Seven Daughters

by Jessica Lourey

  The scientists in the Country Inn and Suites already had a name for the rumbling—the snake awakening, or the snakening, if they were among like-minded friends and had swallowed a drink or two—but who worries about scientists when the air smells like fresh-sliced celery and is just as green? Not Helena Catalain.

  “Turn your car off.”

  Helena obeyed without question. It wasn’t just the robotic voice. It was also that she was reluctant to be any trouble to anyone, even an automated car wash. Besides, it was a gorgeous spring afternoon, dappled with lemony sunshine, warbling birds, and enough promise to make you kiss a stranger. Why do anything but smile on such a day?

  The old yellow van that she shared with her twin sister, Xenia, was yanked forward into the carwash bay. Good. She’d been nervous guiding it into the tracks, but she must have placed it right. The bay door closed behind her, and a massive blue brush spun toward the van’s hood. The smell of soap and wax filtered into her vehicle, and the first gentle patters of water fell on the roof.

  It wasn’t until the water spritzed out from the tubes on the wall that Helena realized she hadn’t rolled up the front windows.

  Either of them.

  The first shot of water landed north of her ear, pinning her gray-blonde hair to her skull in a soapy fritz. The second streamed in through the passenger side, soaking a pile of receipts. She couldn’t roll up the windows. They were electric, and the robot had been clear that she was to leave her car off.

  So, Helena made the best of it.

  She moved the wet pile of paper to the backseat, serendipitously ducking the spray launching toward her neck, unbundled the emergency rain jacket stuffed next to the first aid kit, and tugged it on, ignoring the annoying twinge in her left side. Then she settled in.

  The spray created a soothing rhythm, an orchestra of water thrumming on the passenger seat, followed by the percussion of the spray to her shoulder or head, ending with a melodic, metallic ripple across the roof of the van. Then, the whole pattern repeated. Her foot tapped to the beat.

  The car wash—which had morphed into a “Helena wash”—had been an impulse stop. She’d left Seven Daughters Candy and Clothes shortly after closing to run errands, including stopping by the post office to drop off bills and driving forty miles to Alexandria for the organic turbinado sugar she dusted her maple truffles with.

  Xenia and Helena had put a down payment on the building that became Seven Daughters fourteen years earlier. Before that, Helena sold homemade candy out of her older sister Ursula’s Queen Anne kitchen and Xenia tailored clothes in a small room off the back that she had converted into a sewing space. They built a burgeoning clientele on word of mouth, and it hadn’t taken much convincing for them to make it official once Ursula’s girls moved out and Helena and Xenia’s childcare services were no longer needed.

  Seven Daughters was launched.

  The store was small, a renovated restaurant two blocks off River Street in downtown Faith Falls, Minnesota, a sleepy burg with bronze otter statues parading along the main streets and a ring of box stores squeezing the outskirts. Helena hired Artemis X. Buckley, a local carpenter infamous for tying 523 helium balloons to his favorite lawn chair and floating to Pelican Lake, to remodel the restaurant’s kitchen. She kept the old-fashioned dessert coolers but had Artemis redo their shelves so she could fill them with tantalizing truffles, her specialty.

  Artemis had recently reentered her life. He’d been pleasant enough when he’d remodeled the store’s kitchen fourteen years earlier, and Helena had to admit to developing a bit of a crush on him back then. He’d never asked her out, though, and she didn’t want to violate the employer-employee relationship, so she hadn’t come on to him despite her desire.

  In the past year, though, he’d begun spending time with Velda, Helena’s mother and daughter to Eva and Ennis, the first Catalains in Faith Falls. Velda had a reputation for being a runabout despite being in her 70s, and Helena assumed the two were dating, though Artemis was at least fifteen years younger than her mother. She was sad that he was off the market, but she’d come to terms with it. Her sisters and mother might not care much for faithfulness, but Helena placed a premium on it, which is why she’d been uncomfortable with his recent visits to Seven Daughters, the most embarrassing occurring just today.

  She’d just called Xenia over to the counter to try a new truffle recipe she’d been playing with for weeks. It was a blend of black currant and flax seed rolled in dark chocolate. She’d crafted it in response to a customer who’d complained about hot flashes. The result was a candy with a deep purple center that tasted like succulent fall grapes and church giggles. She was thinking of calling it Believe in Change, but was worried people would think it was a political statement rather than a menopausal one, and she didn’t want to upset anyone.

  Xenia was popping a truffle into her mouth when Artemis entered the store, his black fedora resting jauntily on his head. Helena immediately dropped below the cooler, still clutching the tray of truffles. “I’m not here,” she’d whispered from her crouching position, steadying her breath. She really would have to get better at confrontations. In the meanwhile, hiding worked.

  Xenia’s eyebrows knit together and her gaze traveled to the front door. “Is it Artemis? Because I don’t think he’s going to leave without talking with you. This’ll be the third time this week he’s stopped by, and he’s not coming for the dresses.”

  Helena frowned. Xenia was right, despite the teasing tone of her voice. She’d best deal with this head on. Tell Artemis straightaway that she wasn’t interested and didn’t appreciate him running around on her mother. Give him a piece of her mind. Let him know—

  “Mmmhmm.” Xenia’s warning cough was polite, but too late. Artemis was peeking over the top of the truffle case that he’d redesigned, peering at the top of Helena’s head.

  “Hello, Ms. Xenia.” Artemis smiled, and his face wrinkled in all the right places. He was a small man, lean as beef jerky, whose name was bigger than he was. He’d respectfully removed his hat. “You too, Ms. Helena. Did you drop something?”

  Just my dignity. Helena straightened herself. She faced Artemis, smoothing her dress and intentionally ignoring Xenia’s under-her-breath laughter. Helena’s intention was to be firm, but when she met his gaze, she had a hard time not smiling back. His face was just so open. She fought the urge, though, and kept her expression and voice steady. “Just loading the case, Mr. Buckley.”

  His glance dropped. He tapped the glass. “Is that a new candy?”

  Xenia nodded and answered before Helena had a chance. “She’s calling it ‘The Change.’”

  Helena didn’t correct her sister.

  “Could I buy one?”

  Helena’s eyes widened. She would certainly have to draw the line here. She wasn’t sure what the candy would do to a male. Probably nothing, but he wasn’t her target audience. “I’m afraid it’s still in the testing phase.”

  But Xenia was too quick for her. She snatched a candy off the wax paper and handed it to Artemis before Helena’s sentence had left her lips. Artemis tossed the haystack-shaped truffle into his mouth. She watched him chew. His skin took on a light purple hue for the briefest moment, and his blue eyes shaded violet. Helena had to blink twice to make sure her eyes weren’t deceiving her, and by then, the effect had passed.

  “Dip me in honey, that was delicious!” Artemis appeared no worse for the wear. If anything, his smile was even wider. “I’ll take two more to go.”

  “How are you feeling?” Helena studied his face intently.

  “Like I want to hug the world.”

  This time, Helena couldn’t help herself. She smiled back. A humming spark the color of a blue moon traveled from her smile to Artemis’ chest, and his grin turned into full-out laughter. He passed the emotion right back to Helena. It grew. Both of them doubled over in the giggles, for such was the power of Helena’s candies.

  They were delicate, each no larger than a w
ild plum, shaped like sea shells, flowers, intricate animals, or arcane symbols, whatever inspired her when she was crafting them. Some of her candies were jewel-colored sugar spun into glass and others were pure dark, sweet, or white chocolate, as creamy as love, but most had fillings—smooth buttercream or crunchy roasted almonds, fluffy ganache or sugared lime, whatever claimed her fancy. She’d even crafted a limited time maple bacon truffle—sweet and salty—after eating a pint of pistachio ice cream right before bed and having the strangest dream about pigs in Vermont.

  Regardless of content and appearance, every one of Helena’s candies carried magic, though she’d never admit it to anyone but herself. Her Lilac Love chocolates were the most popular, made of a chocolate so dark it melted down your throat like an elixir. Helena shaped the chocolate to resemble the delicate flutes of lilac petals, and injected them with a crystalline sweet center she crafted from distilled spring flowers. One bite of the silken treasure revealed the eater’s true love.

  Peppermint Secrets were the second-best seller. They were crafted of white chocolate molded into a delicate leaf shape with veins of exquisite green mint laced through. Helena recommended those for people whose stomachs were upset by guilt. The Sweet Dreams truffle was delicious, too, filled with lavender-infused honey and dusted with sugared chamomile. Helena always cautioned people not to operate heavy machinery while eating the Sweet Dreams as it was impossible to finish it without falling asleep.

  She demurred when asked for her recipes, made no claims about the properties of the chocolates other than that they would taste delicious. And they did, always, as beautiful to the tongue as they were to the eye. Over the years, she’d gleaned a lot of information from her customers, more than a bartender or even a hairdresser would hear in the course of their day, and she often stayed late to concoct special orders for the woman whose husband was cheating or the teenage boy who wanted a gift for the girl he was too shy to ask out.

  When customers weren’t sharing their most secret desires with round, happy Helena, they were worshipping the racks of gorgeous dresses in Xenia’s section of the store. Though the sisters shared the same till, Helena limited the face of her business to the dessert coolers. Xenia spread her wares over the rest of the main room, setting up her dress racks where diners used to swap farm stories across checkered tablecloths.

  She sewed every kind of dress that had ever existed, from simple baby dolls to formal ball gowns, and each one was unequivocally flattering to the woman who bought it. A vacationer who’d wandered into the store by accident the first year Seven Daughters was open discovered that a 50s-style, deep plum A-line dress perfectly balanced her wide hips with her strong shoulders. If you were lucky enough to have your prom dress sewn by Xenia, you were guaranteed a kiss that would return to you on your deathbed like a lace-wrapped gift. Flat-chested? Wearing one of Xenia’s flapper dresses awoke you to how amazing your arms were, and what a gift it was to be able to walk through the world in your tight, safe body. Jiggly belly? Xenia’s marmalade-orange, accordion-pleated sundress would hang off you beautifully, swirling and dancing in the breeze, reminding you and the world of the stunning, wise beauty in your eyes and heart.

  The demand for Xenia’s designs expanded to the point where she had to register customers and impose a limit—one dress per person per year. Some maneuvered around it, but on the whole, the ladies in the know were willing to support each other. Xenia sewed all the dresses herself, and Helena baked, stirred, and poured only with family watching. These were habits of efficiency more than a desire to keep their secrets, and in fact, they’d recently been talked into offering sewing and cooking classes through community education. They didn’t have the time, but it felt like the right thing to do.

  They’d also hired an assistant, though today was his day off, which is why Helena had run the errands on her own after some pleasant small talk with Artemis, whom she would absolutely never date but whose company she was coming to appreciate. She’d finished all her after-work duties and was on her way home when she’d passed the car wash, a sign out front claiming “We get your car cleaner than anyone in town for cheaper! Stop by and let us scrub away any doubts!”

  She’d taken them up on their generous offer.

  She was humming as the arc of water wound down, offering one final, gentle kiss of liquid on her soaked left scalp. The car wash’s exit door yawned open. When directed, she started her van and opened the remaining windows to help dry out the slushy carpet in the front. Then she pointed the vehicle toward home, her hums morphing into words: days may be cloudy or sunny, we’re in or we’re out of the money…

  She couldn’t place the song, but singing the words made her happy, so she kept it up on the drive, while she parked, and as she sashayed through the Queen Anne’s back door.

  “What the deuce happened to you?”

  The song dropped from Helena’s lips. Xenia was staring open-mouthed at her, a steaming pot of noodles in her hands. Helena followed her sister’s gaze and realized she was dripping onto the floor. She slipped off the raincoat and hung it on the hook inside the door.

  “An unexpected shower.” Helena smiled. She loved her twin more than the sun loved the earth. Though the two of them could not be more different in personality or appearance, they’d never been apart for more than a day or two in their 50 years.

  Xenia opened her mouth and then closed it, opened it again, and settled for shaking her head. “We’re having tofu pad Thai for dinner. Just you and me. Ursula is in the Cities for a few days. Why don’t you go clean up first?”

  Helena’s smile widened. She pecked Xenia’s cheek as she walked past her. “How lucky am I? Two showers in one day, and someone to make dinner for me.”

  She made her way through the Queen Anne’s huge kitchen, her favorite room in the house. The Queen Anne had been built in the early 1900s by Helena’s grandparents, Eva and Ennis, whom she’d never met. They’d lost the gorgeous home in the Great Depression, and it fell into disrepair. The glorious wraparound porch began to sag, the tiny oriels in the turret were broken accidentally or by vandals and boarded over. The luscious burgundy paint began to peel and the house took on a frowning, haunted countenance. When her older sister Ursula returned to Faith Falls in the 70s, she had enough money—just—to buy and begin remodeling the house back to its former glory. When it was habitable, she’d invited her beloved sisters to live with her, and Xenia and Helena had each taken their own room on the second floor.

  Helena made her way up the stairs and into her room, grateful as always for the sturdiness of her door, the strength of the wood under her feet, the safeness and love the house surrounded her with. She closed the door behind her and started to change clothes, wincing as she pulled her shirt over her head. Her left breast hurt, and so did her armpit.

  She knew why.

  Evening was padding in, and her east-side room was shadowy. The only light spilled in through a restored oriel. The sunlight hit the full-length mirror at a perfect angle, almost like a spotlight. She strolled over, dropping her slacks, shirt, and her underpants as she walked. They hit the ground with a wet plud.

  She gazed into the mirror. A fifty year-old woman stared back at her, her eyes tired, her mouth drawn now that there was no one around to smile at. Her body was a soft curving sea of flesh with silvery fish swimming at the edges of her hips, thighs, and breasts. She ran her hands over her chest, and her wide hips that had held lovers in ecstasy, and arms that had carried thousands of pans of sweet and comforting candy to eager mouths, and her belly with its two curves—one for the meal and one for dessert, she liked to think.

  She continued, caressing her fabulous rear end, which seemed to grow a little wider every year but never any deeper, and rubbed her powerful thighs as she let her eyes walk down to her knees, which she’d always recognized as beautiful, ending with her little toe, the one that curved under and in. Her magnificent flesh jiggled as she moved, and she caught a glimpse of this in the mirror. It brough
t her the tiniest smile, so she shook her hips harder, and the surface of her rolled like the ocean. This made her laugh, and so she danced, naked, in the fading spring sunlight.

  While she danced, she tried her best not to look at her chest. The breasts were still full despite her age, magnificent, knocking orbs with nipples as large as cracked eggs accenting each in tender pink.

  They were perfect but for the puckered, poisonous scaling that circled her left areola like a storm cloud before disappearing into her armpit.

  Her breast was rotting. Seeing it made her stomach twist, every time, so she looked away.

  She didn’t want to be any trouble to anyone, even herself.

  The Catalain Book of Secrets: Conquering Fear

  When it’s not in the hands of children or idiots, fear is the most useful tool you’re given in this life, right ahead of discomfort. Fear signals where you should go and what you are meant to face, serving as both a sign and a ladder. However, this ladder is easily twisted into a cage if you ignore its summoning. Use this spell when you find yourself imprisoned rather than elevated by your fears.

  You’ll need either a candle or a plant. Choose based on your affinity to fire or earth. Also gather a square of paper, an ink pen, and enough stones to tightly circle the plant or candle, whichever you’ve chosen.

  Write your fear in a circle in the center of the paper square, avoiding writing in the corners. Be honest and specific.

  Fold the paper four times, until it is a smaller, stiffer square.

  Place it either under the candle or bury it in the dirt of the plant (if it’s a big fear, and you don’t live in a wintry climate, an outdoor plant or tree works beautifully).

  Circle the candle or the plant with your stones. They are your fortress, your strength, your true knowledge. Say the following as you place each stone: “Fear is my guide, and I am strong.”