Witch Woman

by Jeanette Baker

  "What do you mean?"

  "I'm not Jesus. I can't make the blind see or the crippled walk."

  "Neither can I."

  Again he laughed. "That's not what I hear. Seriously, the aging process is inevitable. Some people can't accept that skin sags, energy levels decrease and metabolisms slow down."

  "Ouch. That sounds terrible."

  "Not really. It's the price we pay for living. Think about the alternative."

  "I don't disagree with you, however, we know a great deal more than we did fifty years ago. Diet, exercise and certain supplements can help arrest the slowing down process."

  "I believe it's good genes more than anything else."

  The bells of the Immaculate Heart Catholic Church shattered the stillness. Blood pounded in Maggie's cheeks. What was the point in arguing? "What do you eat for breakfast?"

  "Oatmeal, fruit, toast. In the summer, dry cereal."

  "How often do you run?"

  "Every morning."

  "Why?"

  "I know where you're going with this."

  "I'm not suggesting that we should look like magazine models," she continued, "but topical Vitamin C for the skin, glutamic acid for joint stiffness, arnica to limit bruising are effective treatments. Plastic surgeons prescribe them all the time."

  "For some," he admitted.

  "Not all antibiotics work either," she countered. "Nor do bypass surgeries and angioplasties. And what about dementia and cancer? Why do some people respond to chemotherapy and others don't? To a certain degree, medicine is still hit or miss. Basically, doctors are really human body mechanics."

  Scott whistled and raised his eyebrows. "Interesting perspective." Slowing his pace, he stopped in front of a cozy shop, its wide front window framed by blue and yellow curtains. "I stop here for my daily fix of caffeine. Is that okay?"

  Maggie looked around. They were on the wharf. Boats bobbed in their moorings and white-capped waves slammed against the weathered pier. "Of course it's okay. Why would you ask?"

  "I thought you might be a purist with off limits."

  "Not at all. I love good coffee."

  He held the door for her. "Then this is the place. Welcome to my home away from home."

  Warmth was Maggie's immediate sensation. She stepped from the frozen gray of the Salem morning into a light-filled room with copper cookware hanging from the ceiling, wooden floors, booths with cloth covered tables and small pots of delicate daffodils in every corner. Daffodils, in winter? A small woman with gray-streaked hair smiled from behind a display case loaded with mouth-watering pastries.

  She beamed at Scott. "Good morning, sweetheart." She glanced at the clock. "You're late this morning."

  "With good reason. I brought you a new customer. This is Maggie McBride, the one who opened the store I told you about." He turned to Maggie. "This is my mother, Lillian Hillyard."

  "It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Hillyard."

  "It's Lilly. Please come in and sit down. I've baked some lemon bread and the coffee's fresh. Scott tells me you've opened an alternative medicine shop."

  Maggie slid into a booth. "Actually, it's a little bit of everything. I don't practice medicine, alternative or otherwise."

  "But you sell vitamins and herbs."

  Maggie watched Lilly Hillyard slice healthy portions from a loaf of golden bread and pour three cups of coffee into delicate, floral cups. "I do and I suggest remedies for minor ailments."

  Lilly handed the bread to Scott and carried the coffee to the booth where Maggie was seated. "It's really coincidental. The woman who lived in your house did the same thing. She's a friend of mine." She smiled Holly Hillyard's smile. "Maybe Salem encourages that sort of thing. What kind of minor ailments do you mean?"

  Maggie poured cream into her coffee and helped herself to a slice of bread. "Well, for example, if someone was congested, I'd suggest a drop of peppermint oil on the back of the tongue before bed. It clears the nasal passages. Organic aloe vera and chamomile are excellent for dry skin and hair and then there's arnica montana for bruising. I always recommend it three or four days before people have surgery. Ginger," she continued, "promotes circulation for the hair and scalp. It works well for people whose thinning hair isn't hereditary." She bit into the bread. Bursts of sweet, lemony flavor filled her mouth and nose. "This is delicious. I've never tasted anything like it. How do you do it?"

  Lilly Hillyard's eyes gleamed. "I'll make a deal with you: a recipe for a recipe."

  "If you're thinking what I'm thinking, we can shake on it."

  "Wait a minute." Scott frowned at his mother. "None of this is based on scientific evidence."

  His mother looked at him steadily. "This isn't rocket science, Scott," she said gently. "Maggie's expertise is harmless. Surely you can see that."

  "Of course. What I don't understand is why you haven't told me that you need something for a physical ailment."

  "It's not an ailment at all." She looked down at her napkin, her lips twitching. "I'm in the market for younger looking skin. I thought I might try something natural before making an appointment with a plastic surgeon."

  His jaw clenched. "You aren't serious."

  Lilly sipped her coffee and lifted a forkful of lemon bread to her mouth. Not until she'd thoroughly chewed and swallowed it did she answer. "I certainly am and whether you realize it or not, I'm not that old. Facelifts for women my age aren't uncommon anymore. I've actually made an appointment with a plastic surgeon for a consultation."

  "That's ridiculous."

  "It's not ridiculous at all. Now, if there was another alternative that wasn't so drastic, I'd take it." She nodded at Maggie. "This young woman seems to know what she's talking about. Why are you objecting? It can't hurt."

  Scott threw up his hands. "A facelift is major, elective surgery. If it's a choice between aloe vera gel and a facelift, by all means visit Maggie's store. Just promise me that you'll tell me before you decide on anything drastic."

  "Of course, dear. You would be the one to pick me up, wouldn't you?" His mother winked at Maggie. "When are you the least busy?"

  "I'm not sure yet," Maggie replied. "Everything is still new. Come whenever you feel like it. I'll make time for you."

  "In that case, I'll write down my bread recipe. The secret is in the whipping cream."

  * * *

  "Why do I have the feeling that you're not happy about your mother's interest in my shop?" Maggie asked. They were jogging home at a pace much slower than the one with which they set out.

  "Because I did everything I could to dissuade her from her ridiculous notion and because you're intelligent enough to pick up on obvious signals."

  "Flattery will get you nowhere."

  "I still can't believe she's serious."

  "You can't believe she's serious about wanting to try looking younger or serious about plastic surgery?"

  "Both." He stopped, resting his hands lightly on his hips. "Look. This is my mother we're talking about. My mother, from the beginning of time, has always preached that a person's looks aren't important, that the measure of a person is his compassion, his temperament, his gray matter. This is just as earth-shattering as it would be if Mother Theresa had checked into a day spa."

  Maggie struggled against the laughter bubbling up within her. He was genuinely upset as if some major foundation stone of his life had shifted, threatening all that was secure and important. "Scott, your mother wasn't serious. She has no intention of undergoing plastic surgery. She said what she did to put into perspective your feelings about home remedies. That's all it was." He stared at her, arrested. "How can you know that?"

  "Anyone objective would know that."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes."

  He resumed his pace. Maggie fell in beside him.

  "Why would she do that to me?"

  She measured out her words, enough to get the message across, not enough to raise the important questions, questions about his irrational bias, his hea
rtbreaking loss, the wall he had built, reinforced and buried himself within. "She wanted you to see how harmless her interest is."

  "Why would she be interested at all?"

  Maggie grinned. "My guess is, she's your mother and she has a vested interest in any woman you admit to sharing your morning run with, especially one that you made a point of inviting into her shop."

  He laughed, the last of the shadow disappearing from his brow. "You could be right. It has been a while. Strange, how you figured all that out in such a short time. I never would have guessed. Are you always so intuitive?"

  "I think it's a woman thing. It comes with the extra "x" chromosome."

  He shook his head. "It's more than that. There's something unusual about you." He thought a minute. "It occurs to me that you never mentioned what you did before you decided to set up shop here in Salem."

  Was it her imagination or did the pounding of her heart measurably increase? She should have been prepared for the question. It was not an unreasonable request to ask what a person had done for a living. Why, then, had she assumed it would never come up, that she could simply settle into her new life without accounting for the previous fifteen years? She was tempted to ignore the question and change the subject. Common sense told her that would only pique his curiosity and increase her mystique, neither of which appealed to her. On the other hand, there was no justifiable reason why she shouldn't state the facts.

  Rounding the corner they slowed to a stop beside Maggie's front porch. "I was in law enforcement."

  He looked surprised. "Really?"

  "Yes, but I couldn't wait to get out." She smiled. "Thanks for the motivation and the company. I was doubting myself when I saw the thermometer. Then you came along and my decision was made."

  "We can do it again, whenever you like," he assured her. "I pass by at the same time every day except weekends."

  "Say hello to Holly. Where is she, anyway?"

  He checked his watch. "Sleeping. Take care, Maggie."

  Breathing a sigh of relief at her reprieve, she closed the door behind her, stripped off her gloves and headed upstairs for the shower.

  Chapter 14

  The sun broke through the clouds just as Maggie turned the Open sign around on her door. She sniffed appreciatively and smiled. Already the day looked promising. Aromas of oven-fresh oatmeal bars competed with those of cinnamon, sage and cranberry wafting from the teapot brewing on the counter. Olfactory was the strongest, most primal sense. She was counting on it to coax customers to linger. But, first they needed to walk in.

  Susannah Davies, her petite frame wrapped in a Pashmini shawl, her feet encased in Ugg boots, breezed through the door. "I wanted to catch you before you were too busy."

  Maggie laughed and held out a cup of fragrant tea to her guest who accepted it immediately. "That's an optimistic thought. Too busy is a condition I have no experience with."

  "Give it time. You've just started out." Susannah bit into an oatmeal bar and moaned. "Seriously, I think you've missed your calling. You should be a caterer. I'd keep you busy all by myself."

  "I'll think about it." Maggie poured a cup for herself. "What brings you here this morning?"

  "I'm working on something. I need vanilla bean and some cinnamon bark."

  "That's easy enough."

  "There 's something else I've thought of, if you're agreeable."

  Maggie waited.

  "Soon, when you're proficient enough, you could offer spinning lessons." She hurried on before Maggie could object. "It would bring in business as well as keep you sharp. I've found that teaching is the best way to learn."

  "But I'm an amateur," Maggie protested. "I can barely manage on my own."

  "I'll help you. Spinning is instinctive. You'll be fine. It's in your genes. I can tell."

  Maggie stared at the older woman, at the animated face and ageless eyes, at the whiteness around the fingertips that indicated tension. "Please don't be offended, but I have to ask a question."

  "Go ahead."

  "Why would this concern you at all?"

  "Events will move along faster."

  "Excuse me?"

  Susannah sat down, the jewel-colored shawl swirling like flames around her. "I like you, Maggie McBride. Small businesses have a difficult time hanging on. I'd like yours to be a success."

  The bell sounded. Someone else had walked in. A tall, thin woman, dark-haired with a dramatic gray widows' peak dividing her forehead stood just inside the door. She wore sunglasses, faded jeans and a white sweater.

  Maggie moved toward her, not hearing the small, nearly inaudible catching of Susannah's breath. She held out her hand. "Hello. How can I help you?"

  The woman kept her arms at her sides. "My husband drove by on his way to work and mentioned that you'd opened your store. I wanted to see for myself. My name is Deborah Summers and I live down the street. If you don't mind, I'll be feeling my way around. I'm blind."

  Maggie's hand dropped. Blind, but no cane and no dog. "Welcome. I'm Maggie McBride. Would you like me to find something for you, or would you like to just... browse?"

  "It sounds like you're already busy." She nodded in Susannah's direction. "I'll let you know if I need anything."

  "Of course." Maggie, aware that the blind had heightened sensitivity due to the adaptation of their other senses, did not want the woman to think she was monitoring her. She turned back to where Susannah sat waiting to resume their conversation. "I appreciate your concern, but when it comes to promotion, I think I should stick to something I know well. Besides, business is increasing. I'll think about the spinning classes when I'm more accomplished, speaking of which, when is my next lesson?"

  "Tonight," Susannah said immediately. We should definitely make it tonight." She smiled. "Thanks for the goodies. Let me pay you for the spices and I'll be on my way."

  "I'll charge you on the condition that you let me pay for my spinning lessons."

  Susannah's eyebrows rose. "Didn't I ask you to pay?"

  "No. You didn't."

  Susannah stood. "In that case, I'll accept the vanilla and cinnamon. I'll see you at 8:00."

  Maggie watched her leave, a blaze of color warming the gray street. A witch, Susannah Davies is a witch.

  "Excuse me."

  Maggie turned to find the blind woman backed up against the couch. "Yes."

  "Is there a cat in here?"

  Maggie shook her head, realized the woman couldn't see her and spoke. "I have a cat, but she's not in the room at the moment."

  "Cats don't agree with me. I can always tell when they're around."

  Maggie suppressed a flash of annoyance, ashamed of her reaction. Not everyone was a cat person. "May I help you with something, Ms. Summers?" she asked gently.

  "I'd like some melatonin."

  "It's right here." Maggie located it on a shelf. "If you have sleeping difficulties, you might try valerian root. It works better than melatonin for most people. I believe the success rate is eight out of ten."

  "Is it more expensive?"

  "No."

  "Maybe I'll try it next time."

  Maggie didn't press her. As far as she was concerned, the sooner Deborah Summers left, the better. She counted out the woman's change and placed it into her upturned palm.

  "Something smells delicious," Deborah said.

  "Thank you. It's cranberry sage tea."

  The woman waited.

  Maggie hesitated. "Would you care for a cup?"

  "I'd love one."

  Maggie returned with a steaming porcelain mug to find the woman seated on the couch. She found her way around quite well for a sightless person. "Where did you say you lived?" Maggie asked.

  Deborah accepted the tea. "Just down the road, on the other side of Dr. Hillyard and his daughter."

  Maggie relaxed. "You know Holly?"

  "I've known her since she was born. Such a shame about the divorce. I really liked Penny. My husband, Wayne Summers, is a science teacher at the ele
mentary school. Holly is in one of his classes. He's very impressed with her intelligence and her artistic ability. She comes over sometimes, just to chat. Interesting, isn't it, how she resembles neither parent? She isn't the least bit like either one of them."

  Maggie frowned. How would she know that? She changed the subject. "What is it that you do, Mrs. Summers?"

  "Please call me Deborah." She traced the edge of the table before setting down her cup. "I sculpt."

  "Really?" A dozen questions rose in Maggie's mind, none of which could be asked at this stage in their relationship.

  "It's one of the things I've been able to carry over."

  "Carry over?"

  "I haven't always been blind."

  "I'm sorry," replied Maggie, and meant it. How ironic to be a blind artist. What must it be like to create beautiful things without ever seeing them? "How did it happen?"

  "It was a car accident. I don't like discussing it."

  Maggie stared at the sunglasses, darker than usual. How odd. She sensed no violence or even trauma. A long minute passed. Neither woman spoke. "I'm sorry," Maggie said again, not quite so gently. "Can I get you anything else?"

  "Not today. I imagine you have a great deal to do."

  "Thank you for coming in. It was nice meeting you."

  "It's important to make newcomers feel welcome." Deborah stood. "I would have come over immediately, but I don't move around well in the throes of winter."

  "I understand."

  "We'll have a neighborhood get-together soon." She edged toward the door. "That way you'll meet everyone."

  Maggie watched as Deborah avoided the corners of the table, retracing her steps to the entrance, placing her right hand on the door knob. Everything was standard height. That would explain the woman's smooth movements, her sure placement of feet and hands. Still, how odd that she would be so comfortable in a new environment. "I'll look forward to it," Maggie replied.

  "You aren't married or seeing anyone?" Deborah asked.

  "No."

  "There's a teacher at the school, divorced last year. Would you be interested?"

  "Not at all," Maggie replied firmly. "Please don't even think about it."