The Superstitious Romance

by Anastasia Alexander

  Her foot edged forward, cracking a twig. The sound echoed through the stillness as she scanned the horizon. Thick gray mist floated over the land, seeping between the trees. Were beady eyes peering from the fog? A tap echoed from far away, and she raced behind the garage. No trash cans. Where would they be? Distant noise broke the silence—definitely not the same sound as the hooting last night. She tripped over the cement step as she entered the garage and fell, scraping her chin. Oats and bugs spilled everywhere.

  “Ugh,” Camille said, glancing at the tiny black creatures. She stood, wiping her hands against her jeans, bumping the sliver in her finger. Wincing from the pain, she decided to pull the sliver out before doing anything else. “Halloween must have cast its spell,” she mumbled.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Camille looked up to see the cold, hard, but attractive eyes of Jackson boring into her. She quickly glanced away, suddenly feeling hot.

  “Nothing really.” She continued her way to the house, losing most of her hobble. “Just about Halloween.”

  “What about it?”

  He said his words sharp and hard. She wondered what she had said wrong. “I regret getting out of bed this morning. Sometimes Halloween casts a spell of bad luck on people.”

  “Nonsense,” Jackson said. “What’s happened today that’s so bad?”

  That question shrunk Camille. It was as if he waved his magic wand, zapping her into a humiliated, reprimanded child who had been scolded for being hysterical over nothing.

  “Forget I said anything. You would never understand.”

  “Try me.”

  “I don’t think so,” she said and continued to the cabin.

  She made her way into the kitchen, limping with the pain. As she opened the refrigerator door, Darlene called from upstairs. “Mom, are you okay?” Camille wanted time to collect her dignity, but before she could collect anything at all, Darlene was at her side insisting that she sit.

  “What happened to your foot?” she asked after Camille slipped off her shoe.

  Camille shrugged. To her relief, Darlene didn’t press the issue, just made her a cold pack out of a washcloth and ice and pressed it on the injury.

  “You need to be more careful. You’re going to kill yourself. Richard’s going to roast me if you hurt yourself any worse. You need a protective shield around you.”

  “Stop acting like Richard. Who’s the mom anyway? Would you mind getting me the tweezers? I have a sliver.” Darlene’s eyebrows raised. “And would you sweep up the oat mess in the garage and pick up the logs by the front entry?”

  “But Mom, weevils!”

  “Thanks dear, I don’t know how I’d make it through this divorce without you,” Camille said as Darlene’s delicate mouth formed a pout. “And don’t worry, there’ll be no more incidents. Promise. We’ve had our share already.”

  “More incidents of what?”

  Camille turned to see Jackson standing in the hall, arms loaded with wood. Her heart lurched. His eyes were no longer cold or hard but curious and warm. Flutters bounced around inside her stomach.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I knocked. I thought I heard someone say to come in. So what happened?”

  “Oh, Mom’s been having a lot of trouble today,” Darlene said. “She—”

  “That’s quite enough, young lady,” Camille jumped in before her daughter could say more. “Please hurry and get ready so we can go.” Camille flicked a look at this man who kept showing up. She wondered how long he had been standing there.

  Darlene left, and Jackson strolled around the scattered boxes, through the kitchen to the living room to fill the wood box. He eyed the empty fireplace with the logs drying on the hearth and then looked back to her foot propped on pillows. Her heart seemed to beat double time as his eyes swept over her.

  “Are you sure about doing the fire yourself?” he asked.

  “Positive.” No way would she give him the satisfaction of proving that she was incapable.

  Chapter Three

  Jackson swung the ax, chopping rhythmically. He liked the sound and smell of splitting wood. Sweat dotted his forehead and neck, causing his hair to curl up above his collar. He paused from his labor to shed his coat and inhale the fresh air.

  His muscles ached as he continued his chore, going over his plans for the day. Later he wanted to go into town to pick up supplies—not because he felt social, but because he needed food. He wished he didn’t have to go shopping at all. He’d much rather blend into the scenery, leaving no distinction between him and the outdoors.

  A dark fog seemed to seep inside him as he finished chopping the last of the logs and carried the wood to a stack by the swing. The swing, attached to a tree branch, hung motionless in the still morning. Would Camille or Darlene or the other people staying with them use the swing during their stay, or would they be preoccupied by other things?

  Until he moved here, he had been too busy with the daily grind. He’d never stopped for the simple things like swinging in dawn’s light while listening to music. Now that he had been in Island Park for a while, he realized he had missed out. Instead of getting ahead of the game back in his so-called real life, he had depleted his soul. He was tempted to get on the swing himself after he finished stacking the wood, but if someone saw him, like the Britains, they might get annoyed. He had already bugged them enough for one day.

  Not that he’d set out to annoy them. He paused, reviewing the facts. Camille had come outside to get logs for a fire. Sensing she was flustered, he did the gentlemanly thing and offered to carry in the wood. She’d turned him down flat and scurried away like a spooked squirrel. He waited what seemed an extraordinary amount of time for smoke to filter out the chimney. When that didn’t happen, he made an excuse to go inside the cabin, planning on starting a fire without being noticed. Once inside, Darlene, the daughter, stared at him as if he had purple hair. What had he done?

  He went over the scenario a couple more times and couldn’t come up with a thing, except that Camille must be one of those beautiful, independent women who had “issues.” He felt sorry for her husband, despite her very appealing eyes, and decided it’d be best to stay away as much as possible. The dark foggy feeling continued to settle in his chest.

  The roar of a car caught his attention. He looked and nodded to Camille and Darlene as they drove past. Darlene waved. As he started to slip the hatchet into his belt loop, his hand stopped, fumbling awkwardly. His conversation with Camille had reminded him of superstition, of the bloated dead body, face down, in the mucky water. Pushing the thoughts away, he strode into the woods.

  * * *

  Most of the morning fog had lifted, but the grayish-blue clouds still lingered over the water. Withering grass bowed along the shoreline as the Britian’s car bounced on the rutted road. “It’s sad to see flowers dying,” Darlene said as she thumbed through her plant and animal book.

  “Um.” Camille often associated the seasons with her own stages of life. Was she also browning as she headed into winter? She was young for winter, but sometimes that season sneaked up earlier than expected. As of late, she’d begun to sense that her life had already been lived. Was God forewarning her of an early death?

  “Oh, stop the car, Mom. There’s some flowers that still have blossoms.”

  Camille pulled to the side of the road, and clouds of dust settled on them when they climbed from the car. Wrinkling her nose, Darlene rushed to a translucent flower, sporting a dark purple-spotted center. “A sego lily, don’t you think?” She glanced up, her long hair tumbling to one side.

  Camille nodded and watched her daughter admire the shell-shaped flower. Both the flower and the daughter appeared fragile, but each were stronger than they seemed. The sego lily put up a good fight for life against approaching winter, and Darlene endured the divorce with grace. It was a crime that with her strength and smarts she refused to go to college, but in due time Camille would nudge her there.

  A breeze tossed
strands of Darlene’s hair off her shoulders, a kiss from nature that made Camille smile. Maybe it would somehow protect Darlene and preserve her innocence even though it hadn’t done the same for herself. Camille wondered how she was going to continue her life alone and on her own. Miserable. She’d wither away quietly like the flowers, unknown, her true self never fully bloomed. But her daughter could blossom.

  Darlene checked off sego lily in her book and slid into the car. After securing her seatbelt, she returned to her book. Camille watched her. “You know, dear, you have a great love of learning. I don’t see why you don’t want to—”

  “Mom, I’m not going to college.”

  “You’re always reading and asking questions. What do you have against it?”

  “The structure. I like to study what I want, when I want.”

  “But your education will have holes and gaps. You won’t know what you—”

  “I don’t have to live life like you and Dad. I am an autodidactic person.”

  This silenced Camille. She hated being accused of being anything like Adam, and to have it come from her own daughter made it that much worse.

  When they arrived at the island’s entrance, she fumbled around the dashboard for the card to open the electric gate. A hardy-looking elderly lady, dressed in a flannel coat, jeans, and brown boots, marched up to them. Camille rolled down her window.

  “I’m Phyllis Westguard,” the woman said. “My husband and I watch over the island.” Her face was covered with soft wrinkles, and her high cheeks, defined bone structure, and crystal blue eyes made her striking.

  “Nice to meet you.” Camille extended her hand.

  “Hope you’re looking for solitude because we’re approaching the quiet season. The birds and most people have gone south, and the animals around here are hibernating.”

  “We heard an owl last night,” Darlene said.

  “There are a few of those around, and woodpeckers.”

  Camille remembered the knocking sound earlier and was thinking about mentioning it when Phyllis asked, “Have you met Jackson yet?”

  “Yeah, we met him last—” Camille’s sentence was interrupted by an elderly man who seemed to come out of nowhere.

  He extended his arthritic hand. “Bryce Westguard.” He had friendly wrinkles piled onto each other and was thin as the twig he twirled in his worn hands.

  They shook hands as Phyllis rambled on. “She was going to tell me if she’s met Jackson yet.” Bryce nodded. Phyllis’s eyes held a spark as she waited.

  A busybody, Camille thought as she looked into the woman’s face. Still, she knew she had to answer them so she said, “Yeah, last night.”

  “Isn’t he wonderful?” Phyllis responded. “He’s led the most interesting life.”

  Growing increasingly uncomfortable hearing about a man she’d rather forget, Camille changed the subject. “Do you know the best way of getting a squirrel out of the cabin?”

  The couple laughed. “Those darn critters are devils to get rid of,” Phyllis said. “There’s only one way. It might sound odd, but it works. You get a quart jar and lay it against the floorboard, and the squirrel will run into it. It won’t see the glass, you see. Squirrels always stick close to the wall and they go real fast when you chase them. They’ll plow right into the jar. You’ll need to catch the varmint before it starves. Them squirrels sure smell after they’ve been dead a while.”

  “Thanks for the advice,” Camille said.

  “You’re welcome.” Phyllis patted the window frame, giving a wave as they took off.

  “I’m sure the Native Americans didn’t use mason jars,” Darlene said.

  “The Native Americans didn’t live in cabins or have heaters,” Camille said.

  It wasn’t long before the car hit the deep ruts in the dirt parking lot of the gas station. They parked next to a beat-up white truck where several kids wiggled in the back of the bed, playing with their father’s rusty tools. Camille nodded as she passed them. One of the boys flicked something onto the ground. “Don’t, Johnny,” the other boy whined. “You’ll get us in trouble.” A couple who look like the older version of the kids walked out of the store, holding hands. As Camille approached, the husband gazed into his wife’s eyes, smiling before he kissed her.

  Camille brushed by them, going straight into the store. Darlene soon joined her with Bisquick, milk, and eggs. They made it to the counter where an old man with wrinkles as pronounced as Ripple’s potato chips smiled at them. The man keyed their items in the register and said, “A storm’s comin’. It’s a shame it’s going to rain on your barbecue.”

  “Just heating our cabin,” Camille said.

  “Uh, you weren’t planning on starting a fire in the house with lighter fluid, were you?” he asked. “You’ll blow yourself up. If you don’t know about fires, you should have your husband make a fire before you kill yourself . . . Look, lady, if you need help, how about hiring Jackson Armstrong? He’s been getting quite the repetition around here for doing that kind of thing.”

  “How much do I owe you?” she asked, paid him, and then marched out grumbling.

  She drove in silence until Darlene said, “Uh, Mom, the front tire’s sinking.”

  “What?” She pulled the car off the side of the road to find a nail sticking out of the treads. “Let’s see if we can make it home before it goes flat.”

  “Mom, that’d ruin the rim of your tire.”

  “Great.” Camille plopped down on a log, the cool wind chilling her face. Darlene leaned against the hood of the car and didn’t say a word. Ten minutes passed with nothing said until a billowing cloud of dust hovered in the distance.

  “Think it’s coming this way?” Camille asked, slightly rocking the log beneath her.

  Her daughter shrugged but remained quiet while an orange, beat-up hillbilly truck approached. It didn’t show signs of slowing.

  All at once, an animal darted out of the hollow log. The small creature was covered with thick black fur and sported a white stripe down its head, which continued along its body, breaking off in two different lines on its tail. Camille screamed.

  The skunk stomped.

  “It’s going to squirt me!” she squeaked, her voice high and terrified. She longed to run, but only her mouth worked while the rest of her body refused to budge. It raised itself on its front legs. Its tail rose. Her pulse pounded in her ear. She was going to get it. She was going to get . . . The animal turned, and a long spray of yellow liquid nailed her sweater. The most malodorous smell filled her lungs, taking her breath. She screamed and fell off the log, and the striped animal scurried off.

  “Aaaua!” Camille threw off her sweater. Tears streamed down her face as she approached the truck that had pulled up about two feet away.

  A man wearing a denim shirt leaned over to the passenger side of his truck and rolled down the window. “Are you okay?” His nose twitched at the undeniable skunk odor that filled the once-aromatic woods.

  Just her luck, it was Jackson. Could her day get any worse?

  Camille looked in disgust in the direction the skunk had vanished. “At first I thought it was a black cat,” she said with a hiccup. She was coming close to a scream as she held her nose. “Oh, that stupid creature!”

  Darlene walked away from Camille, laughing behind her hand.

  “It’s not funny!” Camille protested, holding back a sob. “I could smell like this for weeks.”

  “You need help?” Jackson asked.

  “I was sprayed by a skunk!”

  “I can tell.”

  “Thanks a lot,” Camille said.

  “I mean no offense, but you don’t smell like a petunia.”

  “What am I supposed to do?” Even to her own ears, she sounded hysterical. And she couldn’t stop her heart from beating faster. That wasn’t because Jackson was there. It wasn’t! She wasn’t in the least attracted to him, no matter how ruggedly good looking he was.

  “Get rid of your sweater. You’ll probabl
y stink for days.”

  “What!”

  “Could be longer. It’s hard to say.”

  “First my tire goes flat and now I smell like a sewer!”

  He shifted his truck into park. “It’ll be all right. I got a tidbit that might make you feel better. Some people use the foul-smelling liquid of skunk for perfume.”

  “It’s not funny.”

  “I wasn’t joking. Do you want help with your tire?”

  “No that’s . . . yeah, I guess so.”

  “Do you or don’t you? I don’t want to press.”

  “She does,” Darlene said.

  Jackson nodded at Darlene but waited for Camille’s consent. “If you don’t want me helping, it’s fine. Here, let me lend you my cell phone. You can call your husband.” The man dug in his back pocket and pulled out his phone. Camille stared at him. He waved the phone in front of her. “Take it.”

  “Keep it. I don’t need it,” she said, flatly.

  “Course you do. If you haven’t noticed, you’re stranded by the roadside and a storm’s approaching. And you don’t seem to be the most handy person.”

  She peered at the horizon to see dark clouds rolling toward them.

  “Come on.”

  She looked at his rough whiskers, at Darlene, then to the car. Finally, she had no choice to admit, “I have no one to call. I’m not married.”

  “I don’t care about your personal life,” Jackson said gruffly. “Call the people you’re staying with.” He swung the phone in front of her again.

  She stood there without replying, her heart thudding painfully against her chest. She let her gaze wander away from the windowsill and over the equipment on the bed of his truck.

  “You came up to this country by yourself?” He sounded incredulous.

  “What if I did?” She held out her chin squarely.

  “Ah, nothing. Come on; I’ll teach you how to change a tire.”

  “Thanks.” She took a step away from the door to allow him to exit.

  “This isn’t any of my business,” Jackson said as they walked to the car, “but you shouldn’t have come out here without learning a few basic survival skills.”