Writing Wrongs: Crow’s Feet Coven, Book One

by Gael, Christine

  I didn’t give a rat’s crack.

  I was doing this. I’d never felt so certain of anything in my life. I was going to be a writer and no one was going to stop me.

  Still, if I could convince them that this made any kind of sense, given my complete and total lack of interest in writing over the previous forty-eight years of my life, they’d be much easier to deal with, so I put on my salesman cap for the second time that day.

  “Well, eventually I’ll write whole books, I guess,” I conceded, cutting the nine egg monstrosity into three and sliding equal parts onto plates. “But I’m just going to write and see what comes out. Maybe short stories to start.”

  “Oookay,” Zoe said, nodded slowly. “And you’re going to do what with them?”

  “I’m going to sell them.”

  “For money,” Mee-maw replied, deadpan.

  “No. For clams and seashells,” I replied with a snort as I doled out the plates and took my seat between them. “Of course for money. Eventually.”

  “And people are going to pay you for these stories because…” Mee-maw coaxed.

  I forked up a bite of dinner omelet and plugged it into my mouth, despite the fact that its interior was about the temperature of molten lava, mainly to keep myself from snapping.

  At the end of the day, I didn’t need her approval, but I was living in her house close to rent-free for the time being. Things could get even less comfy real fast if she didn’t feel like I was at least trying to get my crap together.

  I chewed and then swallowed before replying. “Well, people are always telling me how funny I am and that I tell great stories.”

  “Out loud,” Zoe confirmed. “You’re entertaining at parties because you feel like if you distract people with your humor and tall tales, they won’t ask you about anything real or personal.”

  Ouch.

  “But you were a C- student, and even that was only because you were good at math and science. I was the one who wrote all your term papers for you,” she reminded me before forking up some omelet.

  I refrained from pointing out that, had she rolled up her sleeves and put in a little more elbow grease, maybe I could’ve gotten some B’s, and tried to focus on the big picture.

  “I’ve lived more life now. I have more to say…better stories to tell. And besides, I know how to type. What is writing other than coming up with good stories and then getting them down on paper?”

  “I guess,” Mee-maw muttered, tucking into her eggs. “But a typewriter seems like the wrong tool for the job these days. You’ll have to re-type everything on a computer, won’t you?”

  Strange. I hadn’t even considered that, but I wasn’t about to tell that to Mee-maw.

  “The typewriter is just a first step to get my creativity brewing. It’s going to be great,” I assured her.

  “Okay. You’re still going to work down at the bakery while you explore this new passion, yeah?”

  “Of course,” I said with a nod. “I’m not going to go off half-cocked or anything. I’ll be doing it in my spare time. I just wanted to let you guys know I’m going to be busy, is all, so I won’t be around as much.”

  “Okay, then. I think it sounds nice,” Zoe said. “Maybe it will be a nice distraction from…everything.”

  The room went silent but for the scraping of forks on plates.

  “Everything” was one of the code words for my divorce, along with “all of this”, “that whole mess”, and “your dealings with Greg”. Neither my cousin nor our grandmother much liked the “D” word. Zoe and her husband Phil had been together since we were teenagers, and despite the fact that they lived almost entirely separate lives and had for decades, she’d never even consider divorcing him. In her mind, a promise was a promise. She’d said ‘til death do they part, and she meant that shit.

  Mee-maw and our grandfather, on the other hand, had a solid partnership. Strong. Practical. They took care of each other. There was no great passion there, but it had been easy and comfortable. He had her back, she had his, and nothing could come between them. If Granddad hadn’t passed away thirty-five years ago, there was no question they’d still be together now.

  I might’ve been able to live with that kind of marriage. But Greg and I didn’t even have that. Because things had seemed fine from the outside looking in, though, neither Mee-maw or Zoe could really grasp why we—okay, mostly me—had called it quits. Sure, he’d been hard to count on, and when it came to the kids and the house stuff, I’d done all the heavy-lifting. But he didn’t hit me, hadn’t cheated, wasn’t a drug user, and drank only socially. There were no glass breaking, lung-busting fights. In our decades together, we’d managed to raise two decent humans together, Lizzie and Jack, both upstanding, self-sufficient citizens in their mid-twenties, but I’d realized pretty early on that something was missing. Something I’d spent my children’s whole, young lives convincing myself I didn’t need. That it wasn’t important.

  Magic.

  Probably seemed silly to some people, but not to me. I hadn’t fooled myself into thinking marriage would be a fairy tale full of heart-shaped boxes of chocolates, or rose petal-covered sheets. I had, however, witnessed true love. Deep love. Love as steady as a heartbeat. A partnership and a friendship as true as my grandparents’ had been, but with something…extra. A spark that I’d only witnessed in my first eight years of life but that had marked my soul indelibly, that I’d never forgotten.

  A memory of my mom and dad flickered through my mind in bold, riotous color. Mom’s golden hair, a mass of waves down her back as she swayed in front of the stove, singing Carol King, off-key. The smell of cinnamon chip pancakes in the air. Dad’s chuckle as he slipped past her for plates, absently caressing her hip.

  They were forever doing that. Touching each other. Not in flashy, overt displays of affection. Just constant, low-level, reflexive connection. Dad would drop a kiss on her shoulder, or pat her bottom when she walked by. Mom would ruffle his hair, or stroke his five o’clock shadow.

  I hadn’t really considered it at all until well into couple’s counseling with Greg and my own therapy sessions. It had been then that I’d finally gotten to the root of my deep sense of melancholy that had spiraled into full-blown depression.

  I was in my mid-forties and I’d never experienced a connection like that. My children had left the nest, my job there was—for practical purposes—done, and suddenly, the thing I thought I could live without, the thing I’d convinced myself wasn’t important, became the only thing that was. Not just for me, but as stupid and idealistic as it seemed, for Greg, too. He was a good man. He deserved to have someone look at him the way my mom had looked at my dad. And that someone would never be me.

  Who knew if we’d ever find it even if we did break up? My therapist and I had gone over that part at length. What my parents had was a rare gem and I was trading in something of at least some value—something knowable and safe—for what might be nothing at all.

  And I had to admit, so far, being divorced hadn’t been a party, either. It was lonely and humbling and scary. But under all that, there was this nugget of hope inside me. Now, at least I had a chance at that kind of love. And if I didn’t find it, that was okay, too. At least now I’d have time to find myself again. The person whose own needs had been buried somewhere under the needs of everyone else around them. If that was selfish, too bad. Life was short and I’d spent it taking care of others for more than half of mine.

  This bit?

  This bit was for me.

  I popped the last morsel of omelet into my mouth and set the fork on the plate before meeting Zoe’s gaze.

  “I really appreciate the support, and I think you’re right. It will be a good distraction, at the very least.” I stood and made a move to get the dishes, but she stopped me.

  “You go ahead and get started on your story. I’ve got these. If I don’t see you before I go, see you in the AM, yeah?”

  I could tell she was feeling a little guilty
over her initial dismissal of my writerly dreams and I let her off the hook, because family.

  “Yup. I’ll be there, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”

  “Thanks for helping out at the flea market,” Mee-maw added as I pushed in my chair. “You done good, kiddo.”

  I flipped her an easy thumbs up. “No problem. The least I could do.”

  With that, I scuttled out of the room, the tension in me releasing as I hobbled down the stairs to the semi-finished basement suite, still stiff from sitting all day.

  If I was going to be a writer for real, second order of business would be a good chair, followed by a treadmill desk.

  First order of business, though?

  Some actual writing.

  The second I stepped into the living room slash bedroom, it called to me. My super excellent old, new typewriter. I’d half-expected for the excitement to wear off, but it was just as compelling now, hours later, as it had been the moment I’d laid eyes on it.

  “Come to mama, you precious thing, you,” I murmured.

  I’d tossed my hair into a knot on top of my head and changed into leggings and my favorite, oversized Hufflepuff hoodie when we’d gotten home, so all that was left to do was get down to brass tacks.

  Nearly trembling with anticipation, I sat down on the couch and dragged the coffee table close enough to press against my knees. Then, I plucked a sheet of crisp, white paper from the pile I’d snagged from Mee-maw’s office and tucked it into the roller.

  “What’s it going to be, Cricket?” I muttered to myself. “Murder and mayhem? Mischief and magic? Other things beginning with M?”

  I rolled the paper down and pounded the carriage return button, setting off a satisfying ding.

  “Nice.”

  For the next hour, I sat there thinking. I thought so hard, it was a wonder my brain didn’t start giving off smoke. I had ideas over that hour, sure, but every single one of them belonged to someone else. I’d plotted half a story about a dystopian society where there’s a lottery to determine who would go into this melee-type battle with only one survivor before I realized I was just rehashing The Hunger Games.

  “Why is this so hard?” I flopped back against the couch cushion with a groan. I was still practically pulling my hair out trying to come up with a plot when my pocket buzzed.

  I sat up with a sigh, stuffing my hand into my hoodie to pull out my cell phone. Greg’s name lit up the screen and I swiped my thumb over it to open his text message.

  I have some bad news. Give me a call when you can.

  My heart stuttered and I was about to panic when a second message followed close on the heels of the first.

  Kids are fine.

  I swallowed hard and let out a shaky breath. Okay, so whatever the bad news was wasn’t that bad. Still, there were only a couple things my ex-husband would be contacting me about nearly a year after our divorce, and if it wasn’t the kids…

  I thumbed through to his phone number and hit the connect button. He picked up a few seconds later.

  “Hey, Cricket, sorry to bug you. I just…how’re things going?”

  “Things are good, Greg,” I said, still slightly miffed that he’d scared the crap out of me with his text. “What’s up? Everything okay with the house and all?”

  “Yeah, actually, that’s what I was calling about. The inspection didn’t go as planned. The…the um, buyers have retracted their offer.”

  “What?” I gasped, reeling as his words settled over me like a dark cloud. “But why?”

  There was a long pause before he cleared his throat and started babbling.

  “Apparently, we didn’t disclose that there was an oil tank buried in the backyard. I said we’d pay to have it dug up, but they’re worried about soil contamination and the like. They’re paranoid and the realtor couldn’t talk them down. Look…It’s just not going to happen.”

  I dropped my head into my open hand and let out a groan.

  “Greg, I specifically told you to make sure to tell the realtor that when you signed the paperwork. There’s a whole disclosure form to fill out. You promised you—”

  I broke off and swallowed past the knot in my throat.

  This wasn’t on him. It was on me. I’d packed it all. Scrubbed the place clean of our twenty-six years there. Took down every painting, lovingly wrapped every family picture, washed and freshly painted every single wall in an easy-on-the-eyes neutral. I’d cleared out countless boxes in the attic and even emptied the tool shed full of crap he’d insisted we buy but never used. I’d thought he could do this one thing.

  But I’d had literally oceans of experience with Greg. More than enough to know that, despite his assurances, if I moved back home to Rocky Knoll before the sale of the house was complete, he would find a way to drop the ball.

  Shame on me for thinking or hoping otherwise.

  “I remember you saying something about it, but I figured, no harm, no foul, if we just didn’t mention it,” he finally replied. “They’re expensive to remove and it’s not like it’s dangerous. Heck, it never bothered us buried down there all these years.”

  “It’s the law, Greg. And now, in your effort to save us a few grand, you’ve cost us the sale of the house.” I pinched the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger and let out a hiss of air. There was no point in doing this with him. What was done was done. Now it was time to slip into crisis management mode.

  And, for all intents and purposes, me having to live in Mee-maw’s basement for the foreseeable future, with no clear end in sight?

  Was a DEFCON 1 level crisis.

  “Okay, so what does the realtor suggest we do now?”

  “Take it off the market for a month, hire a contractor to get the work done, do the soil samples and get the results back, and then put it back on the market again.”

  “So no showings, no nothing for at least a month. Is that what you’re telling me?”

  And then the whole process we’d been going through for the past eight months would start again. Waiting for showings, open houses that never amounted to offers, and fielding lowball offers. It could be eight more months before we got another bona fide offer. Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes and I brushed them away impatiently.

  “Look, I’m sorry. If you need money, I can--”

  “No,” I said, butting in before he could make the grudging offer he’d made multiple times. Opting to get out with as little baggage and bitterness as possible, I’d forgone alimony, and most of our savings besides the 401k had been siphoned to the kids to get them through college with as little debt as possible. I had a couple grand to my name, and the rest was tied up in house equity, so it was going to suck, but I’d get through it.

  Part of me wondered if deep down I considered it a form of penance…a fair punishment for being the one to pull the plug on us, despite the marriage being on life support for years. But, whatever the case, I didn’t feel comfortable with him giving me money.

  “I’ll be all right. And I’ll take care of the details with the oil tank from here.” Enabling him, still. But at least that way, I knew it would get done. “If the house isn’t sold by Spring, we’re going to have to slash the price, though.”

  “Well, let’s not be hasty...”

  “Goodbye, Greg.”

  I disconnected and tossed my phone onto the couch beside me with a groan.

  Not excellent. Not excellent, at all.

  Overcome with impotent rage, I hunkered down over my typewriter again, a hot flash washing over me. I was pretty used to them by that point, but this one was more intense than usual. A tsunami of heat that radiated from my skin and consumed me as surely as my anger. Suddenly, it came to me in a rush, and my fingers started tapping. Soon, I was on my way, a storm of words whipping onto the page, pouring out of me in a frantic wave. One page became two. Two became five. Five became ten.

  By the time I flopped back onto the couch, wrists aching, mentally spent, the moon hung high in the sky an
d the clock on the microwave read eleven o’clock.

  “Holy crap,” I whispered groggily, shuddering with a sudden chill.

  It was weird. I felt a deep sense of exhaustion. Not like I’d completed a task, but like I’d been purged of something wedged inside me for too long and now I needed to hibernate.

  Nothing had changed. Everything with the house and Greg and my life was still a hot mess. But as I curled up on the couch and tugged the fleece throw over me, a sense of well-being surrounded me.

  And when I fell into an exhausted sleep a short while later, I dreamed of magic.

  Chapter 3

  “Uh oh. Why are you limping?”

  Zoe’s murmured observation came as she glanced up at me over the top of the bifocals she wore as she decorated a tray of petit fours.

  “Apparently, sleeping on the couch after sitting on a hard chair all day is a pre-forty kind of deal. I fell asleep after I finished writing and felt like I got hit by a bus this morning,” I said, wincing as I took a long pull from the coffee in my to-go mug.

  Zoe was already well into her morning bakes and my mouth watered as I looked around. Big, fat muffins teeming with plump blueberries, delicate tartlets with fluffy meringue piped on top, and gooey, fudge brownies sat on trays ready to be loaded into the storefront display cases.

  “Almond croissants are just about to come out,” she said, catching my eye with a grin.

  I pumped my fist and ambled slowly toward the row of ovens.

  “Speaking of the writing, how did it go last night?” she asked, her hand as steady as a stone as she piped a delicate lace pattern on a mint green confection.

  “Actually, it went really well. I was feeling, I don’t know, blocked or something and then Greg called.” I quickly filled her in on the house situation and was gratified by her outrage on my behalf.