More Than Magic (Books of the Kindling)

by Donna June Cooper

  “So, is the estate settled then?”

  “For the most part. But we had problems—”

  “You told me, with product quality. But you said you had fixed that.”

  “On our way to fixing it.”

  “But even so, let’s say it’s fixed. Done. What’s holding you here? You could get a good business manager to run the business, someone who’s herb-savvy.”

  “Woodruff Herbs has always had a Woodruff working with the plants, and always will. A business manager wouldn’t understand what we’re trying to do here, or the special environment of this mountain, or the history—”

  “I hate to say this, but from where I’m sitting, ‘we’ looks like just ‘you’.”

  He was right. Lately, Daniel had been flitting in and out of here like one of his bees. And Thea… Well, Thea had her own reasons for not setting foot on the mountain for a while. There weren’t an abundance of Woodruffs around at the moment, except in the cemetery. “Thanks for reminding me.”

  “Sorry. It’s not that you can’t do it. Hell, I know you can. I’ve watched you for the past two days. You’re like a walking advertisement for your own product. I get tired just watching you.”

  She thought about pointing out that he hadn’t exactly been the poster boy for robust health, but decided against it.

  “I’m not talking about being able to do it. I’m talking about wanting to,” he continued.

  “Of course I want to do it. I love this place. It was the beginning of my dreams, creating better and stronger herbs, to understand their effects better, to find new applications—”

  “Like the work you were doing down at the University.”

  “Yes. The herbs we already know about, the ones we’ve allowed to be harvested to near extinction in the wild or destroyed by thoughtless development, have countless potential applications. Ginseng’s a good example. The ugliest looking root you’ve ever seen, forced to scrabble in the rocks for nutrients for years, is the most potent. We’ve only scratched the surface in understanding what these plants can do, much less how they do it. Not to mention the prejudice against herbal medicine. It’s so much ‘better’ to create something in a glass tube in a lab—”

  Nick was grinning, and Grace realized she had been preaching. Again. What was it about Nick Crowe that made her jabber on like Jamie?

  “Sorry. I get—”

  “A bit passionate about your work?” Nick interrupted. “I can see that. And I can see I was wrong.”

  “About what?”

  “I didn’t hear anything about the Amazon in that impassioned speech. Unless ginseng grows in the Amazon. I think you’re right where you want to be.”

  Grace was ready to protest, then stopped. She grimaced at him and he gave her a look that could only be described as smug.

  “And here we are,” Nick said.

  They had emerged from the thick woods into the hollow. The blacktop mountain road ended right in front of the old Woodruff home place, which sat slightly up the slope of the ridge at the other end of the hollow. It was a Victorian farmhouse with two chimneys and a porch that wrapped around one side. Boyd’s eyesore of a trailer, with the skirting bent up in places and the walls showing rust stains, sat in the lowest part of the hollow like it was waiting to die. The whole area was barren and dusty, with all the trees cut down long ago and no garden or plants of any kind—just weeds and dirt. The house had fared a little better, but hadn’t been painted in a long while and the intricate gable trim had rotted long ago.

  But there was a new addition. A bright red pre-fab barn, serving as garage and storage building, was positioned off to the right of the house.

  “Well. That’s new.” Grace pointed to the barn. “I hope Annie hasn’t gone and spent her savings again. The boys are always taking advantage of her.”

  Nick pulled the SUV up in front of the house, inspecting the barn with a frown.

  It was quiet. The Taggarts’ hunting dogs weren’t making their usual racket.

  “Someone must have the dogs out hunting. They’re the reason I left Pooka back at the house. He doesn’t get along with their pack and they’ve broken their chains before trying to get at him.”

  “I imagine old Pooka could hold his own.”

  “He’s older than he looks and I’d rather not find out,” Grace responded. “I hope it doesn’t ruin your plans if we get in and out of here as quickly as possible.”

  “I understand. We need to hunker down for the big snow. Don’t worry. This is just an introduction. I can always hike back over here and get more of an interview if I need it,” Nick replied.

  “Thanks. And I apologize for Boyd in advance. There’s no excuse for him and he’s been absolutely horrid since I can remember.”

  Nick grinned. “Thanks for the warning. Boyd. Asshole. Got it. I’ll get your backpack.” He climbed out and went around to the back.

  Grace got out and opened the back door to retrieve the box of food for Annie. When she turned around, Boyd Taggart was already swaggering down the steps, followed by Mitch.

  “Well, well. Look here. I was wondering who had this big new SUV, and it’s Princess Grace, come to visit us hillybillies,” Boyd said. “You know that stupid cell tower of yours ain’t workin’ today, right? Memaw’s all bent ’cause she can’t watch her programs.”

  “Good morning, Boyd. Mitch,” Grace said. “Yes, I know about the tower. I’ll get it fixed as soon as I can.”

  “And she’s still all polite and everything, like always. And charitable too. She’s brung vittles for us poor starving folk, Mitch. Lookit.” He made a grab at the box, but Grace pulled it out of his reach, pushing the car door shut behind her. Boyd was really cranking up his obnoxious quotient today.

  Mitch was still standing on the last step, clearing his throat.

  “Try not to be your usual agreeable self today, Boyd. You’ll give my guest a bad impression of Taggart hospitality,” Grace said, smiling at Nick who had appeared from the back of the SUV. She hadn’t realized that Nick was quite so tall until he walked up behind Boyd Taggart.

  Nick’s demeanor changed when she met his gaze over Boyd’s head. He reminded her of those rugged heroes pictured on the covers of romance novels.

  “Nick Crowe,” Nick said as Boyd spun around. He held out his hand. “Glad to meet you.”

  In a blink the hero was gone and the simple writer had returned. That was—odd. “Nick, this is Boyd and Mitch Taggart.”

  Boyd took a step backward and spat in the grass. “Memaw didn’t say you was bringing somebody with you.”

  “Sorry to surprise you. Mr. Crowe is an author writing a book about mountain people like us whose families have lived here for generations. He’d especially like to interview your grandmother, and perhaps you, if you think you can manage a few questions.”

  Nick’s mouth quirked, but Grace managed to keep a straight face. Well, she couldn’t exactly tell them the whole truth, could she?

  “Oh.” Boyd nodded knowingly. “You’re that writer fella Evan told us was nosing around down at the Tavern the other night. Asking all these questions about our Princess here.”

  Grace knew Boyd was trying to rile her, so she smiled sweetly. “As I said, he’s gathering information for his book.” She looked over at Mitch, who was watching Nick nervously. “Where’re your dogs?”

  “Evan’s got ’em. He—” Mitch began in his high, whiny voice.

  “Borrows ’em from us on the weekends to go huntin’,” Boyd broke in, grinning. “Getting meat for the winter. He shares what he brings down with us. We’re expecting a nice bearskin rug for in front of the fire tonight.”

  Evan Veatch was one of their dad’s old army buddies who had retreated up into the hills after he came back from Vietnam. A disturbed and grizzled loner who personified some of the stereotypes about mountain men. Nick would love him for his book. Grace shook her head and started toward the steps.

  “You don’t believe me? And me getting that bearskin
rug just for you and me to enjoy,” Boyd backed up the steps in front of her. He never gave up.

  “I thought you said Evan was getting it,” Grace said. “You and him can enjoy it.”

  Nick snorted, then moved ahead of her. “Let me get the door, Grace.” He took the steps two at a time to reach the door before Boyd could even shut his mouth. Grace sailed through, smiling.

  “Princess Grace” seemed an appropriate nickname, however derogatory it was intended to be. Grace seemed like royalty amongst the rabble as she walked through the Taggart’s front door, her head held high. But the rabble really worried Nick. There was anger and resentment in every bone of Boyd Taggart’s body.

  And Nick’s scum radar was going off like a car alarm—had been since they drove into the clearing. It had gotten worse when Boyd Taggart mentioned that his friend Evan had been at the Tavern. Only the reassuring weight of his gun under his arm kept him smiling back at Boyd’s smirk instead of slamming him into the wall headfirst for a quick pat-down.

  He blinked to adjust his eyes to the dim interior of the house. It wasn’t quite what he had expected either—a huge old Victorian with a three story turret right over the stairway and all that gingerbread-looking trim on the outside. It was a bit the worse for wear, needing some paint and repair, and it smelled like an old house, underneath another pungent smell—

  Grace called out. “Annie, it’s Grace. May we come in?”

  “Memaw, Princess Grace’s here with somebody!” Boyd yelled, as if Grace hadn’t done it right.

  “Come on back,” came the feeble-sounding response. “I’m having a bad time with the rheumatiz today. Must be that storm that’s a comin’.”

  They negotiated their way past the staircase, and Nick glanced into the various rooms as they went: a formal living room with a fireplace that was probably the old parlor, a bedroom that had clearly been a dining room in a prior life, a bathroom—

  Boyd reached around and jerked the bathroom door shut nearly in his face.

  “You expect an outhouse or somethin’?”

  Nick smiled at him. “Is there one?”

  Grace frowned. Nick tried to look innocent. Probably failed. He couldn’t help it if every instinct told him to push Boyd Taggart’s face into the toilet, could he? As if he were some horny teenager hitting on his—

  Damn. He hoped Grace wasn’t throwing off his radar. Surely he could separate some competition for Grace’s attention from real malicious intent? If you could call this lout competition.

  He tried to avoid thinking about Grace and focus on his surroundings. The house was warm, as you would expect with an elderly occupant. But the house was also neat as a pin, and he couldn’t see the two “boys” he had met doing any housework. Even his Nan had started missing dust here and there. She just couldn’t see it the way she used to. But, despite the need for paint, this place looked like someone took a feather duster to it pretty regularly. And lemon-scented furniture polish. That was the smell.

  They came into a large room that must have been a back parlor in the old days. Another fireplace, now containing a space heater cranked up to full blast, was positioned on the back wall. The bedroom that had once been a dining room must be Annie’s since, from the look of her, she couldn’t get upstairs to save her life. What appeared to be a large country-style kitchen with fairly new appliances opened off the rear of the room.

  “Pardon my sittin’.” It was a tiny, breathy voice coming from a skinny, white-haired woman wearing bright pink sweats and sitting in a chair that was a bit too big for her. As she spoke she used a hand control to bring the chair into a more upright position. “If’n Miss Grace hadn’t helped me get this chair, I wouldn’t be able to get up a’tall.”

  “Don’t bother getting up, ma’am,” Nick said.

  “Annie, this is Nick. Nick Crowe. The man I told you about on the phone last night?”

  “Yes. And such a nice manner he has too.” She leaned over to look behind them. “Boyd, go fix Miss Grace and Mr. Crowe some coffee.”

  Grace waved her hand. “No need. We can’t stay too long because of the storm, but I wanted to bring you these—fresh eggs, lettuce, and tomatoes, plus some herbs and some more of those drops I put together for you—”

  “Boyd, get that box. What kind of dilatory do-nothin’ are you, anyways?” For a moment, the pitiful small voice was gone.

  Grace was right. Old Annie was definitely the matriarchal type.

  “She wouldn’t give it to me outside,” Boyd complained as he slunk over to get the box that Grace had set on a chair.

  Normally Nick would’ve found the family dynamic interesting, but it was apparent that Boyd really resented Grace. And he looked to be the type who might follow up on it. Nick found himself wondering why he hadn’t tried before now and why hadn’t Grace noticed?

  “Put it in the kitchen. And get some of that blueberry jam I made up from them berries she brung over last time.”

  “Oh Annie, you shouldn’t! As hard as it is for you to get around.”

  “Ne’er you mind Miss Grace. I’ll cook till the day they bury me up next to my Will. And you’ll like this jam. I put some of my berry wine in it.”

  “Sounds scrumptious.”

  Grace walked toward Nick with her hands out and for a brief pleasant moment, he wasn’t quite sure exactly what she had in mind. She made motions with her fingers and Nick realized she was asking for the backpack.

  “So, who’s this gentleman caller you’ve brung to see Old Annie?” she asked, her quavering voice returning.

  Grace, who was pulling her medical equipment out of her backpack, gave him a “you’re on” look.

  Nick walked over to the chair and motioned to an ottoman. “May I?”

  “Make yerself at home.”

  “Thank you.” He sat. Now that he was at eye level, he could see that Annie Taggart might have white hair, but she wasn’t as feeble as she put on. Her back was stooped over from arthritis and her skin was mottled with age, but she was bright-eyed and alert—watching him as if he were a predator and she were some mother bird worried about her chicks. Or perhaps—

  “Well, state your piece.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Annie made a show of shivering all over and then cackling at her own joke. “Oooh, I really do like his voice, Miss Grace.”

  “Yes, so do I,” Grace responded.

  Nick looked back at her to see if she was being sarcastic and saw her blush.

  “As Grace told you, I’m writing a book.”

  “You written anything I might know of? I read a lot.”

  “He probably thinks we can’t read,” Boyd said, walking back in with a jar of jam.

  “Now, Boyd. Get another jar of that. Miss Grace give us the berries fer it. She deserves at least two.”

  Boyd grimaced and spun on his heel, stalking back to the kitchen.

  “Go on,” Annie said sweetly.

  “About people like you, and your grandsons, and how you’ve managed to make a good life up here in these mountains—”

  Annie snorted. “The only people think the way we live is good is them as come up here for a coupla weeks then skedaddle back to the city real quick.”

  “Well, that’s exactly what I’d like to speak to you about. You appear to have done a great job with your grandsons—I assume you’ve raised them alone?”

  “Their mother was no count. And my son—bless ’im—was ne’er the same after that nasty war. The VA wouldn’t help and he just shriveled up like over-ripe fruit. So I was left with ’em.” Annie nodded. “Did my best.”

  “I can see that,” he said. “Well, I’d like to talk to you about your son and what happened to him. How you coped and managed financially to raise three boys. And how they contribute now that they’re grown.”

  “So, this book. You gonna pay us for talking at ya?”

  Grace mouthed “sharp as a tack” over Annie’s shoulder while she pulled on those purple gloves.

  �
�Can we keep talking while you do that?” he asked.

  “I’ll let Annie know if she needs to stop talking so we can get a good reading. Go ahead,” Grace said.

  “Well, this is a fiction book,” Nick admitted. “So all the people who help me would end up in the acknowledgements.”

  “So, you make money, and we get thanked.”

  “Yeah, well, when you put it that way,” Nick conceded.

  Annie cackled again. “And he’s funny too.”

  Grace gave that wonderful laugh of hers. “Not intentionally.” She smirked at him over Annie’s head. And damn if his heart didn’t speed up.

  “So, what’s the point of this book? Our lives ain’t very excitin’.”

  “Well, actually, I’m trying to show how some families cope with hard times by doing hard work and some resist hard work and end up doing hard time.”

  Grace nodded. “That was quite good. You should use that on the dust jacket,” she said.

  But Annie was frowning.

  “Are you talking about prison? ’Cause none of my boys ever gone to prison fer nothin’.” She emphasized the words with her hands, carrying Grace’s hands with her as she tried to adjust the blood pressure cuff. “They been in the lock-up for little stupid things. Things boys do. But no prison.”

  “Well, yes. And that is my point. How have you kept your boys from ending up there like so many do?” Nick noticed that Grace was frowning now. She was probably worried about where he was going with this. “Abusing alcohol, or smoking pot, or maybe abusing prescriptions like hydrocodone—”

  “My boys know better’n to use that evil dope. I’ve seen what it does to people on my programs,” Annie said loudly. “Rots yer teeth right in yer head, eats your skin right off. Kills ya eventual.”

  Nick frowned. Hydrocodone didn’t do that, but meth did.

  “Okay, we need to keep it calm for a minute,” Grace said, pressing the button on her blood pressure meter.

  Nick rubbed at his temple. Damn headache was back. From the expression on Grace’s face, the reading wasn’t going to be good. She looked worried.

  Annie, on the other hand, just looked mad. She glared at him, then glared over his shoulder. When he looked, Boyd was slouched in the doorway, looking sullen, with Mitch right behind him, still white around the gills.