Thankfully, they’re all back where they belong now, with the exception of former Briar Hollow Mayor, Howard McAlpin, who has assumed a new office. He’s the ghost in residence at the courthouse directly across the street from my shop.
With all those ghosts wandering around town and becoming frustrated enough to manifest in the real world, Briar Hollow has picked up a reputation as a paranormal tourist destination.
My best dead friend from the cemetery, Confederate Colonel Beauregard T. Longworth, has taken it upon himself to keep the resulting economic boost going. Two or three times a week he briefly materializes at the base of the Confederate monument.
Beau has turned out to be quite the actor. He strikes a melancholy military pose, gazing sadly up at the gray granite soldier erected to commemorate the deaths of local boys in what Beau refers to as the “Late Unpleasantness.”
The ghost hunters who snap Beau’s picture don’t know his sadness is real. He was a cavalry colonel whose men were killed a few miles outside of town when Beau failed to order proper reconnaissance of the area. He blames himself for their deaths, which is why he still walks the earth.
The one benefit of having raised all the cemetery ghosts is that I did manage to free my spirit friends from their entrapment inside the graveyard walls. I had expected the ghosts to move on to whatever is “next,” but they’re all still here, including a spectral coonhound named Duke.
Putting the other ghosts back in their plots involved some benign grave robbing and even a close encounter of the mountain lion kind, but once things calmed down and returned to normal -- that being a setting on the dryer -- I was determined to just enjoy the rest of the summer.
That meant making a success of the espresso bar (which the locals, to Tori’s annoyance, persist in calling a “coffee shop,”) and spending quality time with my handsome next-door neighbor / boyfriend, Chase McGregor.
Unfortunately, all the unanswered questions about our heritage wouldn’t leave Tori or me alone, so we decided we had no other choice but to confront our mothers.
Ever see a game show called Let’s Make a Deal? That phone call to my mom opened the infamous Door #3.
For the game show uninitiated, Door #3 almost never reveals the cool stuff. Unlucky contestants who pick Door #3 typically walked off with a lifetime supply of chicken noodle soup, while the guy who goes with Door #2 kicks back in his brand new convertible.
You’re not going to believe what was behind my Door #3.
2
The day we spoke on the phone, mom surprised me. She immediately said Tori and I should come over to neighboring Cotterville to discuss what we’d learned.
“I’ll call Gemma,” Mom said. “We’ll all sit down and talk.”
“Gemma knows about you?” I asked.
“Of course she does,” Mom said, “she’s my best friend.”
I couldn’t help myself. I had to ask. “So, are you both witches?”
There was a long pause. So long I almost asked if she was still there. Then Mom cleared her throat and said simply, “Yes, we are, but we don’t do that kind of thing anymore.”
Before I could ask anything else, the line went dead.
When I told Tori about the conversation, her eyes grew wide. “You are not serious!” she said incredulously. “They’ve been conspiring all these years?”
I could not believe that was where her mind went first. “You’re most focused on a potential conspiracy than on finding out that your mother is a witch?” I asked incredulously.
Since the two of us have been guilty of our own fair share of “conspiring” to keep things from the moms, it really didn’t seem like we could cast too many stones in that department.
“The witch thing doesn’t surprise me on all kinds of levels,” Tori grinned. “The fact that they managed to keep their mouths shut all these years astounds me.”
Okay that I would give her. The moms vehemently denied any participation in “gossip,” preferring to style themselves as “informed.” Working within their definition, let’s just say they believed strongly in the power of information sharing.
By the end of that day, we learned how much we’d underestimated our mothers. It happens at some point in every daughter’s life -- that moment when you realize the woman who raised you isn’t stupid. You start reviewing every lie and half-truth you ever told. How much did she know? All of it.
It’s hard to say what Tori and I were expecting when we sat down with Kelly and Gemma in Mom’s disturbingly Laura Ashley-designed front living room. However, the fact that we were in that room, told us they meant business.
Mom doesn’t have plastic covers on all the furniture, but there are strict rules about when that room gets used; major holidays, wakes, and when the preacher comes to call. For a normal visit, we should have been sitting around the kitchen table drinking sweet tea.
“Where’s Dad?” I asked, as we all claimed our places. By habit, I brushed off the seat of my jeans before perching gingerly on one of the chairs.
“Where do you think he is?” Mom asked. “Fishing. He and the boys are spending the weekend at the river. He won’t be home until late tonight.”
“Does he know . . .” I started.
“No,” she said with quiet authority, “he does not, and we’re going to keep it that way, young lady.”
I recognized a direct order when I heard one, and replied with a contrite, “Yes, ma'am.”
After a minute or two, Mom cleared her throat and said, “You want to ask some questions. Well, here we are. Ask.”
Before either of us could speak, Gemma issued a warning.
“Just so you know,” she said, “there’s not going to be any ganging up on Kelly here today.”
Gemma is the taller of the two women, standing an inch or so under six feet. My Mom is petite and tiny, straining to make five feet on her best day. In fact, the moms are a study in contrasts in all kinds of ways, not just height. Tori gets her blond hair and fearless personality from Gemma. Mom and I have darker hair and are more cautious by nature. And like the daughters they raised, the BFF moms are protective of one another. Whatever we were about to discuss, Gemma was on high alert to see to it Mom didn’t get hurt.
I cut my eyes over at Tori who flashed me a “danger, Will Robinson” look. We’d heard that tone in Gemma’s voice before. She is far more formidable than my mom, and she’d just given up cigarettes. Let’s just say the effect on her disposition was . . . less than positive.
“Nobody wants to gang up on anybody,” I said carefully. “It’s just that we know everything now and we want to hear your side of the story.”
Gemma snorted. “Everything?” she said derisively. “Little girl, you don’t know half of anything, much less all of everything.”
Feeling like I was tip-toeing through a maternal minefield, I said, “Okay. Tell us what we don’t know.”
To my horror, Mom’s eyes instantly filled with tears.
The best way I can describe my mother is “self-contained.” She’s always been a little high-strung, but in a together sort of way, like one of those hens you expect will go flapping off at any second but never does. Other than daubing her eyes at funerals, I’d never seen Mom cry. And it unnerved me.
Mom looked at Gemma and said, tremulously, “I can’t.”
Gemma was sitting on one end of the sofa and Mom was to her immediate left in a big floral wingback that made her diminutive frame look even smaller. Gemma reached over and took hold of her hand. “You don’t have to,” she said. “I’ll do it.”
I saw Mom squeeze Gemma’s fingers, but she didn’t say anything. She just nodded a couple of times and reached for a tissue from the box on the end table.
“We were freshmen in high school,” Gemma began, drawing in a deep breath like she was steeling herself to do something tremendously hard. “We wanted to be cheerleaders, but we weren’t popular enough. We . . . we cast a spell.”
When she didn’t go on, Tori asked t
he obvious question. “A spell to do what, Mom?”
My mother was the one who answered, her voice breaking on the words. “We weren’t trying to hurt them,” she said.
“Kell,” Gemma said gently, “we don’t know that we did hurt them.”
With tears now rolling down her face, Mom said, “They died, didn’t they?”
Died?
Whoa.
Not where I had seen this conversation going.
“Who died?” I asked.
“The two most popular girls on the cheerleading squad,” Gemma answered. “We cast a spell to keep them from coming to school the day of the tryouts. They were best friends, like your Mom and me. Sally Beth picked Jo Anne up on their way into town. Their families lived up in the mountains. It was raining that morning, and the car ran off the road. Both girls were killed in the crash.”
A heavy silence settled over the room, broken only by my mom’s soft sniffles. Gemma was still holding Mom’s hand. I went over to her, but Mom wouldn’t look at me, so I sat down on the floor in front of her chair.
When her eyes finally met mine, I said, “It might not have been the spell.”
“Maybe,” she replied, sadness filling her features, “but we’ll never know for sure, will we?”
“So that’s why you never told me the truth about our family?” I prodded.
“Of course it is!” Mom cried with sudden ferocity. “No good ever comes of magic.”
Which wasn’t true, but I could understand why she felt that way.
Maybe what came out of my mouth next should have remained unsaid. Maybe I could have waited for another day, but I didn’t. Looking back, it was just as well. Frustration flooded through me. I had to live my own life and make my own choices, which I couldn’t do if people kept withholding vital information I needed.
So far, my own magic hadn’t hurt anyone. But a few weeks before, in another moment of frustration, when I was tired and scared, I started to lose my temper. With no warning, objects in the room levitated and the temperature went up a few degrees.
Coming into my powers with no warning threw me into a rollercoaster of emotional reactions. First I went from denial to curious exploration and then idiotic over-confidence. But none of it scared me as much as the idea that if I didn’t learn to control my powers, they could be dangerous.
Why does the wording on the inside of a fan belt suggest it be installed with the engine off? Because some moron tried it with the engine on and it didn’t work out well.
Using witchcraft without training is pretty much the same thing.
I’m good with zapping evil sorceresses with blue lightning, but not with accidentally frying someone I love.
“Mom,” I whispered, trying not to make the words sound like an accusation, “that wasn’t your choice to make.”
Gemma instantly reared up like a cat about to make history of a rat.
“That’ll be enough out of you, Norma Jean,” she snapped. “It’s not your place to judge. You have no idea what your mama has been through.”
At that moment it would have been nice to be a rat because I could have found a deep, dark hole to dive in. Instead, I had to face Gemma’s furious glare. Growing up, she was the one Tori and I never wanted mad at us.
When I didn’t look away, I saw a flicker of respect move through Gemma’s dark eyes, a kind of unspoken “atta girl.” She wanted me to stand up to her.
I said very calmly, “Then explain it to me. Help me understand.”
Gemma started to answer, but Mom stopped her.
“I need to tell the girls,” she said simply. Swiveling toward me and Tori, she went on hesitantly, “I . . . I had a kind of . . . well, breakdown after . . . what happened . . . after the . . . accident. When I started to get better, I turned my back on my call . . . on the magical world.”
In retrospect, I should have picked up on her hasty self-correction, but it went right over my head.
I knew Tori was just as annoyed as I was over the maternal conspiracy of silence, but she waded in cautiously, “What about you, Mom?” she asked. “Why did you stop using your magic?”
“Kelly didn’t ask me to do it,” Gemma replied, “I just did it because she needed my support. You don’t keep on drinking in front of an alcoholic, and that’s just how hard it was on Kelly to accept what happened and renounce her powers.”
I’m not sure I would have asked the next question, but Tori and her mom have a different kind of relationship. They’re both straight shooters.
“Do you think the spell killed those girls?” Tori asked.
“No,” Gemma replied. “We weren’t powerful enough to do that, but Kelly believes it did, so I stood by her.”
Mom looked at Gemma with a mixture of love and gratitude. “I never would have been able to move beyond it and have a life if it hadn’t been for Gemma,” she said, “but it was my choice for you girls to never know. Surely you can understand why.”
Tori broke the awkward silence that followed. “Yes,” she said, “but didn’t you think that there might come a day when we would need to know?”
Mom sighed. “No, Honey” she said, “I didn’t. Fiona did, but I thought she was . . .”
“Crazy,” I finished. “This is why you had such a fit when I told you I was going to move into the shop. You knew I’d find out about everything.”
“Yes,” Mom nodded. “I knew Myrtle would ultimately tell you.”
My jaw dropped. “You know about Myrtle, too?”
“Of course we do,” Gemma said. “She’s taught generations of witches in both of our families. I’ll never forget when she got so irritated with me she winged an arrow right by my nose.”
“She did that to you, too?” I asked.
Gemma nodded. “Sure got my attention.”
Since Myrtle had used the same . . . instructional technique . . . on me when I was being particularly dense, there was no question the moms knew what they were talking about.
This was the best chance I’d had yet to get an explanation about the spirit animating my shop.
“What is Myrtle?” I asked.
“She is aos sí,” Mom answered.
I learned the spelling after the fact. What we heard her say that day sounded like, “ace she.” The words are Gaelic, a language with letter combinations that defy all explanation.
“What’s an aos sí?” Tori asked.
Mom shook her head. “That’s for Myrtle to explain,” she said. “In fact, Myrtle should tell you the rest. It’s just been too long since I’ve thought about any of this. And Gemma’s right. We were never very powerful. Fiona was the one with the talent.”
Okay. Wait. Hold on. Myrtle should tell me the rest?
I started to press for more details, but Mom’s tired face changed my mind.
“Aunt Fiona said I may be the most powerful witch in our family in generations,” I said instead. “Did you know that?”
The stricken look on Mom’s face seemed completely out of proportion to the question, even considering the story she and Gemma had just told us.
“I was afraid of it,” Mom answered. “I am afraid of what it will mean for you.”
“Maybe you should have been afraid of what not knowing could mean for me,” I muttered without thinking.
Yes, I was too old for a surly teenager moment like that, and I’m not proud of it.
The instant the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them. Gemma drew herself up again to take my head off. I wouldn’t have blamed her one bit. But Mom stopped her with a gesture of her hand.
“You’re right,” Mom said simply. “That’s exactly what I should have thought, but I didn’t. That’s why I have something for you.”
She got up and went to the back of the house, returning with a beat-up leather satchel that was just cool. The thing fairly screamed, “I have seen the world.”
“This belonged to my mother and to Gemma’s mother,” Mom said, “and their mothers before them, and all the wa
y back through the generations to Awenasa.”
“What’s in it?” I asked, intrigued and already dying to get my hands on the contents.
“Journals, letters, notes,” Mom said. “Everything they thought was important to keep to document their lives as witches.”
Tori frowned. “But aren’t their grimoires in the basement under the store?” she asked.
Gemma gave her a slightly approving smile. “You’re learning fast,” she said. “Our side of the family is the scholars, Tori. That’s your part in all of this. And, yes, the grimoires are in the basement. These are their personal notes.”
Tori frowned. “Wait a minute,” she said. “We’re descendants of Alexander and Knasgowa’s son, Duncan, and Jinx is descended from Knasgowa’s daughter by the medicine man, right?”
“Yes,” Gemma nodded.
“And you’re saying that both sides of the family have cooperated with one another all these years?” I asked.
“Every one of them,” Gemma said, “until your mama and I took you girls out of the picture. Maybe we were wrong. We thought we were protecting you. We can’t change any of that now. What happens from here on out is up to you. Between what Myrtle will tell you, and what you’ll find in this bag, you’ll have your answers.”
What Mom said next sent a shiver up my spine.
“No,” she said softly, “they’ll just know the right questions to start asking.”
Before we left, Tori and Gemma stepped away and let me have a moment alone with Mom. I put my hands on her arms. “I wish you’d told me,” I said, “but I understand why you didn’t.”
“Thank you, Jinx,” she said. “That means a lot to me.”
“And, Mom?” I said, pulling her into a big hug. “I don’t think you killed those girls. And even if you did, it wasn’t what you meant to do. I love you.”
A tremor passed through her body. She whispered in my ear, “I hope I didn’t kill them, Norma Jean. But please be careful, Honey. I love you, too, and I don’t ever want you to have to live with something like that. Magic is a huge responsibility. Don’t ever forget that.”
Witch at Last: A Jinx Hamilton Mystery Book 3 (The Jinx Hamilton Mysteries) Page 2