Something else puzzled and disturbed her. The instinctive ease with which she came up with remedies for minor ailments was gone. Normally, she put herself to sleep every night imagining the treatment for a particular problem, the ingredients, its concoction and application as well as the reduction of symptoms. For some reason, much of her innate knowledge had disappeared. She had to look up the information and study it carefully, committing the steps to memory, something she'd never done before. It was as if a piece of her was missing, a door forever closed.
Lilly Hillyard walked into the shop. "I'm not sleeping, Maggie. I know it has to do with what happened to Holly and it will probably take time, but I don't want to take sleeping pills. What do you suggest?"
Maggie replied automatically. There was no need to consult resources for this one. "Valerian tea forty-five minutes before bed should do the trick, along with a warm bath. I like to brew the tea in the morning. Just add two teaspoons of the root to two cups of warm water. Let it stand until evening, then strain it and heat it up. Add a teaspoon of honey and drink a cup after dinner and another cup before going to bed, after your bath. You should be okay after a few nights. If not, come back and I'll suggest something else. Passionflower and ginger are good, too."
"Very good. I'll try it. How are you doing?" asked Lilly. "When I saw that your shop was closed I started to worry."
"I'm better. I think not having Abigail here will be an adjustment, but I don't have a choice, not anymore."
Lilly frowned. "Abigail? I don't think I know her."
At a loss for words, Maggie stared. "I meant Susannah Davies," she stammered.
"Oh, Susannah. You've mentioned her before but I didn't realize the two of you had become friends. Has she gone somewhere?"
A steady, maddening hum began in Maggie's left temple. "I believe she's moved out of town."
"Really? I wonder why?"
Maggie tried again, more cautiously this time. "Have you seen Laurie Cabot lately?"
Lilly looked at her strangely. "Why would you ask me that? Laurie and I don't move in the same circles."
Maggie forced a laugh. "That doesn't surprise me." She handed Lilly her package. "If you still have insomnia, let me know."
"I'll do that. Thanks, Maggie."
Maggie resisted the urge to hang the closed sign in the window. Instead, she worked quietly and conscientiously for the rest of the day, forcing herself to go through the motions measuring tinctures, wrapping packages, prescribing chamomile, peppermint, hops and lemon balm for sleeplessness, congestion and sore throats until she could justify, at six o'clock, locking her door, turning the sign over and retreating to the privacy of her house.
Abigail was gone and for some reason specific memories had disappeared along with her. What would have changed, Maggie wondered, if she'd gone back, too? She'd read somewhere that one person taken out of the equation was enough to change the direction of the world. She shivered. The possibilities were too much to think about. Maybe, eventually, she would forget, too, just as Lilly had. She didn't want that. She wanted to remember everything about Abigail March, the woman who had returned for her and gone back alone. Abigail March, her mother. Maggie sat down at her desk, reached for a sheet of lined paper, thought a minute, and then began to write.
Chapter 31
Evenings lasted longer now that it was officially late spring and the temperature rose to a comfortable seventy degrees. Maggie stayed open longer to accommodate the tourists flooding Salem's streets. After a particularly profitable day, she had just turned on the news and sat down on the couch to enjoy a massive baked potato stuffed with vegetables, when she heard the doorbell ring.
Leaving her dinner on the coffee table, she stood by the door without opening it. "Who is it?"
"Scott Hillyard."
They'd run in the morning together for months, shared long conversations, gone out to dinner and even kissed, yet he felt he had to identify himself using his surname. Her resolve hardened. "I'm not home. Go away."
"Please, Maggie. I came to apologize."
"Accepted. Now, go away."
"Look, Maggie." He sounded desperate. "I've been a jerk. I'm so sorry to have doubted you. I've changed. Give me another chance."
Maggie frowned. It didn't sound like Scott. She looked through the peephole. No doubt at all. Scott Hillyard in the flesh. "Another chance for what?"
"For God's sake, open the door. I can't stand here shouting like this. It's embarrassing."
Definitely the same old Scott. "I'm not asking you to. Go away."
"Hi, Maggie," a small voice said. "It's Holly. Please open the door. I miss you, and Muffin, too."
Maggie closed her eyes and leaned against the door. Bringing Holly as an emissary wasn't fair.
"Please, Maggie. Daddy told me what you did to find me. It was so brave."
Maggie groaned.
"I miss you, Maggie." Scott's voice broke. "I need you." She didn't answer.
"I'm going to count to twenty. If you don't open the door, we'll leave you alone. Ok?" They counted together, "One, two, three," moving steadily forward through the numbers. Maggie listened, wondering if she could sustain any more heartbreak.
When they reached fifteen, they slowed down, stretching out the syllables, until they reached nineteen. "Nineteen and a fourth," Holly said. She was crying now. "Nineteen and a half, nineteen and three-fourths."
Maggie reached down, turned the knob and opened the door. "Muffin missed you, too," she said, "but not as much I did."
Holly threw herself into Maggie's arms, hugging her fiercely.
Over the child's head, Scott's eyes met hers. "Forgive me," he said. "I've been an idiot." He smiled at her. "I met your mother."
Holding Holly's hand, Maggie stepped aside. "You're forgiven. Come in. We're having baked potatoes for dinner. I want you to tell me about her."
The End
Jeanette Baker is the award-winning author of fifteen novels, published by Harper Collins, Pocket, Kensington and Mira Books, many of them set in the lush countryside of historical and contemporary Ireland where she lives and writes during the summer months. Her ancestors, the O'Flahertys, hail from Inishmore, the largest of the Aran Islands located off the coast of Galway. She takes great pride in the prayer posted by the English over the ancient city gates, 'From the wrath of the O'Flahertys, may the good Lord deliver us.'
Jeanette graduated from the University of California at Irvine and holds a Masters Degree in Education. When not in Ireland, she teaches in Southern California, reads constantly, attempts to navigate the confusing world of Facebook and, more recently, e-publishing, concocts creations from interesting cookbooks and enjoys the company of friends and children. She is the RITA award-winning author of NELL.
You can visit Jeanette at www.jeanettebaker.com
Table of Contents
Cover
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Meet the Author
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