Ginger of the West

by Meg Muldoon

  “Maybe,” he said, shrugging. “I have been working on this one arrangement I’m naming after her. It has pink roses and lilies in it. Maybe I could send it to her and ask what she thinks of it.”

  “There you go,” I said. “That’s better than waiting around at the café. You have to take the bull by the horns here.”

  Something sparked in his eyes.

  “Oh, yes! That’s exactly what I need to do! And in the meantime, can you work on that new potion?”

  “Of course. I’ll start putting it together tomorrow after work,” I said, yawning.

  He actually noticed.

  “Well, I guess I better let you get to bed,” he said. “But I think this was a very productive session. Don’t you?!”

  He suddenly seemed full of enthusiasm.

  I didn’t think he’d be getting much sleep tonight, even if he wasn’t an insomniac.

  My eyes felt heavy.

  He got up, placed the empty plate and glass on the railing, and put his hands in his jean pockets.

  “Do you still believe in true love, Ginger?” he asked, turning toward me. “That there’s really one person out there for you?”

  I paused.

  “Honestly? I don’t know. This morning, I probably would have said yes. Now I…”

  I trailed off, swallowing hard.

  Divorce papers had a way of killing any beliefs about true love.

  “Well, maybe Mortgage Man just wasn’t the one,” Christopher said. “Maybe your true love is still out there somewhere.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  I stood up and patted him on the shoulder.

  “Get some rest, Christopher.”

  “Thanks for everything, Ging. See you tomorrow.”

  He hugged me. Then I stood there, watching him jaunt down the steps and hop onto the moped. I didn’t leave until his headlight streamed across the house.

  I tried to make it upstairs, but Aunt Viv’s tea was working its magic. The sofa in the front room, with one of her shawls hanging off the back, was just too inviting. I curled up on it like a big orange cat and fell into a deep, deep sleep.

  Chapter 9

  Just because you can mix up a potion doesn’t mean that you’re a witch.

  In fact, combining a dash of crushed sage, a splash of rosewater, a few teaspoons of cinnamon, crushed lemon verbena, coltsfoot leaves, ginger, orange blossom extract, and some salt water straight from the ocean would get you nothing but a useless brown-tinged aromatherapy mixture that at most might provide a few relaxing moments.

  But in the hands of a witch – a real witch, that is – a potion or elixir with those ingredients could move mountains.

  Not literally of course. You would need different ingredients for that. But it could influence people’s actions and feelings, which when you think about it, can be bigger, more imposing, and harder to move than any mountain range.

  And that was really what being a witch was about – influence.

  I’d been born with the power of influence the way my aunt and mom had been born with it, and the way my grandmother had been born with it, and so on. Following the maternal line of my family clear back to the days when my ancestor Elizabeth Westbrook first set foot on this stretch of rocky coast. And probably, even before that.

  The power of influence – that was what I’d called it for most of my life, shirking the dreaded W word. Growing up, I’d tried to ignore the gift and the unpleasant fact that the way I felt at any given time influenced the actions of people around me. Like that time in high school when I’d come to class in a stormy mood because I’d failed a midterm, and had inadvertently caused the chemistry teacher to fly into a rage. Mr. Higby threw a beaker full of formaldehyde clear across the room and the entire class watched in shock as it shattered against the wall.

  Mr. Higby – normally a kind and affable teacher – was placed on leave for several months following that incident.

  But all along, I knew that his actions that day hadn’t been his fault. I had no doubt that I had played a big part in inspiring the reserved science teacher into losing complete control of his emotions.

  I knew that, because chemistry class wasn’t the only time something like that had happened.

  There were plenty of other instances. Things that couldn’t be explained away. Times when perfectly reasonable people would suddenly act so far out of character when I was around them, so different from their own personality, it was almost as if something else was guiding them.

  Over the years I’d learned to better control and direct my gift. Aunt Viv had taught me a few things in that department – and she’d also taught me about ways in which to use my power to help others.

  I had started in my late teens by helping friends, giving them the occasional teabag or scone or cookie filled with a little magic to help with whatever was ailing them. I’d helped Maddy focus on her studies at UCLA. I’d helped one of Ginger’s most loyal customers, Betty Reardon, get along better with her malcontent elderly mother-in-law. I’d helped the bakery’s supply delivery man, Aaron Baker Sr., lose weight and lower his blood pressure. I’d helped Christopher with at least half a dozen little requests over the years, relating to his thinning hair, business success, and other small wishes that never seemed all that small to Christopher.

  People had started to catch wind about what I was doing. Christopher, in particular, had blabbed about my gift these past few years to just about everybody in town. It vexed me that he did that without my permission, but I had to hand it to him – he’d brought in a ton of business.

  Though I never charged my friends for help, I did start charging locals and tourists for my services. Over the years the extra cash had come in handy, especially when it came to paying for the condo Steve and I bought.

  Lately, I’d been so inundated with requests for help, it often felt as if I worked full-time at two jobs.

  I knelt down in the rich, fertile soil of the café’s garden, picking out a few gnarly weeds before gathering up several clumps of lemon verbena and sage. I tossed the bright green leaves into a gardening basket.

  Thanks to the extra rainy, warm June we’d had so far, the plants in the garden were thriving. The rosemary was already growing out into great billows, the chocolate mint was reaching for more real estate with each passing hour, and the air held the sweet smell of blooming jasmine, honeysuckle, lilac, and gardenias. The fragrance mingled with the aroma of salt water, and did wonders to put my soul at ease.

  It was the best time of year to be a witch.

  I stood up and gazed at the ocean for a split second. The late afternoon sun was sinking toward the horizon and surfers were bobbing out in the distance, catching one last wave.

  I went into the small greenhouse on the back corner of the café’s property, pulling back the plastic flap and stepping inside. I walked down the aisles, speckled with exotic flowers and herbs and rare plants, and headed for the back. I set the basket down on the work table and started pulling out the various herbs, appreciating the healing properties of each one – the way I usually did right before building an elixir. Then I paused, clearing my mind of everything and imagining a bright white light streaming down through the clouds to me – also something I always did as a way to clear my energy and any thoughts that weren’t good and pure.

  My power of influence was strong enough on its own to get people to do things. And technically, a real witch didn’t have to use herbs and teas and elixirs to get her influence across. But the power was best used through plants instead of direct influence. Aunt Viv likened this method to putting water through a filtration system, only instead of it being water, it was your energy you were purifying.

  I opened my eyes and grabbed the old mortar and pestle set. Then I held each herb, picturing Christopher and Lilliana in my mind’s eye. Imagining them walking down the beach, holding hands. Conjuring up all those love emotions. The pounding heart. The sweaty palms. The tingling in the legs and arms. The lightheadednes
s. The sensation of your stomach dropping every time the object of your affection looked into your eyes.

  “Let love enter their hearts and bring them joy,” I whispered. “Let love guide them to each other. Let love open a path for a new day.”

  I closed my eyes and focused.

  Try as I might, though, the feelings of love came up lukewarm.

  I just hoped the full moon bath next week would do the trick if I couldn’t—

  Suddenly, something in the air changed.

  It felt like a lightning bolt was about to hit. And out of the blue those feelings of love that Christopher talked about came thundering through me.

  I basked in the feeling. It was as if I’d broken through a wall. The feeling sent me soaring, nearly knocking me off my feet. Practically causing me to—

  But then…

  Then it all went down the drain.

  Without warning, I flashed on Steve’s face.

  My eyes flew open, and that bright, dreamy, rich feeling of true love collapsed like a house of cards beneath me.

  I dropped the herbs I’d been holding onto and leaned forward on the work table, shaking my head.

  It hadn’t been the first time that Steve had broken my concentration in the last few weeks.

  “Newts and Hyssop! Get the hell out of here, would ya?” I shouted.

  “I know I haven’t been back for a while, but you can’t be that angry with me, Ging.”

  I nearly hit my head on the greenhouse ceiling when I heard the familiar voice.

  Chapter 10

  I didn’t know which I was more shocked about:

  Having somebody so unexpectedly invade my work area.

  Or seeing Eddie Cross standing there in my greenhouse.

  “Toadstools and thyme,” I muttered, hardly realizing that I was speaking. “Is that…? Is that really you?”

  He flashed a warm, generous smile, and I felt chills run down my spine.

  Eddie Cross looked more mature than the teenage boy who used to spend every summer with his grandmother here in Broomfield Bay. There was a light stubble across his face, and his hair was a little shaggier than it had been the last time I’d seen him. He had filled out a little more, too. No longer that skinny kid.

  But for the most part, it was like the last 15 years hadn’t passed at all. Eddie Cross still had that dark hair, and most of all, those cobalt blue eyes that sparkled like the depths of the ocean on a sunny day. Ocean blues, I always called them.

  “Ging,” he said, a look of disbelief on his face. “You look… Wow. You look exactly the same.”

  That was a blatant lie. I had changed. Quite a bit, in fact, from that teenage girl he’d last seen. But I happily took the compliment.

  “I hope I’m not interrupting anything important,” he continued, stepping a little farther into the greenhouse. “I know you just told me to get out, but—”

  “No, no,” I said. “I wasn’t talking to you. I was just…”

  Talking to my soon-to-be ex-husband who’s not here didn’t seem like a sane explanation.

  “I was just thinking out loud,” I said, smiling.

  He brushed past a row of unruly hibiscus plants that clawed at his olive green shirt. He didn’t seem to notice. His eyes fixated on me.

  I looked at him, observing how well he’d grown up.

  His grandmother would have been proud.

  “I thought you’d have forgotten me for sure,” he said.

  I didn’t tell him what I was thinking.

  That I could have lived a dozen lifetimes, and I still wouldn’t be able to get those ocean blues of his out of my head.

  I realized that my cheeks had flushed and were probably on their way to turning a fiery shade of scarlet.

  “It’s been a long time, Eddie.”

  “Yeah, it has,” he said. “A long, long time. Too long.”

  I nodded, then felt my expression fall.

  “I was really sorry to hear about your grandma,” I said. “And I’m sorry that I didn’t make it to the funeral. I should have been there—”

  “No, it’s okay. Maddy told me that you were on your honeymoon. Gran would have understood. And besides, you sent that nice condolence card and those flowers. It made my mom cry, you know. It meant a lot to her.”

  Ruth Cross had been one of the kindest people I’d ever known, the type of person who was born to be a grandmother. She doted on her grandson, and growing up, she had treated me with a kindness that made a big difference to a girl who always felt like an outsider. Aunt Viv worked a lot back in those days at the café, and she often didn’t have time to make dinner or take me to summer softball practice. Grandma Ruth always made sure I got to where I needed to go. In the summer when Eddie visited, she regularly took us downtown to the small movie theater, or sometimes to The Chowder Bowl for dinner after one of Eddie’s little league baseball games.

  And even though I didn’t get to see her much in her final years, what with Eddie hardly coming back to Broomfield Bay and me working so hard at the café, I still tried to repay her kindness when I could. I brought her Apple Gingersnap pies, and sometimes I sat in her living room and had tea while she talked about the way things were in the old days and how the youth of Broomfield Bay had lost the ability to read the tides.

  But after her first stroke, the family moved Grandma Ruth to Portland – which was where the funeral eventually had been held.

  “So how’s your aunt?” Eddie said, bringing me back to the present.

  “Aunt Viv?” I said. “Well, she’s gone right on being Aunt Viv. You know – it’s full-time and then some.”

  Eddie grinned. I nearly lost my balance.

  “I guess that means she’s still howling ‘Gold Dust Woman’ at every opportunity?”

  “You bet she is. And her Stevie Nicks obsession’s only gotten worse as she’s gotten older.”

  He let out a laugh that echoed around the walls of the greenhouse. It was contagious, and I felt my chest quiver as I tried to hold back some laughs of my own.

  “I’m glad she’s doing okay,” he said. “And what about you? How’s life treated you all these years?”

  It was a big question, given my current situation. I decided to keep it simple.

  “Good. Things are good,” I said. “And yourself?”

  “Nothing too major to complain about. So did I hear right? You run Ginger’s now?”

  “Yep,” I said. “For nearly eight years.”

  “That’s awesome. You always did love to bake.”

  I hadn’t gone on to be a famous pastry chef the way I had talked about with Eddie when we were kids. I’d stayed behind in Broomfield Bay, instead. And even though I rarely regretted that decision, something about seeing an old friend all these years later gave me a few doubts about my life choices.

  But if Eddie was secretly judging me for staying in a town of 8,000 my whole life, he didn’t show it.

  “Do you still make those Gingersnap Blondies?” he asked. “You remember – the ones with white chocolate?”

  “Every summer,” I said with a smile.

  “Man,” he said, a look of blissful nostalgia crossing his face. “I’ve missed those. Those were good.”

  His words lingered in the muggy air between us.

  I suddenly felt lightheaded in the humid greenhouse. A bead of sweat trickled down my temple and I brushed it away.

  “So, uh, did you ever write that book? The one you wanted to about shipwrecks on the Oregon Coast?”

  Eddie used to have an obsession with shipwrecks. He knew more about the Graveyard of the Pacific than most life-long locals. Back then, his favorite hobby when not reading about them was building small model ships in bottles.

  When we were growing up, he had told me that one day he was going to write a bestselling book about the shipwrecks of the Northwest.

  “No,” he said. “I never did get around to that. In fact, I forgot that I wanted to write that book in the first place.”

>   He looked around the greenhouse.

  “I guess things don’t always turn out the way you think they will,” he added.

  He did that thing again where he stared at me for a long moment. I found that I couldn’t pull my eyes away.

  “So, I heard your mayor drove off a cliff yesterday,” he said.

  I lifted my eyebrows, surprised.

  It hadn’t exactly been what I was expecting him to say. But then again, I supposed the second he set foot in Broomfield Bay he’d been bombarded with the story by half a dozen locals.

  People in a small town on the Oregon Coast didn’t have much else to do but to talk and fish and talk some more.

  “Uh… yeah,” I said.

  “Did you know the mayor?”

  “Not really,” I said. “I mean, of course I knew her – the way you know someone when you live in a small town. But she never came into the café, and I wasn’t part of her book club.”

  “Book club?” Eddie said. “The mayor had a book club?”

  “Weird, huh? It was kind of a big scandal, too. She made it seem like it was going to be this thing open to everybody. Then when she only selected a handful of elite locals to be part of it, the whole thing became this exclusive kind of deal. It made a lot of people in town angry.”

  “Really?” Eddie said. “That’s got to be a first for a mayor. Having an exclusive book club like that. Not very democratic.”

  He rubbed the stubble on his chin, looking deep in thought.

  I suddenly realized what was going on.

  I didn’t know why I hadn’t put it together sooner.

  Eddie Cross wasn’t standing here in my greenhouse to catch up with an old friend he hadn’t seen in a while.

  He was here for a different reason.

  “You’re that investigator, aren’t you?” I said abruptly, crossing my arms tightly against my chest. “The one that the local police brought in to look into the mayor’s death. Maddy was talking about it.”

  “I’m no cop,” he said. “Most definitely not a cop.”

  Maybe I was wrong about that. But I knew what my intuition was telling me.