The maelstrom has dwindled to a mass of sad nimbus clouds that weep along with me. Jo moves to sit beside me, perhaps to comfort me or simply to get out of the rain. She puts her arm around my shoulders. I lay my head on her shoulder and release the last vestiges of my pride, surrendering to the solid embrace of someone who loves me.
14
“Drink?” Jo asks me as we enter the living room.
“Actually, I’d like one of Sylvia’s teas.” I need something to help clear my head, not make me numb.
Jo nods and heads downstairs.
That’s the only word she’s spoken to me since I shouted at her. I don’t know what I’m more ashamed of—yelling at her or letting my self-pity get the better of me. Did I call her stupid? I fall onto the sofa. I lean back and close my eyes. Maggie is instantly there, sitting in front of me with a concerned face and wagging tail. I smile at her, and she lies down at my feet. Outside the window in the kitchen, I hear the scraping of talons on wood.
I relax in the quiet. I needed that release—it’s been a long time coming—but I should have done that better and not in front of Jo.
After several minutes, Jo comes up the steps slowly. My cheeks redden at the idea of facing her, so I lean forward, putting my face in my hands. Maggie sniffs me.
Jo’s steps in the living room are amplified by the old wood floor and cavernous space of the loft. The tray rattles slightly as she sets it on the coffee table. She sits in the chair across from me.
“I am so sorry,” I say through my hands.
“I know you are,” she breathes.
I tear my face away from my hands to look at her. “I feel terrible. I shouldn’t have yelled at you. Please forgive me.”
A motherly smile fills her face, and she leans forward to squeeze my knee. “Of course, dear! Of course.” She gives my knee a shake. “There is so much shit going on inside you, I can’t even begin to understand. But, if you ask me, you needed that. You know, since you haven’t gotten laid in a long time and all.”
That makes me chuckle. I pour us a cup of Sylvia’s latest concoction of herbs and spices. It smells divine, of cinnamon and chamomile mostly, and I am already feeling better. I stir in a few drops of honey for Jo and hand her the cup. She takes it with trembling hands.
“Don’t mind me,” she says with a strained smile. I’m at a loss for what to say. Another wave of shame floods over me.
Jo is looking down at Maggie. “She’s such a sweet dog.” She leans over to ruffle her fur. Maggie scrambles up but doesn’t pull away in time. I inhale sharply as Jo’s hand passes right into Maggie’s thick neck with no fur or body to stop it. She gasps and jerks her hand back.
“What the Goddess!” Jo says, mouth hanging open. Maggie, standing up now, looks at me apologetically then back at Jo.
This was bound to happen sooner or later. “Well,” I say, gazing at my furry companion, who returns my look with a soundless tail wag. “For all intents and purposes, Maggie is a ghost.”
Jo continues to stare at me, astonished.
“I had Maggie in my eighth life. That ended badly for both her and me, and she’s stayed with me ever since.” My voice is full of love for this animal. “I often forget she’s a ghost, really. But I do miss being able to pet her and snuggle her.” Her tail continues to wag soundlessly against the sofa.
Jo looks at Maggie then back at me several times. “I…I just can’t…This is too much.” She sets her cup on the tray with a clatter and pushes herself up from the chair, shaking her head. “I’m sorry.” I watch her leave, her hand on her chest.
Despite my best efforts, save for the last hour, I might have just lost my best friend.
After the fiasco with Jo, I dive headlong into the shop’s day-to-day activities, which are minimal. And as it’s already late in the day, there’s not much for me to do.
I am wiping off the slight layer of dust on the tables and chairs on the porch. I rearrange them as best I can in the limited space. I’ll clean the windows next. Keeping busy is the only thing I can do to keep from worrying about what a mess I’ve made.
The screen door opens and I turn. Sylvia has been quiet since her mother left, saying nothing to her. She steps halfway out, “Mom’s got a headache. Asked if I’d run some tea over to her real quick.”
“Sure, go ahead.” I turn back to my arrangement concerns. I want to tell Sylvia to give Jo a hug for me and wish her better soon but the words are stuck in my throat. She hesitates. I sense her looking at me and I turn back. “Why don’t you call it a day?”
“You sure?”
“I am. Enjoy the rest of the day.” I force a smile for her.
“Cool, thanks.” She returns my smile with a half-hearted one of her own. She looks inside then back to me. “I could stay, you know—come back after I take her the tea.”
“I appreciate it, but it’s quiet. I doubt a bus full of tourists is going to show up.”
She nods in agreement and thanks me again. A few minutes later, she’s bounding out the door with a binder in one hand and a paper sack in the other. “See you tomorrow!” she says as she springs through the yard.
The next day comes slowly after a night of tossing and turning. I picked up my phone many times during the night to check if Jo had sent me a message or to send a message to Jo. I put the phone down with a stab of guilt and embarrassment each time. The poor woman has learned so much about my life, my power, in recent weeks that of course she’s overwhelmed; it’s a great deal to take in. And I should have told her about Maggie.
I took a blanket up to the rooftop intending to sleep under the stars but to no avail. Eventually, I gave in and resorted to taking a potion from the shop’s inventory.
I am up before sunrise with my coffee in hand, sitting on the lounger on the rooftop, looking up at the colors of the predawn sky. The sounds are rampant even at this hour—a disorganized song of cooing, chirping, buzzing, and whirring. And the endless sound of cars, but I don’t hear them much anymore. My feathered watcher is on a rooftop a few houses behind me; I can’t see him, but I sense his eyes upon me.
How lonely I am without Jo’s company. It’s funny, all those many years I spent alone and never thought a thing of it, never thought I was missing anything. During one life, I spent several decades living in a cave high in the mountains, seeing people only a few times a year when I needed certain supplies. You never realize what you are missing until you have it and then it’s gone. My throat goes tight. Before I can talk myself out of it for the dozenth time, I grab my phone and press ‘Call’ on the image of Jo’s face. The phone rings and rings but there’s no answer until I get voicemail. She’s awake at this hour, she always is. I hang up without leaving a message.
I am suddenly tired and want nothing more than to go back to bed. But instead, I putter around in the flowerbeds and pots until the sun is fully up. I can easily lose myself in the therapeutic rhythm of gardening. When the warmth of the sun on the back of my neck reminds me that morning is here, I pull myself away from the soil. I am anxious to keep moving so I head down to the shop.
I flip the Closed sign on the door to Open and set a similar sign affixed to a wrought iron pedestal out front on the sidewalk. The day is bright and sunny with a fresh breeze. When Sylvia arrives, chipper as ever, I ask her to make more muffins, hoping the smell will help invite people in—and brighten my mood.
While Sylvia is busy making the batter, I lean in the doorway of the kitchen. “So, how’s your mom feeling?” Sylvia’s movements slow. She replies without turning.
“She didn’t have a very good night.” She turns to me, then away again. “And by the looks of those bags under your eyes, you didn’t either.”
I involuntarily touch the skin under my eyes, frowning.
“She’s got a few clients this morning but I’m sure she’ll come by after.” I can tell she’s lying about coming by. Her shoulders are tight and her back too straight.
The day passes quickly with a steady strea
m of customers. I’ve not advertised yet, nor do I plan to until after the grand opening. Right now, I’m content with curious locals and the random wanderings of those tourists on the street taking in the sights.
There are grumblings from a few people at not having any hookah pipes or tobacco products. I roll my eyes at these comments. Not to their faces, of course. I politely explain that this shop contains only those things related to magick, to healing, and to improving a person’s overall well-being. I am delighted to get questions on what to use for healing a pesky rash and making one’s husband more attentive. I have salves and potions for both. An older lady has the audacity to disturb Arial’s slumber on the window seat in the library. This earns her an annoyed mew, but then Arial quickly changes her mind and delights in the woman’s attention.
Sylvia’s muffins and tea are big hits, and various groups of customers hang out on the porch over the course of the day. Most of these people end up buying something, so the muffin ploy works out nicely. I ask Sylvia to craft new muffin recipes. She’s thrilled. On the topic of tasks, she informs me that she’s narrowed the printing companies to two and has prices to go over with me.
As the day stretches out, I grow increasingly more distressed about Jo’s abandonment. Sylvia senses my mood but does not offer up any details other than to say her mom’s probably just really busy. We both know that’s not true.
When I bring in the Open sign from the sidewalk, Sylvia is hunched over her phone, typing feverishly with her thumbs. After reading a reply, she huffs in exasperation and shoves it into her back pocket.
“Okay, here’s the thing. I don’t know what happened between you and Mom, but I’m sick of being in the middle of it.”
I frown at her. “How have I involved you?”
“Ugh, not you. Her!” She pulls out her phone and shakes it at me. “She’s killing me! Blowing up my phone with questions about what’s going on over here.” She exhales in her very teenage way. “I finally just told her to get her big butt over here.”
I smile, overjoyed at knowing that Jo hasn’t truly abandoned me. “Well, she’ll come by when she’s ready.”
“Ha!” Sylvia rolls her eyes. “Mom is stubborn.” She gathers her things and heads for the door. “Anyway, I’ll see you tomorrow.” She stops halfway out the door and turns back. “Listen, she knows you called. And between you and me, I think she’s embarrassed by the way she acted, although she won’t admit it.”
I open my mouth to say something, and Sylvia raises her hand to silence me.
“I don’t know any details and I don’t want to know. All I know is that she’s not been this happy or chipper since before dad got sick. You brought her out of her funk, and she knows that.” She seems to chew on more to say but then thinks better of it. She bobs her head at me as if to punctuate her last statement and leaves.
I am relieved to hear that Jo hasn’t given up on me, and I’m surprised that she is embarrassed. This makes me want to march right over to her house to set things straight and put this behind us, but I don’t. I can’t face her yet.
As the sun hangs closer to the horizon, Maggie and I go for a walk along the waterfront and down to the lighthouse. The plot of green by the Salem Maritime National Historic Site is peppered with people playing fetch with their dogs, and families enjoying the nice evening. Maggie picks up a game of chase with a goofy chocolate Lab, juking expertly away whenever he gets too close, and I chat casually with his owners, who live nearby.
After Maggie has exhausted the poor Lab, we continue to stroll along Derby. The smells of ice cream, pastries, and fresh candy get the better of me, and I give in once we reach the candy store. Maggie waits patiently outside. I glance out in time to see her move away playfully from a boy who tries to pet her.
Once home, I sit on the porch swing, which gives me a great view of the yard. It’s all growing in nicely, and I can’t help but be proud of this place. Maggie explores the yard, nose down, tail up. The aster bush is atwitter at her presence and she trots over to it, as if called. The tiny fae fly out to greet her. A good-natured game of ‘pick on the baby polar bear’ begins. Maggie jumps and weaves, mouthing the air as the fairies dive bomb her and swoop away.
Before long, night has settled in and the aster is aglow with a hundred tiny lights within. Arial has joined me, sitting casually on the railing, watching the tantalizing fairies. She avoids them, however, having learned a valuable lesson from her first encounter with them. I had to quickly intervene before an all-out war was declared on the cat and brokered an uneasy treaty between them. Arial now knows without a doubt that fairies are not cat toys.
15
Excited that Friday has finally come, I close up the shop early and usher Sylvia out the door. She’s baiting me, trying to get me to tell her all about Cal, or the Angry Hot Uncle, as she likes to refer to him. I smack her on the butt, pushing her out the door.
Staring at a hundred articles of clothing in my closet, not a single one appeals. Since he wouldn’t say what ‘fun thing’ we are doing, I’ve no idea what to wear. I opt for beige capris and a white silk tunic with roll-tab sleeves, forgoing a necklace in favor of clear quartz dangle earrings. I made this pair and a few for the shop. The quartz dewdrop briolettes are clustered in a cascading string, like a waterfall, and secured with silver wire.
The restaurant where we are meeting is only a few blocks away, so I walk. I’m not surprised to find Cal already there. He’s waiting by the hostess stand chatting with the young girl behind it as she wipes down the menus. “There she is,” he says with a big smile as I enter, and I’m quickly scrutinized by the young woman.
It seems perfectly natural for me to hug him as we meet. He returns my hug with a firm squeeze. He leaves his hand on the small of my back when we separate.
As she leads us to our table in the already crowded restaurant, Cal tells me that the hostess, Suzie, is the daughter of a client. Our table is in the back with a view of the long, wide room. Suzie wishes us a good evening and flits her eyes over me once more before she walks off.
Cal tells me about his day and then asks how I’ve been. I recap the last couple of days, skipping my rant at Jo and the subsequent storm I brewed up.
After I decline the offer of a glass of wine in favor of an Italian beer, Cal approves of my choice and changes his bar order to a beer also. I had a bad experience in France a few lifetimes ago and now have an unreasonable and irrational dislike of any kind of wine, regardless of country of origin. I don’t say this, of course.
We order our meal family style, but I’m not hungry anymore. My stomach is otherwise filled with knots and butterflies, battling for territorial control.
Unlike on our first date, Cal is much more at ease. I’m a little disappointed with our seating arrangement. There’s no possibility of body parts touching; we sit too far apart, facing each other. This doesn’t turn out to be too bad, however, as I get to admire how his muscles move under his crisp, rather closely fitted button-down shirt. The light blue color accentuates the brilliant blue of his eyes. I wonder if he selected the shirt on purpose.
As our drinks are set before us, Cal brings up the subject of the grand opening.
“So, how’s all that coming along? When is it again?” He takes a sip of the beer and smacks his lips approvingly.
“It’s going great. I can’t wait!” I say, and he smiles at my enthusiasm. “It’s on October 31st, Samhain. Sorry, Halloween.”
“What did you call it? Sowen?”
“Samhain is the real name for Halloween. Well, the name used in the pagan world, anyway.”
He nods with pursed lips. I laugh at his starched reaction. “This is the perfect segue into the conversation we put on hold last time.” I eye him expectantly as I take a sip of the dark beer.
“Yeah, I guess so,” he says, snickering. After a long pull on his beer, he puts it down with authority. “Okay, look, at the risk of you telling me to fuck off, here’s what I think.” My eyebrows go up in
surprise at his candor, and he stops, embarrassed. He apologizes for his language.
“Oh, please, don’t apologize,” I say, waving him off with a grin. “I’m glad you feel so comfortable around me so soon.” A faint blush rises high on his cheeks.
He takes a deep breath. “I think this whole magic business—the fortune telling, casting spells, psychic stuff, ghost hunting, etcetera—is really just bullshit to get people’s money. I know people who have been robbed blind by mediums claiming to be able to talk to their dead relatives.” He says ‘mediums’ with an eye roll punctuated by a snort. “It infuriates me that people are so gullible and that these frauds can pull this crap with a clear conscience.”
I sit passively and listen to him with no change in expression. I fight the urge to stand up and jokingly tell him to fuck off, but he seems too earnest for a joke right now.
“Let me first say that I agree with a majority of your statement.” His shoulders relax, and a hint of relief passes over his face. “I understand where you are coming from. There are, unfortunately, a lot of people who are complete liars, and a great many more people who fall for it.”
“So you’re one of these liars?” he asks without hesitation. I give him a derisive eye. He seems to realize what he’s said and looks apologetic. “Sorry. This is the part where we revisit my comment about me being an ass.”
“That’s okay. Like I said, I understand. And no, I am not one of those liars.”
“How can you agree with me and then say that?”
“I said I agree with the majority of what you said. What I do is real.”
He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it, shaking his head and reaching for his beer.
“Look,” I say. “You can either choose to believe me now and give this,” I wave my hand back and forth between us, “a chance, or you can call me a liar one more time and leave.” He stiffens. “If you give this a chance, I will prove to you what I say.” I lean back in my chair and cross my arms over my chest. I resist the strong urge to read his thoughts.
The White Raven Page 11