The Secret Ingredient of Wishes

by Susan Bishop Crispell

  She laughed. “Completely justifiable.”

  “Catch told me you’ve been helping her out some with the baking. You must’ve really won her over in the past week.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Most people only get to touch her pies when they eat them. And by most people, I mean everyone. She’s very territorial when it comes to her kitchen,” he said.

  Rachel’s hand paused with the fork halfway to her mouth. “Are you serious? She barely even gives me a choice before she hands me something to do.” She’d just assumed Catch was that way with everyone. The fact that she wasn’t sent a flush of gratitude through Rachel’s chest.

  Ashe set his empty plate on the deck, the fork clattering against the plate. “Consider yourself lucky, then. She doesn’t open up to a lot of people. Even ones who were in her life and her kitchen every day for years.”

  She wondered if he was referring to Lola. But she kept the question to herself. Just thinking about Ashe’s wife reminded her of the wish she’d ignored earlier. And the ones she’d hidden upstairs. She laid her head back against the chair and looked at the blackening sky instead of at him.

  “Wishing on shooting stars?” he asked.

  “I don’t need stars for that,” Rachel said.

  10

  When Rachel woke, the sound of rain beating against the house drowned out the fluttering of paper. She listened, eyes closed tight, grateful for the reprieve. For a few seconds, she thought she’d imagined the wishes fluttering against each other in the box, as if trying to get her attention. It wasn’t until a drop of cool water hit her forehead and dribbled into her eye that she jerked fully awake. She lurched forward as the rain pelted her. Still disoriented from sleep, she almost toppled off the side of the bed. She groped for the light on the windowsill. The wet chain pull slipped through her fingers.

  She tugged on the window. It didn’t budge. She crouched, pressing down on the lip and putting all of her weight into it. She grunted. It still didn’t move. Not even an inch. The rain soaked through her tank top within seconds, and the tips of her hair clung to her collarbone.

  “Damn it,” she said.

  She sank back onto the bed as the rain continued to pour in.

  Grabbing her pillow and the comforter, Rachel dragged them off the bed, more water dribbling down her arms, and yanked off the sheet next. She balled it up and stuffed it into the window opening to buy a little time. She reached for her phone and realized she didn’t have Ashe’s number. Leaving it on the desk far from the window, she jogged down the stairs on the balls of her feet.

  The dark kitchen confirmed her instinct to call Ashe. If Catch wasn’t already up and baking, Rachel didn’t want to wake her. She found the list of names and numbers where Ashe had told her it would be and dialed his number on the old house phone attached to the wall between the kitchen and the laundry room.

  He picked up on the second ring and instead of saying hello, he asked, “What’s wrong?” His voice was tense, hard with worry.

  “It’s Rachel. My window is stuck open and the rain is soaking everything. I can’t get it to close, and I don’t want it to ruin any of Catch’s things. I didn’t know what else to do,” she said in a rush.

  “But Catch is okay?”

  “Yes, I think so. I didn’t want to wake her up.”

  “So, you thought you’d wake me up instead?”

  Rachel startled as lightning flashed across the sky. Thunder followed a few seconds later. “If I’d gone to her, she would’ve called you, so you’d be woken up anyway. Can you please just come help me?”

  “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  By the time she got back upstairs to wait by the window, he was already racing through the backyard, rain soaking him. She didn’t hear the back door slam shut and could just make out the footfalls of his shoes on the stairs.

  When he stepped into the room, she momentarily forgot why he was there. His T-shirt slicked across his chest and molded to the tight muscles underneath. He dragged his wet hair back off his face and caught her staring at him. His smile was quick and sent a jolt of heat through her.

  She looked away. “No umbrella?”

  “I don’t mind being a little wet.” He walked across the room, water and grass transferring from his shoes to the floor with each step. “So, let’s see this window.” He walked over to the bed, toed off his shoes.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Unless you can make me levitate, I’m going to have to get on the bed to see what’s going on with the window.”

  “Right. Sorry,” Rachel said.

  Kneeling on the bed, he yanked on the window. It didn’t budge for him either. He tried to push it open a little farther, the muscles in his arms tightening and flexing beneath the sleeves of his tee. He slipped a mallet from a belt loop on his jeans and tapped the rubber end along the top edge of the window frame. It shifted an inch or so. He stood, braced his butt against the side wall, and shimmied the window back and forth. With another nudge of the mallet, it dropped with a sharp thwack.

  Rachel jumped and steadied herself with a hand on the back of the chair. Her fingernails dug into the soft velvety fabric.

  Ashe slid the window up and down a few more times to make sure it wasn’t a fluke. “Should be okay now. If it starts acting up again, just give a holler,” he said.

  He started to move off the bed, but paused in front of Rachel’s family photo on the shelf. Squatting, he lifted the thin gold frame. He narrowed his eyes at the empty space between Rachel and her parents, where Michael had been.

  Holding the picture so it faced her, he asked, “Why are you standing so far away from your parents? Did you have an imaginary friend or something you wanted in the picture with you?” He flashed her a teasing smile.

  Rachel grabbed it from him and hugged it to her chest. “That’s just the way the photographer positioned us,” she said to keep him from asking any more questions. To keep the truth of her brother from coming out. She carried the picture to the other end of the room and set it facedown on the desk. She leaned against the closet door, watching him. “Thanks for fixing the window.”

  Ashe climbed off the bed and then sat on it to retie his laces. He looked up at her from under thick, dark lashes. His smile was crooked, like he knew she was hiding something. “Anytime,” he said.

  Instead of going back downstairs, he stopped in front of one of the bookcases. She told herself that he was just checking to make sure she hadn’t nicked the shelves. But she knew better. Even before he ran his index finger along the edge of the wish box—which sat open on the desk though she didn’t remember opening it—she knew she should have thrown them away or burned them. Keeping them all out in the open was just the type of thing that would pique Ashe’s interest. Though she hadn’t expected to have him in her bedroom to ever see the box and wonder what it was.

  Curiosity lit up his eyes when he looked at her. “What’s this?”

  Rachel stood and shifted so her body was angled away from the wishes like her world didn’t revolve around them. “Nothing.” She sucked in a breath when he dipped his hand inside to tease the paper.

  “Hexes on former boyfriends?” Ashe removed a few pieces of paper. Even from the distance, Rachel could see ink, still dark and solid, refusing to fade despite her ignoring them. He fingered one with his thumb, but kept his eyes on hers instead of reading it. “Supersecret spy hit list?”

  “Put them back,” she said. It came out as a half command, half plea. She balled her shaking hands at her sides and waited. After another few seconds, she said, “I mean it, Ashe.”

  He dropped the pieces back into the box one at a time. One caught on the lip of the box and hung there until he flicked it back inside. Holding his empty hands up in surrender, he said, “So, you do have secrets.”

  “And you don’t have any respect for other people’s privacy. Now get out.”

  “Oh, c’mon, Rachel. You can’t be mad at me for bei
ng curious.”

  Rachel gave him a little shove to get him moving. He believed in what Catch could do, so he might believe in her too. But that wasn’t a risk she was willing to take. Not yet anyway.

  * * *

  She was still getting used to the idea that her job was more hanging out with a friend for six hours a day than actual work. Rachel tried to keep busy, earn her keep. But Everley was making it increasingly difficult.

  “You did that yesterday,” Everley said as Rachel Windexed the front window.

  Not bothering to turn around, she replied, “Doesn’t mean it doesn’t need it again.”

  “I don’t pay you enough for you to work twice as hard as me. Please come sit down. Oh, and here comes a very good excuse.”

  The man walking through the construction doorway was well over six feet tall, with skin the color of the bark on the black cherry tree in Catch’s yard and a bright smile. Even in the heat, he wore a full suit with a fuchsia tie knotted tight at his neck. He shifted a take-out bag to one hand and gave Ashe a combination handshake hug.

  “That one’s taken,” Everley said, catching her staring.

  “Lucky girl,” Rachel said. “He’s gorgeous.”

  “Yes, I am. And oh, yes he is. You should see him without his clothes.”

  “That might be a little awkward, seeing as how he’s your boyfriend and you’re my boss,” Rachel said.

  Everley grinned at her. “Spoilsport.”

  “Hello, ladies,” the man said when he came in. “I thought you might like some lunch.” He tangled his hands in Everley’s hair and molded his mouth to hers. Everley slid her hands inside his suit jacket and pulled him closer until there was not even air between them as their greeting continued.

  Rachel tried to blend into the background.

  “Cut it out,” Ashe yelled from the other side. “Some of us are trying to eat.”

  “And some of us are giving our girl a proper hello,” he called back. But he released Everley, and, smiling at Rachel, he introduced himself. He was even better looking up close. His head was shaved close and he had a thin goatee of black stubble. Rectangular reading glasses framed thick, long eyelashes and golden eyes. “How’re you liking Nowhere so far?” Jamie asked her.

  “It’s nice. A little slower paced than Memphis, but I’m enjoying that actually.”

  “You should try coming here after law school in D.C. That’s a hell of an adjustment.” He set the paper bag on the counter and emptied it. “One apple walnut salad, one strawberry pecan, and two grilled cheeses. You two can fight over who gets what.”

  “You’re not staying?” Everley asked. She stuck out her bottom lip and pouted.

  “Can’t. I’ve got to take a deposition at one. See you for dinner?”

  Everley grabbed him by the lapels and pulled him back to her for another kiss. “You’re on.” She smacked his ass when he turned around.

  “Be good, ladies,” he called as the door closed behind him.

  Holding the salads behind her back, Everley said, “Pick a hand.”

  Rachel played along, pointing and saying, “Left.”

  “Ooh, good choice. Strawberry pecan.” She handed the clamshell container to Rachel along with a small container of pink dressing with poppy seeds floating in it.

  Rachel shook it and watched the oil bubble back to the top. She pried off the top and poured half on her salad in three concentric circles, making sure she coated each section evenly.

  “You might as well just dump the rest on there. It’s that good.” Everley upended her container onto the middle of her salad. She used her fork to toss it all around. “You coming over to eat with us, Ashe?” she yelled.

  Rachel stiffened at the idea of being close to him again. She tried not to think about how good he’d looked soaking wet and smiling at her like he knew exactly what it was doing to her.

  Ashe’s voice was bright, playful when he called back, “I don’t think my burger is allowed over there in vegan-hippie land.”

  “Damn right it’s not,” Everley said, laughing.

  “So how long have you and Jamie been together?” Rachel asked.

  “Four or five years, I guess. We broke up for about six months once, but we don’t really count that. I mean, my grandparents took a twenty-some-odd-year break, married other people, and then got back together.”

  “Wow.”

  “They celebrated their fiftieth anniversary a few years back. If they don’t count a quarter of a century apart, I don’t think six months is even a blip on the radar.”

  “Well, I guess that’s one way to reach the milestone anniversaries.”

  Everley waved her fork through the air, dribbling dressing onto the floor, as she said, “They’re a little weird. But who am I to buck family tradition?” She grinned at Rachel. “So, is there somebody waiting on you back home?”

  “I’m not good with relationships,” Rachel confessed. She folded her napkin in half and tucked it under the salad container. “I’m not sure if it’s that I don’t like them or they don’t like me. Either way, I don’t seem to stay in them very long.” She imagined Mary Beth chiding her that her relationships might have worked out if she’d trusted any of the guys enough to be honest with them about her past.

  “I was like that before Jamie. I tried on boys like most girls tried on shoes. Lola always lectured me about how great it was when you found the right one and kept pushing me to settle down. But I figure if it’s meant to be, it’ll work itself out with or without me.”

  Rachel glanced at the wall that separated Ashe from them. She wondered what had happened to make Lola change her outlook on love, what had happened to make Ashe so willing to end their marriage.

  That’s not something she wanted to be in the middle of. With the way the wishes had been acting, she might be tricked into hurting Ashe with one of Lola’s wishes if she got too involved. She needed to leave it alone. Leave him alone.

  11

  The wishes in the box had been multiplying for days, but somehow they never spilled out over the rim. She found them under her plate at breakfast, in the pockets of her bathrobe, and beneath the sheet of glass on her family photo, filling the empty space. A few even popped into existence in the air above the box to save her the trouble of picking them up and adding them to the mass of white that was accumulating.

  When another piece of paper appeared as she headed downstairs, she flicked it off the door handle and continued down without a backward glance.

  “What are you baking today?” Rachel asked when she got to the kitchen.

  Catch raised her eyebrows at her. “Why? You have something specific you need me to make?”

  Rachel thought of the piles of wishes, and the empty space in the family photo that looked like someone had been rubbed out. “No.”

  “Suit yourself. As for your question, I’m making some tarts and a whole mess of pies for the farmers’ market tomorrow. C’mon. I could use an extra pair of hands,” Catch said. She handed Rachel a thick braided basket and shoved through the screen door.

  The basket was heavier than it looked. Carrying it in one hand, it scraped against Rachel’s calves when she followed Catch into the yard.

  “What kind are they?” she asked, pointing to the trees.

  The branches reached three times as wide, but the trunks weren’t much thicker around than the fruit they produced. The leaves varied in size and shade of green, throwing that section of the yard into contrasts of bright and dark, shadow and light.

  “A mixture. I’ve got dwarf golden queen peaches there and some Moonglow dwarf pear next to ’em. There’s a cherry over there at the end and a few semidwarf Fuji, Honeycrisp, and Lodi apples in the back.”

  Rachel could only tell the difference between them by the types of fruit. The varieties of each were lost on her.

  “What’s the shriveled one?”

  “A pain in my ass. Damn plum tree just won’t die.”

  “You don’t like plums?”
>
  “Not those. But I can’t seem to kill it.” Catch stopped in front of the dwarf pear. She stroked its trunk like a cat. She rubbed the leaves between her fingers and they gave off a sweet, fragrant scent.

  Rachel leaned close to the leaves. They tickled her cheeks. Closing her eyes, she inhaled and could already smell the tart they’d yet to start making. “I didn’t know trees did that. I thought it was only herbs that were aromatic.”

  “My trees are special. They don’t always act like normal trees. And their fruit don’t taste like normal fruit. That’s why they make the best pies.”

  Rachel stepped back and noticed black patches crawling along the underside of a couple leaves. Lifting the tip of one, she turned it over. In the light it was pale green and velvety. She turned the next one looking for the spots that had been there a moment before.

  “What is it?” Catch asked.

  “Oh, I just thought I saw something. Dark marks or spots or something. Must’ve been a trick of the light.”

  Catch studied the tree, eyes narrowed in interest. Then she threw a hateful look in the direction of the decaying plum tree. “Stop it,” she said. Her voice was firm, like scolding a disobedient child.

  “Was it an animal or something?”

  “Just forget about it. But if it comes back, you let me know.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Rachel said. She blinked against the bright green of the trees in front of them. Whatever had happened—imagined or not—Catch seemed to know exactly what it was. Though she apparently wasn’t keen on sharing it with Rachel. She set the basket on the ground between them. “It was probably just me seeing things.”

  “Well, let’s get these picked. You want to look for ones that are about as wide around as your fist.” She held her knobby, clenched hand out to demonstrate. Her knuckles were swollen and red, probably from all the dough kneading and work she did around the gardens. “Well, maybe not your scrawny fist,” she added when Rachel held hers out too.