“Not so much anymore,” I replied. “I go to the salon every month and refresh the color, and use special shampoos at home.”
“Have you ever been blonde?”
“I was born it,” I said, “and my natural color is kind of a dark blonde.”
“It seems you’d go with that, if it wouldn’t take much work to lighten,” Brittany said, gnawing on another olive.
I shrugged. “I’ve always played with hair color.”
“What other colors have you been?” Wyatt asked.
“Varying shades of red. Pink. Magenta. Auburn. I also went white-blonde for a while, and brunette.”
“I didn’t know you’d been all those colors,” Roger said. “Do you have pictures?”
“I do, at home.”
“I want to see,” Roger said.
“Sure,” I replied, “but I’m loyal to this red now. I stopped experimenting years ago when I converted to mono-chromaticism.”
“Is that a thing?” Brittany asked.
“For me, yes.”
Brittany shrugged and headed to the bar cart, filling a tumbler with scotch and pouring in Diet Coke. I risked a glance to Marie and saw the disapproval on her face.
Roger leaned in and whispered in my ear. “I’m a happy follower of your mono-chromaticism, so long as I can be the only true believer.”
“You want a monogamous mono-chromaticist, then, I gather?” I teased.
“Most definitely. And I’m willing to return the favor.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” I said, admiring his broad shoulders as he sat down at a stool flanking the kitchen island.
“So, I see Brittany has helped herself. What about the rest of you,” Marie said.
“I’m happy to stick with wine,” I said. My statement was rewarded with a topping off of more Riesling.
“I’ll have a beer,” Wyatt said. He turned to Roger. “You gonna break down and have one today?”
Roger shook his head.
“Why isn’t he having any?” Brittany asked.
“I’m in recovery,” Roger offered. “Haven’t had a drop in five years.”
“I’ll bring you a Coke if you like,” I offered as I followed Marie into the kitchen.
“That’d be great.”
“In a glass,” I said, smirking at Marie.
“Good,” she said. “You’re learning.”
When Brittany sat on the sofa in the adjoining sitting room, Marie turned to me, her voice low and her eyes narrowed. “Isn’t she awful?”
I shrugged. “Eh, she’s okay. Not my favorite person, but she’s clearly young.”
“There’s young and then there’s that case of arrested development,” Marie said, pointing in the direction of the blonde. “That girl may be twenty-one or twenty-two, but she acts like she’s a sullen tween.”
“You could always send her back to the basement. I suspect she’d be mightily entertained with a few more hours of video games.”
“I’m tempted,” Marie sighed. “If they don’t leave shortly after dinner, I may suggest that.” She topped off our wine glasses as I poured a glass of Coke for Roger.
“Your cola, sir,” I smiled. “It’ll cost you a kiss.” I leaned over as I handed him his drink, claiming my price.
“You’re undercharging,” Roger murmured, his voice low.
“I’ll collect the rest later,” I whispered.
“I’ll remember that,” he said, taking a playful swat at my behind.
“So, you mean, you haven’t had a drink in, like, five years?” Brittany asked, her tone incredulous. “Nothing?”
“Nope, not a drop.”
“But why?”
“I drank too much. It was fucking up — ”
“Language!” Marie hissed. “I know you can get a bit salty — I’m guilty of it myself from time to time — but let’s check the blue language at the door for the holiday, okay?”
“Sorry,” Roger said, nodding and patting the space next to him.
“Salty? Blue?” Brittany was amused by Marie’s word choices.
I could see Marie was about to potentially resort to some choice words herself, but Roger grew louder and continued. “As for the drinking, I was spiraling out of control, so I decided to stop.”
“Don’t you miss it?” Brittany asked.
“At first I did, yes,” Roger admitted, “or rather, I missed feeling numb, but I got to the point where I preferred not feeling wasted and then hungover.”
“But you’re missing out on so much fun,” Brittany pressed, her tone whiny.
“Not as far as I’m concerned,” Roger continued. “I’ve woken up with enough hangovers to last a lifetime.”
Brittany turned to me. “But you’re drinking. Doesn’t that harsh your mellow to be with him?”
“No,” I shook my head. “I partied hard in college from time to time, and now and then I overdo it a bit, but I mostly just like to enjoy some wine with a meal or maybe a beer or two with a friend. Plus, the older you get, the harder it is to recover from overdoing it.”
“Unless you’re Fiona,” Roger chuckled. “I’ve seen her put it away one night, then visit your shop the next morning, seeming none the worse for wear.”
“Who’s Fiona?” Brittany asked.
“She’s my mother.”
“Wait. She was the one who read my hand while you read my sister’s. She was … weird. She also knew stuff. Lots of stuff that she shouldn’t have. Is she really a witch? She said she was.”
“If she says she was …,” I replied.
“She told me my contact lenses were tacky.”
“Oh, is that not your real eye color?” Marie asked, her tone arch. “The color is so natural.”
“At least as natural as my hair color,” I said.
Brittany shot me a dirty look. “Yeah, well, she’s one to talk considering how much glitter and sequins she wears, especially at her age. “I thought it was funny for your mom to say I was tacky since she’s the queen of tacky.”
I shrugged. “My mom is tacky and proud of it. She loves her kitsch.”
“She is what she is,” Roger said, his tone firm. “Let’s drop it. We don’t need any squabbles on this day.”
We all were silent for a moment, then Marie spoke. “Wyatt and Brittany, why don’t you go and let the others know dinner is about to be served.”
16
Dinner was a breeze. Marie, sending her younger son and his date to alert the rest of the guests that supper was ready, diffused the tension. By the time everyone was seated and tucking into their meal, spirits were soaring.
Having a larger extended family there, I thought it would make me uncomfortable, but the Morins were cheery and easy going, and Mitten, with her strong opinions and direct manner, made me feel oddly relaxed.
Even Marie, who seemed annoyed by their presence at first, seemed to calm and enjoy herself, though now and then she’d give a stealthy glare in Brittany’s and Wyatt’s directions.
Afterwards, Marie roped the women into helping clean up. I tried to pry pasty tips out of Darlene, but she was tight-lipped. “Maybe if you one day join the family,” she teased.
“Oh,” was all I could say, my cheeks pinking again.
“Look at the girl, blushing like a virgin in a whorehouse,” Mitten cackled. “That probably gets Roger all riled up.”
“Why would it?” Brittany asked. “It’s kind of dorky.”
“Real feelings are never dorky,” Darlene cut in.
“It might get Roger riled up because a lot of men like to think they’re screwing a virgin,” Mitten said, her tone matter-of-fact.
Brittany looked at me. “You’re not a virgin, are you?” She looked me up and down like she was trying to scan my level of sexual experience.
“No,” I said. “And I don’t think that’s quite what Mitten meant.”
“She’s right. I just meant that men don’t like it when a woman seems like she puts out all the time.”
“Men like a woman who has experience, and who likes sex,” Brittany said.
“Sure they like it, but they don’t always marry it,” Mitten continued.
“I think your views are outdated,” Brittany replied.
“You might think we’ve come a long way, and in many ways we have as a society,” Mitten said, “but we’re still quick to resort to name-calling women.”
“I have to agree with Brittany that I don’t think a man should think less of a woman just because she enjoys sex, be it casual or in a committed relationship, but sadly, Mitten makes a valid point,” I offered. “Our society still wants to shame and belittle women left and right. I don’t think Roger is so big into how experienced a woman might be either.”
“I hope not,” Marie offered. “I tried to raise him to show respect for women. But I also tried to raise him to look toward girls who have a little self-respect, too.”
“I think Roger turned into a fine young man,” Mitten rasped. “Better now that he finally seems to be moving on with his life.” She opened her mouth to say something more, presumably about his sister (and Marie’s daughter) Ivy, who died several years back, but the daggers Marie shot in her direction made her snap her mouth shut.
“Moving on?” Brittany asked.
“Let it slide,” I murmured under my breath. “I can fill you in later.”
“What is he moving on from?”
I gave a subtle head shake in Brittany’s direction but she ignored me.
“What?” she asked. “Did someone, like, die? Was it a girlfriend or something?”
Marie slapped the towel she was holding down onto the counter and whipped around, glaring at Brittany. “Yes! Someone died. My only daughter died. Would you like me to describe picking the dress we buried her in? Or maybe how she looked in her coffin?” Her eyes were shining and wild.
Brittany shrank back and muttered something unintelligible as she focused on drying some wine glasses.
The room was quiet as the grave for a moment.
“So, tell me, Brittany,” Darlene began. “How did you and Wyatt meet?”
The blonde looked grateful for the distraction. I couldn’t blame her. I was, too. While she talked I looked over at Marie and raised an eyebrow. “I’ll be fine,” she whispered. “Just let me be for a second.”
I nodded and listened as Brittany spoke.
“He came to a party my roommates and I had gone to. He was cute, looked like fun, so we’ve hung out a few times.”
“Wyatt at a party?” Mitten cackled. “What a surprise.” She pointed at me. “You, cherry girl, top me off with some of that wine.”
“Her name’s Poppy,” Darlene corrected.
“That’s fine,” I said, “I get called all kinds of variations of red, but mostly red.”
“Are you sure you should be drinking, Auntie Mitten?” Verna asked.
“Why not? I’m eighty and don’t they say a bit of wine is good for the heart?”
“You’ve already had two bourbons, and then you were adding it to your pop at dinner,” Verna warned.
“So I’m easing off with wine.”
“You should ease off with coffee or water,” Verna said.
“How about I make some coffee?” Marie asked.
“Excellent,” Mitten said. “Be sure to add some bourbon to my cup.”
Marie and Darlene shot me amused looks and I couldn’t stop myself from laughing.
I wanted to know more about Mitten, so when Roger got to speaking with his brother and Brittany, and Marie was distracted with Arthur, I sat next to the octogenarian.
“So, are you staying overnight, or are you driving back home?” I asked.
“We’ll be staying a few days,” Mitten said. “I drove with Verna and Spencer. Cubbie and Currie came on their own. The men will drive back tomorrow but I’ll stay on with Verna for a few days of shopping.” She’d finished her coffee a while back and was steadily refilling her mug with something she’d plucked from the liquor cart. “Now how about you drop the niceties and get to what’s really on your mind?”
“Well aren’t you direct,” I said amusedly.
“I’m old. I ain’t got a lot of time left, so I don’t like to mince words.”
“Makes sense. I just was interested that you mentioned me having the sight and all. Plus Marie said … how did she put it? … that you dabbled. Dabbled in what, if you don’t mind me asking.”
“Oh, I read candle wax is the main thing,” Mitten said.
“You mean, like watching where the wax drips and the shapes it makes?” I asked. “Or do you drip it into water and see what forms?”
“Mostly the prior, but a bit of the latter, too.”
“Where did you learn?”
“At my grannie’s knee. And by observation. You do it long enough, you get to knowing.”
“I suppose you do,” I agreed.
“I also read signs.”
“You mean, like if you see crows: One’s bad, two’s luck?”
Mitten nodded and began to recite a rhyme:
“One’s bad,
“Two’s luck,
“Three’s health,
“Four’s wealth,
“Five’s sickness,
“Six is death.”
“I’ve come across that one before,” I said. “I know some people don’t see them as good luck, but I like crows. They’re smart.”
“They’re also mean as shit, but yes, they are clever.” She leaned forward as if she was going to utter a secret. “I knew something bad was going to happen eight years back … .” Her eyes landed just for a split second on Marie, then darted to Roger and to Wyatt.
I did the math in my head. “Oh, you mean … .”
“Yes. Signs were everywhere. I woke and my left eye kept twitching all day. It wasn’t the right one, that’s for sure. Last time the right eye got to twitching, Cubbie there was soon born.”
“So a right eye twitching means a baby is on the way?” I asked. “And the left eye is, well, someone’s about to leave?”
Mitten nodded. “I also found a white moth in the house that day, which is never good.”
“And you had a feeling something bad was about to happen?”
“Yes. I tried to brush it off. You know, telling myself the eye gets to twitching because I’m old, or the moth was a holdover from summer, but I had a bad feeling I couldn’t shake. Real bad. Then the old clock in the dining room, one that had stopped working some years prior, it began to chime. The phone rang not long after that.”
Mitten swiped at her eye briefly and took a long sip of her bourbon. I wasn’t sure what to say so I let things be still for a moment.
“Best get to changing the subject,” Mitten started up. “Your man is looking over at you.”
I turned and spied Roger watching out of the corner of his eye. He gave me a little smile; in response I beamed back at him.
I felt something strange and exquisite, as fleeting as a dream I’d awoken from, and yet as monumental as a world building up around me and lifting me up in the process.
And then it struck me, as bold as thunder: I was falling in love.
At the realization I felt a fluttering around my heart and a blooming warmth surge outward. I felt my neck flush and little prickles of something electric coursing over the surface of my skin. I swallowed and blinked as I felt my eyes grow damp.
“Love.” That was all Mitten said.
“What?” I asked. For a millisecond I wasn’t sure if I’d heard her correctly.
“I saw that. You looked over his way and your eyes locked for a flash, and something shifted in your eyes. You’re in love.”
I opened my mouth to say something more but found my throat had gone dry. She held out her cup of bourbon toward me.
“Take a belt, dearie, and collect yourself.”
I did. A generous one, and found the heat of the liquor dampened the fire of realization. Then I felt his approach and turned my head up just in time as R
oger lowered himself to press a soft kiss to my lips.
I knew from that moment on there was no one else I’d rather be with.
“You okay there?” he asked, as he kneeled down next to me and ran his thumb over my cheek. “For a second there you had this look.”
“She’s fine; don’t be a mother hen. And while you’re here, how about going and topping off my coffee,” Mitten said. I think she sensed I needed a moment to gather my wits. I was grateful for that.
“She’s right,” I agreed, smiling at him. “I’m more than fine, in fact. Go ahead and get the coffee.”
Roger looked me in the eyes, his gaze a pure icy blue, and after a moment he nodded. When he returned with more coffee for Mitten, he leaned over and tilted my chin in his direction, looking me over. “Yes, I think you are fine.” He squeezed my hand and I enjoyed feeling safe. Not from danger, but safe from uncertainty, in knowing with him was where I wanted to be.
“Are you ready to go soon? I know we’re planning on stopping over by your mother’s for a bit, so we probably should.”
“Sure. I’m fine with that.”
“Let’s say our goodbyes then and hit the road.” He held his hand out to me and I took it, muttering a “nice to meet you” to Mitten. Before I could walk away, she held out a hand to still me.
“Since I’ll be in town a few days to do some Christmas shopping. I’d like to stop by your shop and see what you’ve got set up there.”
“Any time. I’d love to talk more with you. I also have something I would like to show you.”
“That sounds fine and dandy. Maybe I’ll even get you to read my palms.”
“I’d be happy to. I’d also love to hear more about what you know about the reading of candle wax.”
“You’ve got yourself a deal.”
“You got on well with Mitten there,” Roger said as he drove us in the direction of the downtown area.
“I liked her. She’s upfront and she knows some interesting things about folklore.” I was about to bring up the white moth and the chiming clock details, but wasn’t sure if I should.
Roger decided it for me. “She said she knew something was going to happen the day Ivy died,” he said as he looked forward, focusing on the road.
A Spot of Bother Page 13