“Enough!” Daddy shouted.
Something slammed. A fist on a table, maybe. I froze on the deck, then tiptoed toward the door. I’d never, in all my years, heard my father raise his voice. He had a calm demeanor about him. He showed displeasure with the lift of an eyebrow, a cool glance, or a pucker of his lips.
“Don’t you dare raise your voice to me, James Linden. I’ll not stand for it.”
“I am done,” he said, heat in his tone. “I’ll not hear another word against Eden Callow. She’s not to blame in this situation.”
Mama laughed bitterly. “Who is, then, pray tell?”
“We are,” Daddy said. “We might as well have bought Eden the one-way ticket out of Wicklow with the way we behaved after AJ died. No wonder she kept that child from us.”
Mama sucked in a breath. “You’ve lost your senses, yes you have.”
“No,” he said. “I’m finally seeing things with clarity. Eden did nothing but love our boy, and we were ready to hang her from the nearest tree. She was grieving, same as we were. You know as well as I do that AJ loved her just as much. They were planning to get married! I pray he doesn’t know how we treated that poor girl after he was gone. It makes me sick to think I let him down.”
“She killed him,” Mama said, her voice so cold I actually shivered.
“We don’t know that,” he insisted. “No evidence was ever found to support anything other than the crash was an accident.”
Mama scoffed. “There were no skid marks at the scene. That should be evidence enough. Eden didn’t try to stop the car. She didn’t brake.”
“It’s flimsy evidence at best. Anything could have happened to prevent braking. She was pregnant. She could have passed out from low blood pressure or any other early pregnancy symptoms.”
“I know it was murder.”
“What if it wasn’t, Seelie? What if you’re wrong?”
I held my breath. I was certain my mother believed she hadn’t been wrong a day in her life. She was always right. Always.
Mama’s voice practically dripped icicles as she said, “Cold-blooded murd—”
“Stop it!” he yelled. “I won’t have it anymore. Do you hear me? We lost AJ. Are you willing to lose his daughter, too? Because I’m not. It’s why I invited her to supper, an invitation I’m disappointed to say she declined.”
“Thank the Lord someone has some sense around here,” Mama said.
Daddy let out a long sigh. “I’m going to keep asking until she says yes.”
“You most certainly will not.”
“I most certainly will. It’s past time to stop blaming and start healing.” He quietly added, “I suggest you look deep into that guarded heart of yours, Seelie, to see what’s truly important in life. Now, I’m going to bed. I have a headache.”
I heard fading footsteps, and imagined him heading off toward the back staircase. His parting shot echoed in my head, especially the part about Mama’s heart.
For most of my life, I’d believed Mama hadn’t a heart at all, just a hard, spiky shell, like a dried-up sweetgum ball. It wasn’t until I witnessed the interaction between her and Ollie that I suspected there was something warm in her at all.
“Natalie Jane,” Mama snapped. “What are you doing out here?”
I’d been so lost in thought that I hadn’t heard her approach.
She looked around. “Where’s Olivia Leigh?”
“Sleeping.”
Mama’s eyebrows snapped together. “Then I suggest you get back to her. I cannot imagine what was so important that you’d leave her alone.”
I’d been angry before the jab at my mothering, but now fury buzzed through me, starting at the bottoms of my feet and working its way upward. “I came to tell you that Ollie won’t be available in the morning. Or any morning you try to sneak in swimming lessons.”
“How dramatic. Sneak? I don’t think so. I told you plain as day last weekend that Stacia would be coming over.”
Mama always knew how to twist my words. “You did not ask me about the swimming lessons. I know, because I would have said no. You need to call Stacia and cancel. Ollie won’t be participating. Not tomorrow. Not the next Friday. Not ever.”
“Yes, Olivia Leigh will be participating.”
“No, she won’t.” I pressed clenched fists to my thighs. “I would have thought you of all people would understand my position on the matter.”
“Natalie, it’s because I understand that I hired Stacia. Teaching Olivia Leigh how to swim is the only way to ensure she doesn’t drown.”
Nausea churned in my stomach. “Matt knew how to swim. It didn’t stop him from drowning, did it? Keeping Ollie away from water will make sure she doesn’t drown. No water, no drowning.”
“And what happens if she slips past you? Finds a way into the pool? Or a neighbor’s pool? Or Willow Creek behind the house? It’s best for her to know how to save herself.”
“You do not know what’s best for her. I do. She won’t slip past me. She’s never out of my sight.”
“Is that so?” Mama’s self-righteousness was in full bloom as she looked pointedly at the little house, then tipped her head and pursed her lips.
I turned. Ollie was coming up the pathway. Oh Lord.
“Hihi, Mama! Hihi, Gamma!” She waved her whole arm as she toddled along, her smile bright in the twilight.
My stomach ached something fierce. “We’ll finish this some other time.”
“No. We finish it now. My house, my rules, my pool. I will not take a chance with Olivia Leigh’s safety. She will take swimming lessons with Stacia, starting tomorrow morning. If you have a problem with that, Natalie, you don’t have to stay here, on this property. But you already know that, don’t you? You’re real good at running away.”
I couldn’t even speak. I turned, scooped up Ollie, and took her back to the little house.
I was halfway down the path when I heard Mama say, “Eight forty-five, Natalie.”
Holding in a scream of frustration, I jogged up the steps of the covered porch and threw open the door, and it took everything in me not to slam it closed. I didn’t want to scare Ollie.
It took another half hour to get her resettled and tucked into bed for the night. My emotions were all over the place as I paced the living room, trying to keep a panic attack at bay.
It was true—my first instinct was to run. It always had been. To get as far away from my mother’s oppression as possible. But until I married, I was never gone for very long.
Down in Montgomery, I’d been a happy homemaker, living in a secluded bubble, just Matt, me, and then Ollie. My father visited regularly, but my mother had little to do with me after I married a man she hadn’t approved of. I had seen her maybe ten times in all the years I’d been gone, and one of those times had been at Matt’s funeral.
It wasn’t until after he died, and the dust settled, that my blinders came off. I suddenly realized exactly how isolated I had become … from everything and everyone.
The last thing I wanted was that kind of isolated life for Ollie.
When I moved back to Wicklow three weeks ago, I’d told myself I wouldn’t run anymore. That I’d do anything to make peace in the family, to give Ollie a solid foundation.
But I couldn’t live like this. With this feeling of … suffocation.
I just couldn’t.
There had to be a middle ground.
After much pacing and consideration, I hatched a plan that I hoped would be an ideal solution. I’d start looking for an apartment in town, which I considered self-preservation rather than running away. I’d still be in Wicklow and Ollie would still have the family and community I wanted for her, but I’d be out from under Mama’s thumb.
First things first, I had to find a job. I needed money. Unfortunately, until I had enough saved up to move out, I had no choice but to play by my mother’s rules and allow Ollie take those damned swimming lessons.
Bitterness burned my throat as I crept outside, stealthily hu
rrying along the dimly lit pathway leading to the pool. A small brown bird with a crooked wing sat on an iron post watching me intently as I unlatched the gate. Frogs croaked and crickets chirped loudly as though tattling on me as I retrieved the box I’d hurled over the fence earlier.
As I carried the box back to the house, it took everything in me to ignore the overwhelming desire to wake up Ollie, pack what little we owned, load our junky car, and get out of this town.
And never, ever come back.
Anna Kate
Out on the side lawn, there had to be at least fifty people waiting for the blackbirds. Maybe more. Tiki torches were lit, a few people had portable grills set up, and excitement hummed in the air.
I’d taken a quick break from rolling pie dough to watch them a minute. I sipped hot tea, my favorite homemade blend of chamomile and mint that I usually drank before bed. The food dehydrator on the counter held today’s clippings from Zee’s garden: lemon balm, echinacea, and mint. Once dried, I’d store them in an airtight container until I concocted a tea recipe that perfectly captured their flavors and health benefits.
As I went back to the dough, Doc Linden and his sallow coloring kept slipping into my thoughts, along with Natalie, and Ollie with her tiny backhoe. Mostly, I thought of my mother, as I tried to put myself in her place twenty-five years ago.
By eighteen she’d already had a hard life. She’d lost the man she loved and was accused of killing him. She’d walked away from this town, away from everything familiar. But as I stood here in this kitchen with the scent of flaky, buttery pie crusts surrounding me, I couldn’t help wondering if leaving had hurt her more than if she’d simply stayed put.
As soon as the thought came, it went. Because as much as my theory might be true—that my mother would have been happier here despite living near and dealing with the Lindens—she hadn’t left town because of her own pride or embarrassment or even wanderlust, as Pebbles had called it.
She’d left this town because of me, determined to keep me away from people she truly believed would cause me harm. Not physically, perhaps. But mentally. Emotionally.
Fighting a yawn, I pushed away the image of Doc Linden’s sad eyes and tried to focus on the task at hand. It was closing in on midnight, and I’d purposefully stayed up late to hear the blackbirds sing their songs, and I was more than a little anxious.
As I slid the rolling pin over the pie dough, stretching it, shaping it, I heard Zee’s voice in my head with each pass. I had been ten years old when she finally taught me how to make piecrust from scratch.
“Careful now, darlin’. Too thick and the crust won’t cook all the way through. No one wants a soggy-bottomed pie. Soggy bottoms are always unfortunate.” Her hands, soft and sure, had covered mine on the rolling pin, guiding my strokes. “Too thin, and the crust will burn, and no one wants to taste charcoal when they’re expectin’ something sweet.”
“Granny, how do you know when it’s right?” I’d asked.
She’d smiled at me, her teal eyes twinkling. “You’re a Callow, Anna Kate. And Callows know pie. That knowledge is deep inside you. You’ll know. You’ll see.”
I felt a teardrop snake down my cheek, and I swiped it away with the back of my hand, unwilling to let emotions get the best of me tonight. I’d already made six pies but, still restless, decided to make one more with the abundance of blackberries I’d found in a bucket on the back deck earlier this evening.
I finished rolling two crusts, knowing they were about as perfect as they could be. There was something in the weight of the dough, its stretch, its texture, that told me as surely as if it could speak that it was ready to be baked.
Gently, I folded one of the crusts in half, then in half again and draped it over a glass pie dish. I unfolded the dough and pressed it against the glass, molding it to fit the dish perfectly, leaving a bit hanging over the edge. I dipped a spoon into the bowl of blackberry filling I’d already prepared, and though it was good, I thought it wasn’t quite right. It was a nagging feeling, one I’d had with each of the pies I’d made. Something was off.
It didn’t help that Mr. Lazenby’s voice was echoing in my head.
This pie don’t taste like the pies Miss Zee made.
The pie hadn’t—I’d sampled it myself. I’d eaten enough of Zee’s pies to know. Whenever she visited, she’d bake me special miniature pies, all my own, lovingly showing me how to make each one. Apple, blueberry, peach, cherry. Endless combinations.
None of mine tonight had tasted like hers.
I grabbed a clean spoon and took another sample of the filling, letting it roll around on my tongue. Something was missing—a flavor I couldn’t place.
“Now turn your back,” Zee would say before we added the top crust to those miniature pies.
“Why, Granny Zee?”
“I need to add the secret ingredient.”
“Secret? What is it?” I’d asked eagerly.
She leaned down. “I promised your mama I wouldn’t tell, but you already know what it is.”
“No, I don’t! I swear I don’t.”
“You do. You’ll put it all together one day, Anna Kate, when you’re older.”
“And if I don’t?”
“There’ll be a whole flock of women there to help guide the way, that I can promise you.”
“Give me a hint? Pleeeeease,” I added overdramatically. “It’s not something silly like love, is it?”
She’d bopped me on the tip of my nose with a floury finger. “That’s exactly it. The secret ingredient is love, darlin’. The purest kind of love there is. Now, turn around, and remember—these pies are our little secret from your mama.”
I may have been young, but I’d clearly heard a telltale pop of a sealed lid each and every time I turned. A sound anyone would recognize if they’d ever opened a full jelly jar. Love shouldn’t have been so noisy. Besides, Zee wouldn’t have broken her promise to my mom, so I knew that she’d been pulling my leg about the whole love thing.
Frustrated, I ventured into the deep pantry off the kitchen to search the spice and extract shelf. My gaze skipped over cloves, allspice, nutmeg, vanilla, almond, and lemon.
“What did you put in those pies, Zee?” I asked, poking around.
It couldn’t be a common ingredient, or I’d have been able to place it easily. I had a decent palate. I closed my eyes, recalling the unmistakable pop of a seal being released. The mysterious ingredient, I realized, couldn’t have come from a tin or twist-off bottle.
I turned away from the spices and searched among the jarred goods, most of which Zee had canned herself. Plums, grapes, tomatoes, cucumbers, corn, raspberries, beets, rhubarb, peas, okra. All were in tall glass canning jars, but I was looking for smaller containers, a size that Zee could have hidden from me in a skirt pocket, something along the lines of a baby food jar or a jam sampler.
It was a futile search.
Ignoring the feeling that I was doing something wrong, I finished the blackberry pie and put it in the oven. The other pies had already cooled and were in the pie case, waiting for tomorrow’s diners. I checked the clock as I cleaned up and washed dishes. It was just past eleven.
If all went as it should, in less than an hour the blackbirds would emerge from the tunnel between the mulberry trees and sing songs—messages from the Land of the Dead—to those who ate pieces of pie today. While those people slept, they’d dream the message meant for them, sent by people who’d loved them.
At a minute shy of midnight, I opened the back door, and the energy of the excited crowd pulsed through the room. I shut off most of the lights, leaned against the marble-topped island, and waited with anticipation. Right at midnight a loud whoop from the birders went up when the blackbirds emerged.
Unbidden, tears sprang to my eyes at the reaction of the strangers, and I watched with a watery gaze as the birds soared upward in a tight formation. They swooped low as they circled the backyard, garnering ooh’s and aah’s from the crowd, then they land
ed, one by one, on the branches of the trees.
Four and twenty blackbirds.
Out the side window, I spotted multiple smartphones glowing in the darkness. The birders had gone eerily silent as they watched the blackbirds, as though expecting something more. Most likely, they’d heard of the songs sung at midnight and were waiting.
“Come on,” I urged under my breath. “Sing.”
The birds remained silent, sitting, watching. I could feel their gazes on me, even through the darkness.
The longer they kept silent, the sicker I felt. Minutes ticked by. The birds would be gone soon, back into the leafy tunnel. “What am I doing wrong?”
But even as I asked, I knew. Instinctively, I knew.
The missing ingredient.
I needed to figure out what it was.
You’ll put it all together one day, Anna Kate, when you’re older.
I was quite a bit older now and still had no idea. My eyes stung with frustrated tears as I watched the birds take flight, soaring, then dipping low to return the way they’d come.
The birders applauded.
Bone-weary, I climbed slowly up the steps and planned to go straight to bed, not even bothering to brush my teeth, but as soon as I came into my bedroom, I noticed that the window was slightly ajar.
I thought I’d checked all the windows earlier when searching for the trespassing phoebe, but I must have missed this one. I walked over to the window and looked out. The birders were holding strong in the yard, their animated chatter filling the air. As I started to slide the window down, I sucked in a breath when I saw two blackbirds sitting on the sill.
I hadn’t yet seen any of the birds up close—they rarely left the area around the trees. Suddenly shaky, I knelt down to get a closer look at them as the bedtime story Zee told me long ago echoed in my head.
It’s not until one of the guardians in the family passes over that she becomes a tree keeper, taking with her only the color of her eyes. Twenty-four in total, black as twilight, the keepers fly between the two worlds. They collect messages from those who’ve crossed and pass them along to those who mourn through sweet songs, songs that are too otherworldly to be understood in anything but a dream state.
Midnight at the Blackbird Cafe Page 9
