by Curtis Hox
“Your bedrooms are upstairs,” she says. “We’ve put your names on the doors. There are several bathrooms you can use. We’ve placed linens in the closets. I suggest you guys get a good night’s sleep. We start tomorrow. Remember, your wives want you here for a reason.” Two nights means Josie has the weekend to help the easy cases. Any hard cases will have to stay into the work week. That could be tricky if they don’t want to stay.
Mr. Creeley exits through the drawing room, looking for an escape. The other men also leave the vestibule, each probably hoping for a way out. She lets them discover for themselves that they’re stuck here for the night.
Lennox is grinning at her like he used to when they were kids, maybe in class and the teacher was asking a question that Lennox knew but refused to answer because he didn’t want to show off. Something about him always made her wonder what his secret was. It wasn’t just that he is smart and good looking. No, he has a way about him you trust, as if anything he touches turns to gold.
“So, you’re in the marriage counseling business?” he asks, heading for the stairs, lingering a step or two to make sure she’s with him.
She follows. “I am … in a way.”
He grabs the carved rosewood balustrade, his soles tapping on the smooth, polished marble steps. Josie can’t believe she’s walking upstairs with Lennox Cruz. The Birchall’s three wings have nearly fifty rooms—plus the requisite number of other areas hidden away—perfect for a romp in the dark. She used to explore here as a child, always getting lost on purpose, back when her mother would drop her off. Her grandmother and Lady Birchall used to play bridge while Josie explored. More than once, she imagined running through the closed rooms with Lennox Cruz.
“I think I might like it here,” Lennox says.
She watches him ascend, unable to take her eyes from his shoulders. They’re broad in the right kind of way. Not hugely muscled at all. She wants to reach out and place her hands against them …
“So why would Stella send you here?” she asks. “I can’t imagine.”
They reach the landing. He stands at the railing overlooking the vestibule. He surveys the scene. Lady Birchall’s palatial home is partly decorated in polished stone and burnished metals, partly in ostentatious ornamentation of rococo, and even partly contemporary. The parquet floor of the vestibule is so shiny Josie often thinks she’s walking on water when she enters. The place feels a bit castle-like to her because Lady Birchall’s husband wanted a touch of Europe in north Georgia. “To compete with the Biltmore,” he used to say, before dying at the ripe old age of ninety eight.
“You can’t imagine?” he asks.
He stares at her longer than he should have. It’s the sort of stare that makes a girl wonder. It’s the sort of stare that makes her gaze at him doe eyed. The awkward moment that follows—she peering down at the vestibule floor as if a pile of gold has appeared, he smiling at her as if he might nibble on her neck—makes her curse herself for an idiot. He knows about the crush, she tells herself. He’s always known. He knew in sixth grade when they were biology partners and he helped her dissect that frog. He grabbed her hand holding a scalpel, leaning in real close, and helped with the incision. He knew in seventh grade when she asked him for a personal photo and he gave it to her. Then he stopped coming to school for the rest of the year for some reason. She has always wondered if it was because of her. It’s my crush, she thinks. He’s always known about my crush. But he has remained at arm’s length. When he met Stella and left to be an actor and Josie went to U.G.A. for college, she moved on. He married Stella Spivey… and got sent here ... to Josie ... to Husband Rehab.
“No, I can’t imagine,” she says and actually bats her eyes.
Mr. Creeley comes charging into the vestibule. He points one finger at her, as if he might make a complaint. He’s a skinny old man who looks dressed up enough you’d think he might be a fifth-grade substitute teacher. The annoyance in those eyes means he’s happy to be in a bad mood and even winning the lottery wouldn’t improve it.
“Let me out of this goddam house!”
Josie glares back. He stomps off in a huff. Across from the drawing room is the recessed den with a TV. It seems Mr. Jenkins and Mr. Reiner have learned they aren’t getting out of the house and have decided to watch some prime time.
Lennox went down the second floor hallway. She follows. Somehow, he knows to go to the right. He walks past the other men’s doors and stops before his own. The frame is stained dark, the heavy wood boards forming a bulky portal. Lennox seems fit for it, though, as he stands there.
“Ah, my room.” He reaches out and touches his name on the cardboard that Alice must have taped to the door. “My wife doesn’t know I’m here.” He looks at Josie. “I was hoping you can help me with a few things.”
She doesn’t know …?
“That’s what I’m here for,” Josie says.
“The only reason I came was because of you—and because my mom said you could help.”
Josie hears herself say, “Me … help you?”
She feels a Prom-Queen smile plaster across her face.
“I can’t stand Stella,” he says. “She’s … horrible.” He opens the door and steps halfway through. His sadness makes Josie want to cradle his head in her arms. He looks so vulnerable. Christine never said a thing about his marriage problems. She’s made it seem that her son and his wife are the happiest of couples. “I hope you understand. I have nowhere else to go.”
His smile dips, as he slowly closes the door.
It locks.
What just happened …?
Josie backs away from the door, still staring at it, as if it is an animate object with eyes, nose, and mouth. She’s waiting for it to talk, to tell her what he’s doing, why he just admitted he needs her help.
Through the open space of the landing overlooking the vestibule, she hears the men downstairs watching TV. Mr. Creeley is telling Mr. Jenkins that Major League Baseball is in the pits. He’s talking about some old-school base stealer and the glory days. They sound content enough. She’ll let them wander to their rooms when they’re ready.
Josie crosses the landing to a suite on the other side of the mansion. These are older chambers built during the house’s initial construction. Lady Birchall’s closed-up suite is down a wing and hasn’t been used since she stopped going upstairs. Josie has this forgotten area all to herself.
She pauses at a small door at the end of a narrow corridor. It’s the type of door that would lead to an attic entrance, or maybe a cellar. Through it she follows an even narrower corridor. This ends at a compact space under a huge dormer with a crimson painted window seat. The window of multi-colored, blown-glass medallions comprises the entire far wall. A single window on hinges can be opened when she wants a clear view. Under the dormer is an old bed with a metal frame. The mattress is comfortable. A shaded light in the ceiling paints the room in warm yellow. A tiny desk and mirror line one wall, while against the other is a book case full of tattered paperbacks from her summers here as a child. A recessed closet reaches nearly ten feet into the wall. Its door is open. She can see clothes that date back years.
She first discovered her talent deep inside that closet. She would close the door and sit with whatever ingredients she’d culled from her grandmother’s private garden, stirring them in a pot, sometimes heating them with a lighter. She almost ignited her clothes more than once. Later, when she discovered the hidden space beyond the closet, her grandmother turned it into Josie’s workroom, and she honed her craft to perfection. Now, she doesn’t have to keep her skills a secret.
I’m brewing, even if they think I’m a trouble maker.
Josie moves to her desk, where a folder lays open. She sees the business cards Aunt Emma gave to Roxy. They were enchanted to reveal the egregious wrong doing of the men. She thumbs through them, each one cycling through scenes of neglect. There’s nothing on Lennox, of course.
She hears a faraway chime.
&n
bsp; Doorbell.
She glances once out her window. The darkness of night makes it impossible to see anything. Something about that bell in the night frightens her. Lennox’s arrival has complicated things. She has a vested interest in not helping him. A visitor at his hour has to do with him. Who else?
* * *
Standing in the front doorway is Stella Spivey. Alice in her kitchen smock stands aside, gaping, probably because Stella looks so horribly good. She’s dressed as if she’s just gotten off a plane, maybe from Paris, or Milan.
I knew it, Josie thinks as she descends the stairs, trying not to gulp. Stella’s here to take Lennox back.
Stella’s wearing bright red pumps peppered with … can those be real diamonds? She’s wearing a tartan-patterned Burberry skirt that fits her hips like they were poured on. A cranberry-colored long-sleeved button-up blouse reveals the tops of perfect breasts. She’s even gifted with thick, flowing brunette locks. She could be Cindy Crawford’s younger sister. And Josie remembers, now, why she’s always hated Stella: If you look that good, you should also be stupid. Sadly, Stella is not. Worse, she’s a practicing witch with the respect of the coven.
“Josie,” Stella says, striding in like a conquering goddess. Josie stands halfway down the grand stair and gets to look down at Stella. Even without those pumps, though, she’d be five inches taller on even ground, which seems unfair. Josie stays put. “I think my husband’s here. Can you go get him?”
“I’m staying, Stella.”
Josie turns to see Lennox standing atop the landing, glaring down into the vestibule.
“Are you?” Stella asks. “What’s going on, Lennox?”
Josie glances into the main drawing room, hoping Lady Birchall might magically appear, except Lady Birchall and her assistant have already retired for the evening. Alice has already bolted back to the kitchen. Besides the grounds keeper and the house keeper, who are out back feeding the dogs, the staff have all gone home for the night.
The men in the den are staring into the vestibule. Stella has their attention in a way that sports can’t manage. Mr. Creeley is gaping like a teenager, the hint of a real smile on his face. Mr. Jenkins and Mr. Brookings are smiling like dimwits who’ve never seen a pretty woman before. Mr. Reiner looks like he might introduce himself.
Lennox remains where he is.
Christine enters the drawing room from a far entrance, pauses only slightly when seeing Stella, then hurries forward. She’s just gotten off work and is still dressed from head-to-toe in her professional attire.
“What’s going on, Stella,” Christine says to her daughter-in-law, as she enters the vestibule, “is an experiment in social engineering.”
“Figures you’d be involved,” Stella says, still glaring at her husband. “The entire coven know about this?”
“Not yet,” Christine says. “But they will.”
Stella rounds on Josie. “Your idea?”
“It is,” Josie says, clearing the last step.
“A little word of advice.” Stella takes a few steps up as if she might toss Josie over the side. “He’s a handful.” She glares at Lennox, retreats, and yanks open the front door. As she crosses the threshold, she speaks over her shoulder: “I’ll be back.”
Christine shuts the door. “Lennox, I didn’t tell you. How did you hear about … our project?”
Lennox leans on the railing, one hand under his chin. Someone should be taking a picture of him. Or, better, he should give a monologue, maybe declaiming his love for Josie Bran because she, of all women in the world, loves him … maybe say something with the word frankly and the phrase not give a damn. Lennox Cruz has held a place in her heart ever since she first saw him. She’d sat right next to him in Miss. MacKenzie’s American History class. Junior High meant they got to change classes, and every day she and Lennox would walk from third period to fourth together, sit down next to each other, and talk all class because Miss. MacKenzie, old and batty as she was, sat at her desk and pretended not to sleep.
Josie’s infatuation began about two minutes into their first conversation. At least six other girls were just as enamored. Yet, to Josie, it seemed he always came back to her, friends as they were, for more conversation and laughter. Sure, Lennox always had some girl he’d been caught holding hands with or kissing, and Josie would fall into a pit of despair so horrible she’d spend entire nights crying into her pillow. But she always recovered, chin up, smile beaming, and pretending as if it didn’t matter. It did, and she would bet her life Lennox knew it, although he never made her feel embarrassed—probably because she never gave him hell about it. That lasted all the way through high school. Her goodwill was rewarded when he chose to go to the prom with her, over Stella Spivey. Sure, he ended up marrying her, but in that one grand moment, Josie and Lennox had a wonderful time while Stella sulked on the other side of the dance floor.
“It’s all over town, Mom. Thanks to Aunt Emma.” He winks at Josie, before leaving the landing for his room.
Josie descends the final stair. “You didn’t know?”
Christine crosses her arms. She looks like she might start tapping her foot. “No, but I should have guessed. Lennox has been itching to assert himself for some time. He’s like you … a non-traditionalist.
“Non-traditionalist? What do you mean?”
“You might as well know. It’ll probably come out now. He’s like both of us, if you know what I mean.”
Josie feels her pulse sky rocket at the admission: Lennox Cruz, celebrity warlock. Christine’s years of secrecy means she must be more conservative than she pretends. Sure, she’s open to breaking the rules of keeping witchery hidden from the public’s eye. She’ll even allow a young hopeful like Josie to work her craft in the open, if it means helping the women of Merrell. Yet she still can’t imagine a world in which men practice magic because men get up to no good—even her own son. Josie, though, knows women can be just as irresponsible when it comes to craft. She encountered at least one true sorceress of dark powers in Richmond, Virginia. She saw the woman from a distance after a friend pointed her out and said the sorceress worked some cosmic magics that could fry a person’s soul.
Dangerous.
She shudders. Her kindred power with the objects of everyday life is something she would never risk losing. The fear she sees in Christine’s eyes makes her realize that the world outside Merrell County could come calling. Josie has to be prepared to justify what she’s doing, when the old witches hear about this, especially High Priestess Lady Dooley.
Christine puts her arm around Josie’s shoulders and leads her into the drawing room. “So, tell me, what do you have planned for them?”
Josie pushes her fear of Stella Spivey and dark witches from her mind. Lennox is here. He refused to go home with this wife. That’s all she needs. She’ll fight for him, to her last breath. Husband Rehab’s success means Lennox and Josie’s success. At least, that’s what she tells herself to make it all feel right.
* * *
The next morning, Josie sits with Mr. Arney Jenkins over plates of scrambled eggs. Alice has made fresh orange juice and filled two glasses. Josie and Mr. Jenkins sit in the old servants’ kitchen where Lady Birchall’s staff used to make food for a house of twenty. It was converted into a simple place to eat decades ago. Josie used to spend her summer lunches here, playing on the cold white tiles, while her grandmother made fried chicken.
The room is dominated by a beat-up, hickory table the help consistently carve initials into. All around the table are sinks, cabinets, pantries, hanging pots and pans—everything you’d expect in a kitchen, instead of a dining room.
Today, she and Mr. Jenkins stare across the large wood table dominating the room. An entire wall of windows allows plenty of morning light to fill the space. He has taken one end, as if he’s the head of the table. Josie sits at the other.
“So, my wife called this morning,” he says, filling his copious mouth with a spoon full of eggs. “She apologized a
bout the Ferrari. But she said I have a problem. She said you’ll let me know what it is …”
Josie sips her juice. Christine instructed her last night how individual therapy should go. The men should be told their wives’ grievances, but Josie shouldn’t do it in an accusing manner. She should simply tell them. This delicate approach is to encourage them to talk. The idea is for them to understand the problem. That way, true emotional and behavioral change can occur. Josie is then to explain their prescribed treatment. Not punishment, no. Treatment. If this soft approach doesn’t work, Christine wants to implement something harsher. The fact is, some men will have to be more than encouraged to do what’s best, even if they don’t want to.
“Free will be damned,” Christine says, “when it comes to happiness.”
Free will …
Josie has heard that phrase a thousand times from her grandmother. Josie never understood the reasons why she harped on the intricacies of human agency, as she called it. Yet, Josie’s grandmother always listened respectfully whenever Christine counter argued that craft should enhance a human being’s ultimate happiness, not freedom. Josie first heard the word ‘act,’ in that context as a little girl, and thought they were talking about TV stars. No, what Josie is doing with these men, and what Christine does every day with her expensive prescriptions filled at the drugstore, alters behavior. As long as it helps someone become more of a person, then great. Still, Josie can’t shake the feeling she’s entering new territory. She wants her brewing to affect someone at a fundamental level … without their consent. This sounds less like her grandmother’s way of doing things, and more like Christine’s.
“You need to remember the things that are important to your wife, Mr. Jenkins.”
“What things?” A bit of egg falls off his spoon. He frowns at it for doing so. “I have an excellent memory.”
“I’m sure you do. But when it comes to the little things, you need to give more thought—”
“Are you kidding? I don’t have time for little things. Do you realize how much money I’m responsible for?”