“Geez, are you kidding me? How does he even feed himself without you?”
“Sometimes I wonder myself.”
“So that sets your whole plan to get a place back,” she said, frowning. “I’m so sorry, cuz. I know it’s hard living with The Warden.”
That was our private pet name for our grandmother, who we’d so dubbed after she’d taken to timing our showers when we were teens.
“What could you possibly need to do in there that could take more than seven minutes?”
She’d softened a little at some point, once she hit eighty, and I was pleased to find that I didn’t have to contend with the stopwatch when I’d moved in, but she was still a tough nut to crack.
“It’s definitely bad news, but I have to admit, it sort of got my writing juices flowing. I wrote a whole…I don’t know, novelette, I guess?”
“Do tell!” Zoe demanded, setting aside her piping bag and patting the chair beside her.
I took the croissants out of the oven, snagging one for each of us before taking a seat.
“It sounds mean, but I guess I channeled my anger into a sort of black humor horror story about a guy who can’t get out of his own way. Like everything he thinks he’s doing right, goes wrong. Kind of like that monkey’s paw short story from when we were kids, but not exactly, because he doesn’t make any wishes. It’s just that even his best intentions go awry, through what he perceives as no fault of his own. But deep down, the reader knows that his actions do play a part.”
“So it’s Greg. You basically wrote a story about Greg,” she said with a curt nod.
“Well, you could say that, yes.”
I didn’t tell her that the protagonist’s name had, indeed, been Greg, but I’d gone back and whited it out, changing it in case I ever wanted to try to publish it. My kids were wild about their father, and rightfully so. He had been “fun” Dad. “No consequences” Dad.
The one they went to when they needed to vent about me.
The one they still called to check on every week and spent their holidays with.
I wasn’t about to bash him to my…nones of readers, just on the off chance my daughter or son decided to read it. My kids had been through enough because of my choices.
“The point is, I did it. I wrote my first thing. It was super cathartic and I absolutely love my new typewriter. Best forty bucks I ever spent.”
In fact, it had felt so right, despite my aching back and the house deal falling through, I still felt better than I had in months.
Reborn, even.
“When can I read it?”
That was the million dollar question, wasn’t it?
I broke off a bit of croissant and shrugged. “I haven’t even edited or anything. I want to let it sit for a few days and then go back and read with fresh eyes before I decide whether it’s worth revising and submitting anywhere.”
“Okay, but I call first dibs once it’s ready.” She leaned in and patted my hand gently. “I know it took me a little getting used to…the idea of you and Greg splitting, but I get it now. I really do. I think part of me was just envious that you actually did it. And seeing you this excited about something makes me super happy. I know you can do anything you set your mind to, so I’m behind you on the whole writing thing, one hundred percent.”
It was exactly what I’d needed to hear at exactly the right time.
“Thanks, Zoe.”
She pulled away and glanced at her watch. “We’ve got thirty minutes until we open, so we better get cracking!”
The morning zipped by as customers poured in for their Sunday morning pastries and fresh breads. By the time eleven AM rolled around, we were out of our most popular breakfast items and were switching over to our limited selection of specialty sandwiches for the next couple hours until we closed for the day. I was just taste-testing the tuna salad I’d made when the bell on the door jangled as it swung open.
“Cricket Hawthorne?”
My head shot up at the sound of the silky baritone and I found myself staring into a pair of startled brown eyes. Instantly, my stomach did a flip.
“Ethan?”
“Hey, good to see you! It’s been…” He looked away as I set down the bowl of tuna and cleared my throat.
Fact was, we both knew exactly how long it had been. One decade, almost to the day. At our 20th high school reunion. Greg hadn’t come, opting to skip the three-hour drive to stay home and watch his beloved Patriots play the season opener. Ethan and I had spent the better part of the evening manufacturing reasons to sit next to one another despite being at separate tables. We’d also taken turns scouring the floor for free drink tickets when we’d used up our allotted two apiece and had made full use of the cash bar as the night wore on.
Talk had eventually turned to that crazy summer when we’d had a short, unlikely fling just after graduation. It had been based on little more than physical attraction, because we barely knew each other over our four-year tenure at Rocky Knoll High. We ran in completely different circles. I was from the west side of town, where dads and moms worked at the local steel factory or doing trade work in order to afford a modest saltbox in a good New England town. Ethan and his family lived on the east side in a gorgeous home overlooking the beach…except during most summers, when they took to The Hamptons.
That particular summer, Ethan was prepping to go away for college and had cut his Hamptons stay short. We spent a giddy, wild few weeks in each other’s arms. Despite our shallow relationship that had mostly involved a lot of fumbling make-out sessions, punctuated by two full-on sexual encounters, I couldn’t deny that old feelings had bubbled up the night of our class reunion. But feelings were all that got felt that night. He’d sent me a Facebook friend request a few days later, and to this day, his request still sat in my notifications, unaccepted.
I hadn’t been a perfect wife, but I was nobody’s cheater.
Now, as I stood fidgeting with the strings of my apron, I found myself aggressively trying not to look down at his left hand. Had he finally bit the bullet and given up his bachelor ways, or was he still on the market?
Not that it mattered or anything.
“Can I hope, by looking at the apron and nametag, you’re here for longer than just a visit?” he asked, a smile tugging at his firm lips.
“Yeah, I mean, that’s the plan, at least. We’re still working on selling our house, but I’d like to buy something in Rocky Knoll to be near my grandmother and Zoe, if at all possible.”
I’d been back in town for a few months already, so I’d assumed most people who were interested in the fact that I’d come home were already hip to my presence. Apparently, I was wrong, because Ethan looked very un-hip, and very intrigued.
“And Greg…?” Unlike me, Ethan made no effort to hide his interest in my wedding ring finger.
“We’re not together anymore.”
The statement hung between us for a long moment, until the sound of a low cough had me wheeling around to find Zoe standing in the door leading to the kitchen with a wide grin on her face.
“Hey, Ethan! How have you been?”
“Good, thanks. Just getting back into the swing of things here and figured I’d come by and snag the best pesto chicken sandwich in town.”
“Charmer,” Zoe said with a wink as she shuffled over to the case in front of me and pulled out a cellophane-covered pita stuffed with chicken.
“You and the family still summer in the Hamptons, then?” I asked, belatedly remembering I was in a tuna salad-smeared smock and had not even a stitch of makeup on.
“My parents do, and I try to sneak away from the job for a few weeks at the end of the season to join them. It’s pretentious and fussy, but they’re getting on in years and it makes them happy. What can you do?”
I was about to quip that, yeah, spending a few weeks in a mansion on the beach sounded like a real chore, because I was nothing if not a wiseass, but suddenly Zoe pointed to the TV overhead.
“Shh
, something major must be happening to break into a broadcast in the middle of the day.”
I turned toward the screen to see our local newscaster, face solemn, as Zoe snatched up the remote and turned up the volume.
“Breaking news here on a balmy Sunday afternoon. In a macabre twist of fate, a thirty-eight-year-old Rocky Beach man’s practical joke goes horribly wrong. News 5’s own John Mendoza is on the scene.”
Cut away to the shores of a beach just three miles from the bakery, where the Indian summer whitecaps pounded the sand in a relentless rhythm.
“Thank you, Amy,” a handsome, square-jawed man bellowed into his microphone as a gust of wind sent his dark hair flapping. “It’s like something out of a Grimm’s fairy tale here at Rocky Beach. Behind me, you can see the crowd gathered behind the police tape, along with emergency vehicles that were called, in the wake of a tragic incident leaving one man dead and onlookers reeling in shocked horror.”
The still image of a grinning stranger with a large fish hooked on one finger filled the screen as John Mendoza continued.
“It was meant to be a practical joke between friends. Something they’d look back and laugh about over beers the next day. But for this husband and father of three, tomorrow will never come. According to witnesses, Brett Copeland and his childhood buddy, Todd Rodemsky, donned their waders and headed out at sunrise this morning to do some fishing. Mr. Rodemsky told News 5 that he had avoided the ocean all summer long due to recent great white sightings off the coast of Cape Cod. On this fateful day, he put his misgivings aside at the urging of Copeland, and the two men headed out. In what several sources who are familiar with the pair call “typical fashion”, Brett Copeland had devised a plan to exit the water under the guise of a bathroom break and return from behind a nearby dock with a fake shark fin attached to his back in an effort to prank Mr. Rodemsky. And that’s when it all went horribly wrong.”
“Geez, this doesn’t sound good,” Ethan murmured as he tucked his bag under his arm.
I wanted to reply but my tongue was frozen. Blood rushed to my ears and the room began to tilt as a new face filled the screen.
“It was like something out of a movie,” an older man was saying as he shook his head, eyes wide. “The fin come up out of the water and a couple of us fishing from shore started calling to that one guy, ‘shark, shark!’ He caught sight of it and nearly killed himself trying to run to shore in his waders. We was all pumped up with adrenaline and relief as the fin went under and he got to safety. Then, a second later, a head pops up out of the water. It’s a guy, grinning and laughing and pointing at his buddy on shore with us. ‘Got ya!’ he was hollering and hooting. ‘You should see your face!’” The man’s knobby Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. “And that’s when the second fin come up, maybe ten yards away from him. Tell you this much, it wasn’t nothing like the first. Five times as big.” He shook his head slowly and raked a hand through his sandy, gray hair. “It moved so fast, slicing through the water like a knife. Poor bastard didn’t have a chance. We all started pointing and screaming, but he just kept laughing, holding the fake fin in his hand and waving it in the air. Right until he got dragged under. The blood just pooled around him...So much blood.”
“Wowww. That’s nuts. We haven’t had a shark attack death up this way in years,” Zoe murmured, wincing. “And the way it happened. I mean, what are the odds? You couldn’t make up something that crazy if you tried.”
But the thing was? I could have.
In fact, I did.
Less than twenty-four hours ago, I wrote a story about a guy who couldn’t do anything right. A guy who decided to prank by dressing up as a great white shark while fishing with a friend. A guy I’d originally called Greg but had later randomly renamed…
Brett.
Freaking.
Copeland.
My stomach gurgled and I squeaked out a quick “’Scuse me for a sec,” before sprinting for the bathroom and chucking up the contents of my stomach.
Chapter 4
I didn’t argue when Zoe insisted that I go because I didn’t look well. After politely refusing a concerned-looking Ethan’s offer of a ride, I headed home. Bile still coated the inside of my throat and my legs were shaking by the time I made my way slowly down the basement stairs toward my mini-apartment.
There had to be a plausible explanation for this. One that didn’t involve me, a padded room, and a hefty orderly named Dave checking under my tongue for hidden pills. I just needed to find it.
For the hundredth time since I’d stumbled out of the bakery thirty minutes earlier, I went over the night before in my mind.
I had definitely made omelets for me, Zoe, and Mee-maw. That was confirmed when I got home because the empty container of eggs still sat on the top of the garbage can. After dinner, I’d gone downstairs and tried to write until Greg texted. We had spoken for just under three minutes, a fact I’d gathered by the call log on my phone. I wrote furiously for about two hours, completing my story, and then I fell asleep on the couch. I hadn’t drunk a sip of alcohol or taken any type of medication at any point at all. So how could I possibly have conjured a story about something that hadn’t even happened yet, down to the most minute detail?
It defied logic.
“Okay, so maybe someone broke in,” I muttered, rubbing at my temples as I pushed into the living room and flicked on the light. “Some twisted lunatic broke in, read my story a-and somehow recreated the scenario.”
I realized that having a full-on conversation with myself wasn’t exactly helping build my case for staying out of the asylum, and went silent as I crept toward the coffee table. My new, old typewriter sat upon it majestically, as if awaiting my return. Beside it, sat a manila folder that contained the swath of papers I’d stuffed in it the night before.
With my legs growing weaker by the second, I lowered myself to the couch, fear strangely metallic on my tongue.
“What’s going on, Crick?”
My heart nearly sling-shotted right out of my chest and I let out a gasp.
“Geez, Zoe. What the hell! You scared me half to death.”
She stepped into the basement and closed the door behind her with a snort. “Me? You turned so pale back at the bakery, I thought you were going to pass out. So, I repeat. What’s going on?”
Zoe and I were cousins, but we’d been raised more like sisters. When my mom and dad died, I’d moved in with Mee-maw and Grandad while she and her parents—Aunt Astrid and Uncle Bill—had lived on the same block. My mother’s sister and her husband weren’t exactly prime parenting material, so Zoe and I had both largely been raised by The Warden. With no siblings of my own, the relationship had been beneficial to us both, but there were downsides, one of which was staring me in the face accusingly at the moment.
Zoe knew me better than anybody, and she clearly knew my early departure was about more than a rogue stomach ache.
“You left? What about the bakery?” I whispered, hoping to buy myself a few more seconds to think of what I could possibly tell her besides the truth. “You still have another hour and a half before closing.”
Her dark brows caved into a thunderous frown and she folded her arms over her chest. “Alba is holding it down for me, at the moment, and I’ll go close up once I know you’re okay. Now, spill.”
Alba was a retiree who helped out on weekends for pin money, but her lack of ability to learn the cash register meant she never manned the shop alone.
Until today, apparently. Which meant Zoe was definitely worried, and making more excuses wasn’t going to cut it.
The manila folder in my hands began to tremble and I set it down like it was a nest of vipers. “I…” Where to even start? I wet my lips and tried again, holding her gaze with mine. “So, remember how I told you about that story I wrote last night?”
“Yeah,” she said, shrugging. “What about it?”
“Remember how I told you it was about a guy who, no matter what he did, everythin
g kind of got screwed up for him?”
“Yeah. Like the monkey’s paw thing, without the wishes?” She let out an exasperated sigh. “Crick, I know you’re really hyped about the writing thing, and I love that, but you can’t just run out of work every time you get a new idea and want to--”
“I made it happen,” I blurted, unable to contain it a second longer.
Zoe closed her mouth with a snap and blinked, before narrowing her eyes at me. “Made…what happen?”
“The whole thing on the news. The guy, the practical joke, the great white. All of it. I think I might have made that happen.” I could hear the shrill hysteria in my voice, but I couldn’t seem to catch my breath as the rest bubbled out in a rush. “I wrote it all down, right here on my typewriter, then I went to sleep. And it happened, Zoe. Every single word of it, exactly like I wrote it.”
Her delicate nostrils flared and she shook her head slowly. “You’re scaring me, Crick. That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” I squeaked, scrubbing a hand over my face. “Which is why I flipped. Because it doesn’t make a bit of sense, and it’s freaking me the hell out, but it’s true. Look for yourself!”
I jerked a thumb toward the folder on the table and she crept toward it, still shaking her head.
“Okay. Okay, so what you’re saying is that the story you wrote last night about Greg, is similar to what happened today at Rocky Beach. That’s not impossible. I mean, maybe you read about the great white sightings in Cape Cod and it sort of captured your--”
“Nope,” I cut in, slashing the air with my hand. “Listen to me carefully, Zoe. It’s not similar, or close to, or influenced by anything. It is the same exact story. Sure, initially I used Greg’s name, but I went back and whited it out and changed the main character’s name to Brett. Even the last name was right.”
If I’d questioned her dramatic description of the way my face lost color when I’d seen the news report, I questioned it no longer, because the same thing happened to her as her cheeks went chalk-white.
Writing Wrongs: Crow’s Feet Coven, Book One Page 3