So why the terror? She squeezed her eyes closed again, and she saw it.
Her grandma Ursula, her heart broken loose from her chest and blood on her hands.
Katrine squeezed inside a small jar. Tara’s own mother holding that jar.
A black-eyed man with a guitar.
And snakes. Dear Lord, there were so many snakes.
They were speaking, a slithering, rustling sibilance, wet tongues and dry skin scraping against one another.
You will never have a better man than me, not one of you Catalain women down the line. I’ll come back and take the power away from every one of you goddamned witches.
The Catalain Book of Secrets: Poison
There is a story whispered of a Catalain woman who was so frightened for her daughters’ future that she poisoned her husband. This wasn’t unusual in a time when women were considered property and men treated them worse than animals. It also wasn’t unheard of for a woman to choose poison over divorce; the former looked like natural death whereas the latter was a moral issue.
The most common form of “home” poison is castor oil beans boiled in the same pot as brown beans, combined with a dash of oleander and mandrake root. Add salt and bacon, and the poison will be undetectable. If the poison needs to be administered in liquid form, mix a ¼ teaspoon hemlock with the same amount of honey and lavender. If it is then mixed in a bitter liquid, like coffee or beer, neither the recipient nor the law will have a reason to suspect.
Winter
Chapter 25
Ursula
The impending dawn was 34 degrees below zero, a temperature that either crushed your spirit or turned it to steel. A mist of water sprayed into this air would hit the ground as tinkling crystals. A local joke had it that if you whistled in weather this raw, your music would freeze on your lips and drop to the ground as note-shaped ice cubes, to pop and thaw in a chorus of sound come spring.
Ursula stepped into the morning bundled in scarves, a thick pair of mittens, and layers of fleece and down. Three minutes’ exposure would kill bare flesh, turn it as black as the plague, yet it was a magical, alien, snow-globe perfect world. Hardpacked snow squeaked under her boots, the piercing sound of the earth crying out. Overhead, prismatic icicles dangled from the street lamps and refracted light in kaleidoscopic patterns of yellow and white. The air smelled bleach-clean and sparkled with charged ions.
She was just in time. The winter sun had begun to rise. It hurt to look at. Not only would extended gazing ice-burn her eyes, but also a sunrise at this temperature was such a rich orange-gold, it humbled a person. It was a whiskey-liquid ball of fiery hope, dragging with it otherworldly purples and magentas and then tangerines the higher it rose until it rested in the sky as if it had always been there. Ursula had not missed a sunrise since the day, at age twelve, that she had mixed the poison that had killed her father. She’d vowed then that nothing would ever come between her and the sun awakening.
It had been an odd summer and then fall, with Katrine coming home. Christmas would be interesting. But then, it always was when you gathered any number of Catalains under a single roof. She would finish her Christmas shopping later this week.
But first, Ursula needed to pray.
She crunched and squeaked her way to Our Lady of the Lakes Catholic Church two miles from the Queen Anne, and entered through the unadorned metal door on the side. It’d never been locked in all the years she’d been worshipping.
The interior was heavy with the scent of frankincense and the clack-thump of marble-encased air. She unwound layers of clothing as she walked to the vestibule, lighting a votive candle from the flickering wick of another one. She whispered a prayer for her mother, sisters, two daughters, and her granddaughter. None of them knew where she went in the mornings, nor would they understand why. She wasn’t sure even she knew, except that she’d found herself wandering around the church the morning after she’d help murder her father, and going inside had comforted her. She’d kept up the routine, always attending in secret.
Every time, in addition to praying for her family, she prayed to erase the memory of her father’s accusing death stare, to forgive herself. It never worked. She also said a mother’s plea, the only request that mattered to her: please don’t make my children pay for my mistakes.
Crossing her chest, she made her way to the front pew, dipping her knee and crossing herself again before entering. The wood was warm and worn. She pulled out the kneeling bench and leaned forward. Bowing her head, she slid a quartz rosary from her pocket. The cross hung over the back of her hand, a flaccid thing. She’d bought it at the drugstore when she’d moved back home. She massaged each bead in turn, releasing the secret smell of roses, emptying her mind as she moved from one bead to the next.
She finished her meditation and stood, feeling oddly, pleasantly empty, like she did every time. She walked the two miles home, entering her car rather than her house when she arrived home. The Toyota was parked in the garage and its core heater plugged in, but it still took some coaxing to turn over. She let it warm for ten minutes before unplugging it from the wall and backing out. The motel was 40 miles away, on the outskirts of Alexandria.
She pulled into the lot. His car was in front of room 23. She parked next to it.
The motel room door was unlocked. She stepped through it, closing her eyes and taking in his scent. She stood like that, leaning against the door, until he spoke.
“I didn’t know if you’d come.”
She opened her eyes, glancing toward the bed. He was stretched out on it, a book opened on his lap. His expression was both pained and hopeful. There was none of the guilty excitement she’d gotten used to in other men. She shed her layers as she walked toward him, mittens here, scarf there, parka falling to the ground like a snake’s skin.
It had taken many private meetings to convince Michael Baum to meet her here today. She knew he didn’t love her, and that he never would. She was aware that he did love Meredith, even if the woman wasn’t reciprocating the affection. She would begin to love him again, once Ursula was done with him. Ursula would make sure of it.
Out of her winter clothes, she pulled her shirt off. The move was practical, not sensuous. She unzipped her pants and dropped them to the floor. He watched her eyes as she advanced, not even looking away when she stepped out of her panties. When she reached him, she put her hand on his zipper and opened his trousers. She reached for him confidently and leaned forward to put him in her mouth. He groaned. The noise excited her, and she took him deeper. His hips bucked.
“Ursula,” he whispered. He wound his hands through her short hair, reaching for one of her full breasts. “Jesus, Ursula. I’ve needed you.”
That was why she’d come. In the winter of her heart, it was the closest she’d ever come to being loved.
Chapter 26
Katrine
“You don’t think it’s too cold?”
“It’s always too cold. It’s Minnesota.”
Katrine stood on the edge of the rink with her sister. It had taken every bit of her persuasive power to coax Jasmine to the ice. As children, they had owned one pair of skates between them, every year a new pair as their feet grew but only a single set because money was tight. They weren’t deterred. They spent two or three days a week at the public rink in the Faith Falls city park. They’d finish their homework, grab the skates, and walk the mile downtown, taking turns gliding across the ice, cheering each other from the sidelines.
Katrine had been trying to get Jasmine out of the house weekly since she’d thrown up on her carpeting. The horror she’d witnessed that day in Jasmine’s memory—the hot pain, vivid violet shame, the reeking snakes—haunted her. Jasmine wouldn’t give up that secret, and Katrine needed her to. It was standing between them. She missed her connection with Jasmine like a limb. She yearned for the tightening of the air around them as both of them returned to the balloon of sisterhood.
It was almost with a sense of desperation that J
asmine turned her down every time, as if she were afraid of how much it’d hurt if she got too close and lost it again. Today, however, Velda had taken Tara shopping, giving Jasmine nothing to hide behind.
“I don’t remember how to skate,” Jasmine said for the twentieth time.
“Like riding a bike.” Katrine walked to the warming house, and Jasmine had no choice but to follow. Skaters packed the pond behind the warming house. The crystalline atmosphere sparkled, turning the skating rink into a diamond mine. The slice of blades on ice carved the air. Winter laughter needled them, searching for warmth inside the folds of coats and curves of mittens. It was a glorious day.
Katrine stopped just outside the squat structure. “Hey, should we rent a single set, just like old times?”
Jasmine smiled back, and the sun rose for Katrine. In that moment, she wanted Jasmine to share her secret more than she’d ever wanted anything in her life. It was all that was standing between them. She couldn’t make her, though, and suspected that Jasmine had interred it in her deepest self, that the secret had grown blood and bone around itself and to remove it would require the rending of flesh. Yet, she’d keep trying. Jasmine didn’t need to carry it alone, even if she was the big sister.
“Jasmine—”
“No.”
Katrine stopped, her mouth open, and then decided not to finish the thought. She entered the warming house, waited her turn, and handed the teenage boy behind the counter a $20 when they got to the front. “Two size 8s.”
She waited until they were alone in the corner of the warming house to finish the question. “Just answer one thing: is this…thing, this memory…is it why you started taking the anti-depressants? And why you sent me away rather than give me a chance to help?”
Jasmine sighed. It was an echo of a sound. “That’s two questions. Let’s skate.”
Katrine followed her onto the ice. She wouldn’t give up on Jasmine, no matter how long it took to draw her out. At first she wobbled on the rink, but soon the muscle memory returned. It wasn’t long before she was skating around the edges, relishing the sensation of flying on the ground, the pricks of air piercing her cheeks and reminding her she was alive, the exquisite, tender equilibrium of the skate blade. It brought to mind the fragile balance she and Jasmine had found.
She glanced guiltily at her sister skating alongside her and was surprised by the Christmas-Day smile on her sister’s face. She almost cried for the beauty of it. She reached for Jasmine’s mittened hand, and they skated like this, two sisters against the world, for this tenuous moment.
***
“Did you hear that Ursula is sleeping with Michael? Michael Baum?”
“Heather’s dad?” Katrine asked over steaming hot chocolate.
“Yup.”
“Christ.” Katrine was used to rumors of her mom sleeping around and so was unsurprised as Jasmine told her that Dean had seen Michael and Ursula’s cars next to each other when he’d pulled in for gas next to the Alexandria “L” Motel. Still, she was mortified. Why couldn’t her mother be more discreet?
“Yup,” Jasmine said. “She’s one of the powerhouses in town. If she finds out they’re having an affair, she’s going to come after us.”
“Us?” Katrine raised her eyebrows. She tried it on for size and found it fit. She was feeling like a Catalain again, bit by bit.
She took another sip of her hot chocolate, thinking of the creamy drink Jasmine used to make from cocoa powder, real vanilla syrup, crystals of white sugar, whole milk, and a dash of fresh-ground cinnamon. It had tasted like puppy love and drinking it used to make Jasmine and Katrine giggle so hard that their eyes watered. She missed Jasmine’s power with an ache like heartbreak. Aunt Helena had the cooking gift with her candy, and Jasmine had had it with everything else. For the first time, Katrine sensed that for Jasmine to reclaim that power would mean reclaiming the memory of what had happened to her.
“What bothers me most about Ursula is that she doesn’t have any boundaries. She’ll sleep with anyone.”
Katrine nodded, trying to distance herself from her mother, just as she had always done. “Guess that hasn’t changed. Want another spin around the rink?”
“You won’t try to play crack the whip?”
Katrine made an “x” across her chest. “Cross my heart.”
Chapter 27
Tara
“Your mom and dad are coming to Ursula’s for Christmas again this year?” Velda had taken her great-granddaughter Christmas shopping every year since the child was old enough to use a toilet. She ostensibly helped her pick out presents for the entire family, but given the number of questions she asked, Tara suspected it was more of a yearly fishing trip.
Tara’s mittens rested empty on her lap, and she pretended to study a hangnail. “Yep.”
“Think you all will stay around longer than usual this year?”
Tara dropped her hand and stared out her window. Because her great-grandma drove a ’73 Mercury Cougar, there was enough space between the two of them to strap in a decorated Christmas tree. Today the distance felt physical as well as emotional. “I think so.”
Tara wanted to tell Velda that she didn’t want to jinx it. Her mom had been steadily growing happier than Tara had ever seen her, the swelling on her wound receding in the tiniest of increments. Her dad hadn’t moved back in, but he’d started taking meals with them. Everything really did seem better with Katrine around. The sky was brighter, food tasted better, laughter healed more deeply. Tara loved Katrine. She wanted to be Katrine. She worried that if she let anyone know how happy she’d been since her aunt came back, that it’d all be taken away from her.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
Tara shrugged. She knew her grandma wouldn’t let up until she gave her something. “The bricks around mom’s heart don’t look as red as they used to, like they’re not so hot to the touch. They’ve been cooling a little bit every day since Katrine and mom had a fight at our house.”
Velda nodded. She was aware of Tara’s talent. When she’d first realized that the child could see into the center of each person’s greatest pain, she’d had one request: Don’t tell me what you see inside of me. Tara knew her great-grandma preferred to look outward rather than in, and that perspective seemed to have served her just fine.
“Maybe she’s cooking up something new in there, something that doesn’t require as much heat.”
Tara returned to studying her fingernails.
Velda patted her back. “You know where we’re going?”
“Christmas shopping.”
“Yes,” Velda said, covering both lanes of the road as she turned right. “To Seven Daughters. I imagine you’re old enough now for one of Xenia’s dresses.”
Tara’s eyes widened, and she tugged at her hand-me-down winter jacket. Underneath, she was wearing a too-large cowboy shirt over too-short Wrangler jeans. “Mom won’t let me.”
“Pfft. You let me handle Jasmine. I was thinking we should pick up a dress for her, too. Think Xenia does rush orders?”
Tara closed her eyes and saw a whole world of chartreuse, gold, and cream where before there’d only been shades of brown. “At Christmas-time?” She shook her head. “Besides, mom would never wear a Xenia dress. Too expensive.”
“She wouldn’t be the one buying it, would she?”
They had to circle Elm Street four times until they located two empty spots front to back, big enough for the Cougar. The air was still too cold for snow, but it was so clear Tara could see the blue when walking through it, and the downtown was bustling with merry shoppers. No store was busier than Seven Daughters, despite a slump in business last fall when those three women had stood outside the door, trying to deter customers. It had worked, but only for a while.
As they walked, people stopped in their tracks when they spotted Velda, hoping to catch her eye and exchange a word with her. Tara observed her great-grandma crank up her charm as habitually as she breathed. She would never grow
used to how much each interaction cost her great-grandma, how each time Velda encountered another person, she had to make herself insignificant and tuck her spirit in a cupboard so she had room for the other person to inhabit her.
“Hello, Linda! How is your granddaughter? Wonderful! Oh yes, Seven Daughters is the best-kept secret in town. You can bet I’m proud of all my girls.” She kept up a steady stream of chatter as they entered the store, which was so packed that they had to gently touch people’s backs to get them to make room.
“To the kitchen,” Velda called over her shoulder, grabbing Tara’s hand as she threaded the crowds.
Tara loved the bustle, the steady chatter of people out shopping, the smells of mint, chocolate, and honey. She followed Velda to the kitchen in back, prepping herself to see a flurry of activity as Helena strove to keep up with her holiday orders. Still, she couldn’t hold back the gasp when they entered the normally-immaculate room.
Velda also stopped in her tracks. “What in the name of Peace is going on back here?”
The kitchen where Helena crafted her candies was as packed as the store floor. Eight women and two men wore full-on aprons and chef’s hats, tubes of frosting and pots of sugar sprinkles perched in their hands. Make that eight women, one man, and a teenage boy. The room smelled of fresh butter and gingerbread.
Helena separated herself from the cookie-decorating group. In her apron, she appeared as round and cheery as Betty Crocker. “Hi, Velda. And Tara!” She hurried over to hug her great-niece, gesturing behind her. “This is the second-to- last of our End Times Training classes that you helped out for way back when, only we’re taking a break from the conclusion of the world to bake Christmas cookies.” She shared a teasing wink with Tara.
The Catalain Book of Secrets Page 12
