by K. G. McAbee
She picked up the house phone and gave Brent the information to pass on to Ray.
"Them?" I asked.
"Your cousin Kinsey is with him. Their plane arrives at eleven. You'd better go get dressed now."
I looked down at my jeans and tee. "I am dressed," I said, and if I'd had hackles, or knew what they were, they would have risen. "What's wrong with what I've got on?"
Even to myself, I sounded like the twins on one of their bad days, which would be, like, every day, come to think of it.
"Don't be difficult, dear, not today. I can't stand it, not from you."
Well, of course, her tone deflated my case of hackles at once.
"Okay, what do you want me to put on? And Grand, please don't say a suit."
"No, honey," she said, and I was glad to see what could almost be called a smile on her face—a little one, sure, but still. I was glad for what I could get. "A nice shirt and some slacks, please. For me?"
It wasn't for her, I knew. It was for Uncle Clay, who I was beginning to dislike, but not for any reason I could put a finger on.
I was also beginning to suspect Grand didn't like her second-born son very much either.
I stomped upstairs, yanked off my jeans and tee, and put on a blue shirt and khakis. I decided my black sneakers would stay, but I did run a comb through my hair. That's usually useless, what with the cowlicks and all, but again, it would have to do.
I heard the limo leaving as I pulled my door closed behind me.
***
Grand had been after the twins too. They were both in dresses, Jos in pale pink, Jax a darker shade, rose or something. We were all four seated in what Grand insisted on calling the parlor—she'd gotten all Scarlett O'Hara on us. I decided it must have something to do with her being back in the south again. Of all the places we've lived since, well, since I could remember, none of them had been in any of the southern states.
And as soon as we moved to one, Dad—no. Don't go there.
So. We all sat like we were in a dentist's waiting room, careful not to catch each other's eye. The impression was so strong I expected to see a stack of outdated magazines piled on the table behind the sofa.
Once or twice, I caught myself looking out the big bay window—not to check if my uncle and cousin had arrived, but afraid—or was I hoping?—to see that translucent image of Anya.
Jordan and his pack had called her a witch. Crazy talk.
Or was it? I would have thought so yesterday—heck, I had thought so yesterday—but after last night and this morning, I wasn't so sure anymore.
Witches in the twenty-first century? Pointy hats and broomsticks versus the Internet and virtual reality? No way.
Then I remembered an image from one of my dreams: the doll with red hair almost covered by a pointy black hat.
"There's the car," Grand said.
I jumped about three feet and tried to cover it up by breaking into a fit of coughing.
"You all right, honey?" Grand Scarlett asked.
"Yes, ma'am. All these flowers, I guess."
And she couldn't argue with me there. The whole house had morphed into a flower shop and more kept arriving. What with the flowers and the casseroles, we'd probably all have to sleep in the garage. Luckily, it was huge. And it seemed like the best place for Uncle Clay.
The doorbell rang. We heard Sally, one of our maids, opening the front door; she must have been out in the big hallway dusting or whatever.
A deep voice asked, "Where's Mrs. Hopkins?" in a slow but abrupt tone; as if he was ordering a hamburger in a drive-through and didn't have much time or much trust in the intellect of the check-out girl.
Sally murmured something and we heard people coming toward the parlor; sounded like a dozen at least. The door opened.
My dad stood there.
My heart stopped for an instant and this horrible hope filled me up like I was an empty vessel pumped full to overflowing with bitter salt water.
Because I knew it wasn't my dad at all.
Esmund Clayborne Hopkins was tall, and he had blonde hair and dark blue eyes like my dad. In the shadowy doorway, he had looked exactly like my dad for a single, horrible heartbeat, then, awful hope was gone and he became himself.
Uncle Clay strode into the middle of the room like he owned the house, the town and the state, had a down payment on the rest of the country and was negotiating for the world. Behind him came a lean dark guy, almost as tall as he was, who looked about my age.
"Mother," Uncle Clay said with a brief nod. "And this must be Thomas. How do you do."
He held out a hand and I looked at it for a moment like I'd never seen one. I'd certainly never seen one like Uncle Clay's. He had the longest fingers I'd ever seen, and the forefinger was just as long as the middle finger. He wore gaudy silver rings on both of them.
I stood up and shook his hand. It was cold—odd for this time of year—and a little damp.
"And this is Kinsey. Kin, speak to your grandmother and cousins."
I almost expected Kin to bark, but he gave a general "Hello" to all of us. He didn't offer to shake hands or anything.
Uncle Clay sat down in the biggest chair in the room and stuck his long legs out in front of him. He was dressed in a suit, expensive looking; Italian, I was pretty sure. Kinsey, on the other hand, was in leather pants and a pale grey shirt.
"How was your trip, Clay?" Grand asked in her polite tone of voice I knew meant I don't really give a damn, I'm just being polite.
I looked at her in mounting surprise. I was sure, now, not only didn't she like her second-born son, she actively disliked him.
"Fine," Clay barked.
"You're looking well, Kinsey. How's school?" Grand continued.
Kin said "Fine" in a voice almost as deep as his dad's but didn't even look at Grand. He was examining Jos and Jax like he'd never seen little girls before and was wondering what they were doing there.
"I don't believe you two have met the twins, have you?" Grand said. "Girls, this is your Uncle Clay and Cousin Kinsey. Joselyn Clarista is on the right and Jacqueline Cordelia on the left, Clay."
"Girls," Uncle Clay said, then said, "I think the children should be sent from the room, Mother, don't you?"
"We're not children; we're almost twelve," Jax said in that huffy tone foretelling trouble.
"And you have horrible manners," Jos said. "And you smell," she added thoughtfully.
He did smell, like expensive cigars and old port. I suspected Uncle Clay was a drinker, now that I could see him in the light. His cheeks were flushed and there were thready red veins all over his nose and pouches under his eyes. He didn't look at all like my dad now.
I was glad of it.
"Bad manners, Mother. I thought more of you than that. But after all, they're just girls. Hopefully Thomas has been better brought up."
I jumped up and stood in front of him.
"I don't like your tone, Uncle Clay. This is our—this is my house, and I expect you to treat my sisters and my grandmother with consideration and respect."
Kin, who was standing behind Clay's chair, gave me a look like I'd just shrunk to three feet in as many seconds.
Clay's long-fingered hands bunched up into fists for a second, then I could see him carefully relax them.
"I apologize, Thomas. I'm...I'm grieving too, and I'm afraid I forgot myself for a moment. Forgive me, will you, son?" He held out a hand in a lazy kind of way, like he was offering a dog a bone.
"I'm not your son," I said and turned to leave the room. I was almost at the door when...
"Tommy."
Grand sounded sad. I couldn't help but turn.
I hadn't heard her get up, but she was standing in front of Clay, glaring down at him. She glanced up and beckoned me to her side. Of course, I had to go.
She took my arm and held it tight; I could feel her hand trembling in anger.
"Clayborne Hopkins, you will mind your manners in this house, do you hear me?"
&n
bsp; Clay rose lazily to his feet. "Yes, Mother. I will." He grinned.
I did not like him.
***
Lunch was the most uncomfortable meal I think I've ever had to suffer through. Uncle Clay tried to take the head of the table, but Grand glared at him and pushed me toward it instead. Clay just grinned a lazy grin and took another seat. The twins had their usual chairs, with Grand opposite Jos and Kin opposite Jax.
Kin gobbled his food like he hadn't eaten all day, while Clay was—as I'd suspected—mostly on a liquid diet. Both of them treated the maids and Brent like servants, which I suppose they technically were, but we'd all been together so long they were all like family to us.
I was not looking forward to the rest of this visit. I excused myself as soon as I'd finished dessert and told Grand, "I've got something to do in my room."
"Thomas," Clay began, but I interrupted him.
"My name is Tommy."
"Tommy, then. I have a lot of very important things to discuss with you. When," his tone got sarcastic, "may I have the pleasure of your company?"
I looked at him, lolling in the chair like he owned it.
"How about five o'clock? That'll give us a couple of hours before dinner to discuss what we need to discuss."
"I'm afraid that won't be long enough, Thom—Tommy, not long enough at all."
Clay poured himself something brown from a squat bottle he'd ordered—not asked—Sally to bring from his room. He chugged it down like it was water.
"I can see you've not been told much about the business. Spenser was sorely lacking in a lot of ways, but—"
"I'll ask you to not discuss my father in that way, please." I could hardly say the words; red anger almost choked me.
"Sorry," he chuckled. Then he got kind of somber and continued, "Really, I am sorry, Tommy. Remember, I lost my older brother. It's not easy."
I didn't believe him. I was starting to get the feeling Clay wasn't just not sorry, but actually glad my dad was dead, and maybe even delighted.
I wasn't looking forward to talking to him later, but if it got him out of the house sooner, then it would be worth it.
"All right," I said. "Grand, I'll be in my room if you need me."
I left the dining room before she could say anything. I stalked across the hallway toward the stairs. The long table against the wall beside the front door was almost covered with letters and notes of condolence. I'd leafed through the pile earlier then raked them into a bin and taken it up to Grand's room. Now a new pile was there, bigger than the first one.
The ones I'd read all said something along the lines of 'Sorry for your loss'.
They had no idea.
***
My room was starting to feel like a refuge. I didn't know where Grand had put Clay and Kinsey, and didn't really want to. Then I wondered if she'd put them in Dad's room and I started to go find out.
But I knew Grand better than that. Dad's private, personal stuff was safe from the other Hopkins.
I hadn't been in my room long when there was a soft knock at the door. I ignored it, then a soft voice I knew said:
"Mr. Tommy?"
Ray Lecroy, our chauffeur. I went to the door and opened it a crack.
I didn't know Ray as well as the rest of our servants. He'd only been with us a couple of months. He was a stocky, compact guy with big hands, black shiny hair and a short beard. He had on his uniform and I wondered why, then remembered he'd gone to pick up Clay and Kinsey at the airport.
"Mr. Tommy," he said again, real slow, and he had a strange look in his eyes, almost like he was sleepwalking.
"What's up, Ray?" I asked as I opened the door wider. "Want to come in?"
"No, sir." He shook his head slowly back and forth. "No, sir. I just needed to give you this."
He looked around like he was worried someone was listening, then held out a pale yellow envelope to me between two fingers like he was afraid it was going to bite him. Or me.
I took it and—the weirdest thing—as soon as it left his fingers, he blinked and shook his head and all at once, he was the old Ray again, his eyes bright and a little confused-looking.
"Hey there, Tommy," he said. "Good to see you." Then he turned and went toward the stairs to the upper floor where the servants' bedrooms were.
I looked down at the yellow envelope. My name was on it—Tommy Hopkins—in a handwriting I didn't recognize. I shut the door and carried it over to the window seat, sat down, then opened it.
Tommy —
I don't know what I'm doing, or why I am doing this. I'm sure you've got more things on your mind than what happened yesterday when we met. But I can't forgive my rude behavior to you after you stepped in. I'm used to being the damsel in distress, but more like the one who is tied to the train tracks and never rescued.
So with these words you have my thanks. You will never know how much.
Sincerely,
Anya
P.S.- Please accept my condolences for your terrible loss.
Anya.
I'd been waiting on something all day, without even knowing it, and this was what I'd been waiting for. I read it again, and then again.
A sense of peace fell on me for the first time since that horrible phone call. I tucked the little yellow sheet of paper back into the envelope and started to put it on my bedside table.
But something made me stop.
I looked around the room for a place to hide it. I didn't know why I didn't want anyone else to see it, but I didn't.
Finally I loosed the inside cover of my trig book and slid it inside, then taped the cover back down and put the book on the bottom of my pile of school books.
I still didn't know why I was being all Jason Bourne about this letter. But I knew I had to be careful.
Just in case.
Chapter Seven
Anya
The sun was brilliant, blinding me as I pulled the stems free from the pile to my right. I grouped the bouquet of freesia together and secured it with twine. The work was a fair exchange for Evie's promise not to tell Ivy I was playing hooky, so I did my chore without complaint.
There was no way I was going to school so soon after what happened yesterday. Principal Fisher was going to have to find somebody else to clean up that mess if he wanted it done so badly.
Maybe the work itself was the reason for my splendid mood as I hummed along to a song I didn't know the words to. Or perhaps it was the fact I was basking in the sun. Whatever the reason, the clouds which had often marred my happiness were gone. I felt better than I had in ages.
I knotted the twine tight against the stems and wrapped the bundle in waxed paper for storage during the winter. This was a task Evie hated more than anything, since it represented the end of her precious flowers for a season. These were on their way to being dried, chopped, and put in marked Mason jars when I got finished separating them. But I was enjoying the sun too much, moving too slowly. I was sure I would be doing this same thing tomorrow.
It had to be done. Stores for witch supplies existed only online to us Southerners, so we grew our own herbs. Everything else was bought from the few stores Ivy and Evie trusted on the Internet, ones run by 'true' witches instead of the dabblers who had sprung up in recent years. These were the same stores Evie sold her excess herbs to if Ivy's paycheck didn't cover our expenses. More often than not, Evie was selling more than saving.
I labeled the bundle and tossed it on top of the others in the awaiting basket. Then I heard that voice sing in my ear.
He's coming.
A light fluttering played in the base of my stomach as I gathered up another bundle. Lavender this time.
Thanks for the warning. But he's not coming.
I chuckled as I tied the flowers up. I hadn't heard from Tommy since Monday. Now, it was Friday and his lack of response to my letter had brought me down to earth.
Wednesday had been agony. I was sure the uniformed man I had charmed would come to his senses and tell eve
ryone he knew I had put a spell on him. Silence followed on Thursday, and when I awoke this morning, I knew I was safe.
I came to the only conclusion that made any sense. Magic just wasn't in my system like it was in Ivy and Evie. Maybe it decided to skip the more tech-ridden member of the family for someone with something special to offer. Someone more willing to believe.
No, my imagination had simply taken hold of my common sense and thrown it out the window. Completely understandable after my encounter with Jordan. I must have gone into some kinda victim regression or something.
But by recognizing my own insanity, I felt I could stop it. I had stopped it.
The purr of an engine broke through the tranquil morning. My shock was instantaneous as I looked up to see the green sports car pulling to a stop in the drive.
Told you so.
The voice was smug as I recovered my senses, dropping the bundle on the small table set up for my work to brush my hands off on my jeans. The light flannel shirt I wore was straight, so I turned my focus on pulling out the stray leaves and petals had worked their way up into my ponytail. The last thought I had time for was a brief worry my time out in the sun had started to toast my skin with sunburn, but I couldn't feel anything.
Not that I had time to worry about it now anyway.
Tommy's lean frame unfolded from the car and he stood there for a moment to watch me. I walked up the small gate granting entry to the gardens to let him in. I felt the smile on my face unmistakably brighten as he began his approach. The pull toward him was automatic, stronger than ever, and I was silent in my thanks to the Goddess for granting my wish.
A wish I didn't even know I'd made. One to see him again.
"Hey there!" The Southern drawl in my voice reminded me of the charm I had put on the Hopkins' servant. This time it felt natural instead of forced. I leaned over to unlatch the gate and swing it open.
I knew the strength to be so friendly wasn't my own. The magic I'd dismissed as nothing more than fantasy was at work again. But I also knew I didn't care. Tommy was here. Nothing else seemed to matter.