful serve?

  He was silent for a moment. “This is impressive,” he said. I beamed proudly. “It must take forever to weed. Tell me more. Educate a poor city slicker.” He leaned against the wooden fence, listening as if I was the most important person in his life. It warmed my heart.

  “I only have two varieties left this year. The rest have all been harvested. That is lavender and is my biggest seller.” I pointed to the dark purple flower waving with the breeze and plucked a small sprig of it. Pressing it to my nose, I inhaled deeply.

  Jack took the flower and did the same. “It reminds me of you.” With an intent look, he tucked it in my hair.

  His touch seemed to prickle through my scalp. I swallowed. “Uh, the only other herb left is the marigold. It’s considered the Herb of the Sun and a symbol of passion and creativity.” I pointed to the large patch of red and gold flowers growing next to the lavender. “They were my mother’s favorite, thus my name. She liked to weave them into bridal bouquets for luck.” I picked a few flowers. “Marigolds are supposed to be good for muscle spasms, mouth sores, healing wounds, and much more.” I handed Jack the flowers. “I really need to harvest the lavender before the first frost hits.” I said it mostly to myself. I’d have to use magic to get it done in time, though I could handle the marigolds without it. Too much magic makes for a lazy witch, my mother used to say.

  “Marigold helps with healing?” Jack asked as he helped me pick a few more flowers. “Did you use them on my wounds? I remember feeling a warm sensation as you touched my chest and leg.”

  I straightened. “You remember me tending to your wounds?”

  “A little,” Jack said. Lightning cracked across the sky above us. He glanced up at the heavy dark clouds and continued. “I remember you touching my skin and a warm sensation rushing through my injuries. If not herbs, then it must have been magic.” His lips curved into a playful smile.

  “Yes, well, we’d better get back to the house. It’s going to rain.” I grabbed his hand and we scurried to the house as a few droplets fell. We made it inside just in time to avoid the downpour. Jack sank into the recliner in the living room as I set the flowers on a screen in my workroom to dry.

  “Are you hungry?” I asked, coming back into the kitchen.

  “No, sleepy actually, and maybe a bit chilly.” Jack stretched, fighting a yawn. “Don’t suppose you have an electric blanket?”

  “I do.” I hurried to the other room and found it, making sure the plug was attached since I didn’t ever use it. I powered it with magic. I placed the blanket around Jack and plugged it in.

  “You have electricity clear up here?” He yawned again.

  “Sort of. My dad installed solar panels on the roof when we moved up here. It powers the generator out back.” Of course, I never used that either. In fact, it wasn’t fully connected. My father simply installed the panels to keep the locals from wondering how we got electricity. He didn’t want to explain that his daughter, the witch, had placed an enchantment on the house, making outside power unnecessary.

  “I’m sorry to be lousy company, Marigold, but I need some sleep.” Jack yawned.

  “Go ahead. Your body is still healing. I’m afraid you’ll be doing a lot of sleeping over the next several days.”

  “When I wake up, you can tell me about . . . the . . . moonsh . . .” He drifted off mid-sentence.

  I kissed his forehead and leaned back on my heels to watch him sleep. The stern contours of his jaw so peaceful now. His dark hair curled over his forehead. With a sigh, I left him for the kitchen to make up a pot of stew. Jack would probably be hungry when he woke.

  Chapter Eight

  Jack

  I bolted upright in the recliner, knocking the electric blanket to the floor. I’d dreamt about Marigold lifting me from the hole again, using magic. I also relived the pain of my fall. Not enjoyable the first time, I certainly didn’t like re-experiencing it.

  Wiping the sweat from my brow, I stood. “Enough with the heat,” I mumbled, unplugging and folding the still warm blanket. I tossed it onto the chair and went into the kitchen searching for Marigold. My stomach rumbled as the smell of what I hoped was dinner filled my senses.

  “Marigold, would you mind if I had something to eat?” I called out. No one answered. I removed the glass lid from the pot on the stove. “Stew.” I stirred the contents with a wooden spoon sitting on a small plate next to the stove. I watched as veggies and meat chunks, along with green fle
cks, swirled around. “Some of her herbs,” I guessed with a chuckle. I opened the drawer next to the stove and removed a teaspoon. I scooped up some stew, blowing to cool it, and swallowed.

  “Hot!” I jerked back, dropping the spoon to the floor. It slid under the stove. “Serves me right for not waiting for Marigold.” I knelt, searched under the stove, and spotted the spoon clear to the back against the wall.

  Grunting, I shimmied my arm and shoulder in the gap between the stove and counter, not exactly a pleasant feeling with my battered body. While reaching for the spoon I discovered the plug to the stove lying on the floor. “How in the world did that come unplugged?” I picked up the plug to connect it to the outlet, only there was no outlet. Confused, I stepped back. The stew simmered away on low. I lifted the tall, silver pan, running my hand above the burner. I could feel heat rising. “That’s impossible.” I glanced around and even lay on the floor to get a better view under the stove. There was no power whatsoever going to it. No electricity, no wood, no gas, no nothing.

  “Impossible.” I rubbed my jaw. The word witch popped into my head. I immediately brushed it aside. There had to be another explanation.

  Slipping my black work shoes on, I went outside. There was a chill in the air and I was even more grateful for the flannel shirt covering my arms as I circled the house in search of the generator. I found the four-by-four foot metal box humming away behind the house. I scanned the area for the source that fed the power into the house. There was no power source whatsoever. Again, the word witch entered my mind, this time sticking around for several seconds before I dismissed it.

  “No. There has to be a logical explanation. I’m caught up in that stupid dream, is all.” I rounded Marigold’s house again. My parents had solar panels when we lived in Sugar Maple. I remembered the box on the side of the house, an inverter my father called it. The solar panels fed power to it and from there, the power entered the house. Marigold’s father would have had to install an inverter of some kind.