Margaret’s bright blue eyes narrowed. “Ouch.”
“You’re telling me.”
Bracelets rattled as she rested a fist on her hip. “Boyfriend was mad?”
“Yes, but he handled it well.” That was Scott. Cool and controlled.
“He’s coming back, right?”
“I suppose. I hope. But he has lots of time to think between now and tomorrow.”
Margaret snorted. “If he doesn’t come back he’s an ass.”
I couldn’t summon a bit of outrage for Scott. “I blindsided the guy. I’ve never told him about my family. He really is a good guy. It was wrong of me to drop all this on him.”
Margaret waved away my defense. “My guess is that Wonder Boy has secrets up his sleeve.”
“Scott is an open book.”
“No one is a total open book. He’s not told you everything.”
“I’m guessing he doesn’t have crazy sisters or secret babies.”
She waved her hand, batting away an imaginary fly. “It’ll blow over.”
“That experience talking?”
“Not exactly. I can’t make relationships or jobs last. I’m your consummate temp.”
Her honesty disarmed some of the knives jabbing at my gut. “Why’s that?”
“Hell, if I know. Maybe I’m ADD or something. Maybe I just haven’t found the right thing. But love me while you can, baby, because I’m a tumbleweed. I’ll blow on to the next job or adventure soon.”
I smiled. “Fair warning. What’s in the file?”
“Found something interesting about Faith.”
“Really?”
“Her husband, Ben Talbot, married her two weeks after she delivered twin sons.”
“Twins? You only mentioned one son. What happened to the other one?”
“He might not have survived.”
“Ah.” The birth of twins was not always welcome hundreds of years ago. Twins were an oddity and oddities fostered distrust. “Did birthing twins add fuel to the speculation that she was a witch?”
“Thinking like the good ladies of Alexandria, circa 1751,” Margaret noted.
I slid my hands in my pockets. “People don’t always add two and two and get four.”
“Not only did Ben Talbot marry his indentured servant but he also released her from her contract.”
“More magic?”
“It was very unusual and no one likes out of the ordinary.” A hitch in her tone suggested she spoke about herself.
“True.” Most of my life I hid my past so no one looked upon me with suspicion or worry. But on some level I needed Scott to accept me for it all and today he had not. My anger at Scott rose up unexpected, quick and sharp, and I immediately felt shame. I had no right to be angry with him. No right. I was nobody’s rose.
Margaret twisted her bracelets on her wrist. “I’d like to x-ray the other two bottles.”
“Why?”
“To see what’s inside. Maybe they have similar contents to the first one we found at the McDonalds’. Maybe they can tell us more about the ladies that made them.”
“Sure. Feel free to x-ray.”
“Think I could get Grace’s bottle?”
“That’s up to her. But I don’t see why not.”
“Friend at the hospital is going to do the X-rays. I will be careful.”
“I know you’ll treat them better than gold. I’ve seen the love in your eyes when you look at them.”
“Oh my God. I think I would die for them,” she said with a dramatic flair.
“Don’t get carried away.”
We headed up the stairs and found Grace sitting in her rocking chair, moving back and forth slowly, eyes closed. “That summer you two were always running around getting into trouble.”
I glanced at Margaret, who shrugged. “You talking to us?”
Her eyes fluttered open and for a moment she didn’t recognize either of us. “Sorry. I must have been recalling something my mother said to Elizabeth and me when we were young. But you two do look like trouble waiting to happen.”
“Grace, can Margaret borrow your witch bottle? She’d like to x-ray it.”
Grace pushed forward and stood with a groan. “Why would you want to do that?”
“To compare it to the other two.”
“Why?”
“Finding three intact bottles within miles of each other and within a couple of weeks is kinda really super rare, Ms. S.,” Margaret said. “I’d love to document it all.”
Grace’s gaze moved to the bottle, which remained on her mantel. “Sure. But don’t open it. That’s bad luck.”
Margaret pressed her hand to her heart. “I wouldn’t dream of it. I promise the X-ray will not damage it.”
Grace shrugged. “It’s all yours.”
The baby fussed, and Margaret glanced toward the sound and then the nearest exit. “I promise to be very careful.”
Grace shook her head. “I’m not worried. Take it.”
As the baby’s cries grew louder, Margaret took the bottle and carefully stuffed it in her bag. “I’ll report back.”
“Thanks.” I turned without thinking and walked into my room. Carrie lay on her back, kicking and flailing her fisted hands.
As I picked her up, I couldn’t help but smile. “What are you fussing about, Miss Carrie?”
The baby squawked louder, but I calmly moved to the changing station now set up on the dresser and quickly cleaned her up. Two weeks ago, this had all been awkward and scary and now it felt . . . normal. I lifted her up on my shoulder, and we moved into the kitchen. She nestled her face close to my neck and rooted around as I moved to the fridge and pulled out a bottle. With the baby balanced on my arm, I unscrewed the bottle top, put it in the microwave, and hit seventeen seconds.
“You look like a pro,” Grace said.
“You sound surprised.”
“I am.”
I glanced at Carrie and watched as she suckled the bottle. “Makes two of us. How the hell did we get here, Grace?”
“The curse.”
“You don’t believe that, do you? Really? Many mental illnesses are genetic.”
“I’ve been thinking long and hard about this. I don’t know much about medicine, but I understand curses. I’ve lived with them all my life. And it’s not just Janet and your mother. You and I are trapped by the curse as well.”
I could have argued, but I didn’t. “Why are we cursed? Is that why we have the witch bottle?”
“It’s supposed to ward off evil. But it’s not done such a good job. Bottles don’t break curses, just hold them at bay. Takes a force more powerful than a bottle to break a curse.”
“What kind of power?”
“I wish I knew. I spent a lifetime wondering and thinking about what it would take to break a curse. What it would mean to be free.”
Logic aside, Grace believed the Shires were cursed, and looking back over our history, I couldn’t argue. We suffered under a bad run of luck for as long as I could remember.
I stared at Carrie’s face, and my heart twisted. Didn’t matter if I carried the trait for madness or not. A baby would never fill my womb, and I’d never know the elation of bringing a child into the world.
But, of course, Grace was once young and full of dreams. “What held you here?”
For a long moment she didn’t speak and then finally she whispered, “Fear.”
August 10, 1751
Mistresses Smyth and McDonald joined me for tea today at our newly finished home. There is not a stick of furniture but I made do with the hand-hewn table from the cottage and the rough chairs. It did my heart good to speak to other women like me. We talked first of the tobacco crop and the servants. However, soon our conversation turned to gossip of Faith. Her boys thrive, Mistress Smyth
said, and Ben Talbot is pleased with the bastard children he readily claims. Mistress Smyth is appalled a man would claim bastard sons when he should make legitimate heirs with a wife sanctioned by God. Mistress Smyth has promised to speak to the magistrate about Faith. She is certain she has bewitched Mr. Talbot and will trick him into marriage.
Chapter Twenty-one
Playdates. Of course, I knew about them. I might even have looked down on the moms who thought they were fun. But after four days of working on the vineyard and warehouse business and, in my spare moments, feeding and diapering Carrie, I was hungry for conversation.
Scott called me each night and though the conversations were polite, they skimmed the surface. We were gliding across a sheet of ice, too afraid to make a fast move for fear we would tumble.
“I hear you called into the office today and sorted out the orders for the wine labels,” Scott said.
I cradled the phone close, standing near the window overlooking the Potomac River. “I did. We should have the labels in two weeks. Plenty of time for the next bottling.”
“We begin the first harvest in two weeks. And then the pressing. It’s going to be even better than last year’s.”
His confidence was always intoxicating. No matter how bleak the day, he found a way to be hopeful. I needed that confidence now. I needed to hear that we were going to be fine. “I think so, too.”
We talked work for a few more minutes before he said, “I’ve got to go. Got to get ready for tomorrow.”
“Sure.” He never asked about Carrie or Janet and, as much as I wanted to discuss this with him, I sensed he considered this to be my issue.
“Are you doing okay?”
“Hanging tough.” Pressing my fingertips to my temple, I turned from the river’s view.
“Sometimes that’s all you can do. You know, I’ll wait for you as long as it takes.”
A smile played on the edges of my lips, and the knot in my chest eased a little. Scott was at heart a grower of grapes, and despite his nature, he understood that seeds needed time to grow. Patience was required. It took years for the vines to mature and produce the best grapes. To a man who waited years for grapevines to develop, a few weeks was manageable.
He believed the solution to our problem was simple. Just get Janet on the right meds and she’d be fine. I knew he oversimplified the problem. Even with medications, Janet couldn’t sustain a healthy life alone. He also mentioned putting Carrie up for adoption. Another simple solution that really didn’t solve the problem.
“I love you.”
“Me, too.”
I ended the call and stared at the screen shot of Scott and me at the vineyard for a long time. In the picture, I held on to him so tight, fearing the day would come when I would lose him
My phone buzzed with a new call and Margaret’s name appeared on the display. “Hey.”
“Friday night. Playdate.” She stretched out the last word as if singing a song.
The heaviness in my chest eased. “How can you have a playdate? You don’t have children.”
“But my sisters do, and they share.”
“I’m picturing sippy cups with wine.”
“Not a bad idea. Still game for making a witch bottle?”
“Yes.” Wine, or better, a beer. “When?”
“A half hour.”
I glanced at the stack of papers and the baby. She was sleeping but would soon wake. We visited the pediatrician today, and the doctor gave Carrie a clean bill of health and a couple of shots. She was not happy about the shots then or most of the day, but she finally fell asleep. “I’m in. What do I bring?”
“Anything small you want to put in your bottle.”
“Have you x-rayed the bottles?”
“I have. I have some tidbits to share.”
“This will be fun. See you soon.”
I hung up and spent the next half hour searching for jars. Spices in the cabinet smelled stale—at least a decade old—so I dumped out most and rinsed out the jars. I couldn’t find nails or pins. One random safety pin. Paper clips and a thumbtack.
I loaded Carrie in the front pack, grabbed a six-pack of beer from the refrigerator, and we headed downstairs. I moved along the long table of goods we collected from the Prince Street house and found a box full of old buttons that ranged from green plastic to tarnished brass. I grabbed a handful of buttons and loaded them in my pocket. A few feet farther on, I discovered a tin filled with keys. I grabbed a handful and we headed out, down King Street and around the corner to Union.
The evening air was warm and filled with humidity that promised rain later tonight. Would the rain clouds reach the vineyard? Funny, working with salvage crews, rain was our enemy. It added risk and delays to often complicated jobs.
The sign on the Union Street Bakery’s front door said Closed. I knocked as I swayed back and forth, my hand cupped under the baby’s bottom. Margaret pushed through a set of swinging doors and waved as she moved toward the door and unlocked it. “Hey, you made it.”
“Witches night out.”
She laughed. “Both my sisters are thrilled. They’re in the kitchen arranging all the stuff.”
Margaret took the beers from me, and I followed her across the lemon yellow lobby and past the empty display case. We pushed through the swinging doors and found Daisy and Rachel sitting at a long folding table. At one end sat two little girls who were about seven. Next to them, in a high chair, was a baby boy with jet-black hair. The boy wasn’t more than seven or eight months, and at this moment was more interested in the Cheerios on his tray than anyone else. The girls clearly belonged to Rachel and the boy to Daisy.
Rachel was much as I remembered—short and perky with peaches-and-cream complexion. She was always pretty. A delicate version of Margaret.
Daisy tickled the baby boy under his chin as he laughed. Rising, her gaze swept over the baby sling as she crossed to me, her long legs eating up the distance. A smile warmed her face. “How has the week been going? You look a little rough.”
“It’s been long. I didn’t think time could stop so completely or that I could be so tired. I’ve fallen asleep at the computer a couple of times.”
Daisy laughed. “The first weeks with a baby are rough. It’ll get better.”
The first weeks. I likely wouldn’t have more than the first few weeks with Carrie. She wasn’t mine, and it was only a matter of time before Janet got out of the hospital. Like it or not, she called the shots, not me.
Daisy must have read the worries in my expression because her smile faded a fraction, remembering that Carrie would soon leave. I wasn’t pretending that Janet would get her act together, but she had legal rights.
Rachel stood, her smile bright and natural. She never faked happiness or forced her good nature. She was happy. Sunshine. “Addie. Don’t listen to Daisy. You look amazing!”
I smoothed a hand over my unwashed hair, pulled in a tight ponytail. “Thanks. I feel like a train wreck.”
Rachel laughed. “Daisy is right, it’ll pass.”
I dropped my gaze to the baby, suddenly not wanting our time to pass. “Good to know.”
“Can I hold the baby?” Rachel asked, unmindful of the swirl of dark emotions. “I’m a sucker for a newborn.”
I found myself hesitating for a split second. Was I actually worried about giving her up? Nonsense. But, of course, I gave her to Rachel. She was a good woman. A good mother who offered a much-needed break. And better to get used to the idea of giving Carrie away, because that was what I wanted, right? “Sure.”
As I pulled Carrie out of the sling, she grunted and opened her eyes. Awake and alert, her little eyes widened as she stared at me.
Is this the moment you really give me away?
No, baby. Not today.
I put her carefully in Rachel’s arms. She settled, knowi
ng she was born to lie in the arms of a woman like Rachel, a woman who welcomed motherhood.
Rachel cooed as she carried the baby toward the table and her little girls. “Carrie, these are my girls, Anna and Ellie. Seven years old and heading to the second grade in a matter of months.” She glanced at the baby, nuzzling her nose close to Carrie’s soft, milky skin. “Seems like yesterday that my girls were this tiny.”
“Walker was never that small,” Daisy said. “Birthing that boy was like passing a watermelon.”
I laughed, feeling a little awkward because I didn’t have a pregnancy or birth story. I hadn’t carried Carrie in my belly nor given her life.
As if sensing this, Margaret rested her hand on my shoulder. “So let’s open a couple of beers and start making magic.”
Daisy laughed. “Thank God my husband is on a bike trip. Gordon would laugh if he saw me dancing under the full moon reciting spells and making . . . a what? What are we making, Margaret?”
“A witch bottle. Ours is a white magic spell. We’re not warding off evil spirits as our ancestors might have done. We’re calling on good wishes.”
Daisy picked up a handful of dried rose petals on the table and let them fall from her fingers back into the bowl. The table was full of small bowls filled with spices, flower petals, shiny rocks, crystals, and things I didn’t recognize.
“Boy, Margaret, you really went to town on the ingredients.”
“I’ve been watching YouTube for days, trying to see what the modern witch bottle is all about. In the old days, and even today, all kinds of personal items fill the small bottle. Next, the larger bottle is filled with liquid and then the little bottle is dropped inside before it’s all sealed.”
“What kind of liquid?” I asked.
“Water, wine, sometimes blood or urine.”
The twins giggled. “That is nasty,” they said together.
“I’m with the little people. I’m not peeing in a bottle,” Daisy said as she handed her son a cracker.
“We don’t have to use urine,” Margaret said. She opened a beer and took a long sip. “Like I said, we can use water or wine. Or we can forgo the second bottle altogether and just use one. Totally up to the maker. “
At the Corner of King Street Page 26