Thistle Down

by Irene Radford

  Dick looked as if he wanted to say something, but he clamped his mouth shut instead and let his gaze drift up to the waxing moon. “We’ll have a full moon for the Masque Ball. Magic happens under the full moon. Especially in The Ten Acre Wood.”

  “Only for dreamers and lunatics. You’re no help at all.”

  “Should I be? Think about all the wonderful things we did as kids, all the pirate games and exploring the wonders of finding a bird’s nest or watching frogs hop from tuft to tuft in search of the perfect bit of mud.”

  “All natural. Except the pirate games. And that’s just kids playing. You’re a trained scientist. You, of all people, should know that Faeries and Pixies exist only in children’s stories.”

  “Ever think we might be living inside one giant story?”

  Chase snorted. “Just keep Dusty safe. That Thistle woman is a con artist if I ever saw one. Too bad I can’t arrest her without evidence.” He started down the broad stairs. Then he had another thought and returned to Dick’s side. “What made you invite Dusty and her new best friend to the bar tonight? I thought it was supposed to be just us men watching the game.”

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time. We had fun, didn’t we?”

  “Yeah, we had fun.” Chase’s mouth quirked upward despite his best efforts to remain stern. “Especially when the waiter stumbled and spilled an entire pitcher of beer on Phelma Jo. I’ve wanted to do that to her more than once.”

  Dick burst out laughing. “Like the time she ran your boxer shorts with red hearts up the flagpole at City Hall the morning after she broke up with you?”

  Heat flashed from Chase’s toes to his ears and spread across his cheeks. He was just glad the dim light over the door was behind him. “We were never going together, so we didn’t have anything to break up from. She always got rid of her boyfriends before they got tired of her and left. Always in control of the relationship. That’s PJ. I was a senior in high school and she was a football groupie, sleeping her way through the entire team like we were trophies. She only stayed with the guys she could control.”

  Or she was a notch in his own belt of experimentation.

  “Wouldn’t have been so bad if she hadn’t scrawled my name along the fly with magic marker.”

  “That is one vengeful woman, Chase. Best not get on her bad side.”

  “She doesn’t have a good side,” Chase grumbled. Actually she did, but that was one secret he was sworn to keep. The health and well-being of a lot of troubled teens depended on Phelma Jo staying anonymous in helping them.

  She made certain teenage runaways didn’t follow the same self-destructive path her mother had.

  “Amen to that. I’ve had my own run-ins with her. But damn, she is hot, even with the squirrely overbite and mean temper.”

  “Well, I’m going to keep careful watch on her and her new assistant. What kind of name is Haywood Wheatland anyway?” Chase shook his head in puzzlement.

  “I’ll ask around. Discreetly. See if anything comes up on Google.”

  Chase had his own databases on his work computer. He added Haywood’s name to Thistle’s for deep background checks.

  “Anyway, can you find out if he’s a patient of any of your doctor clients? I’ve never seen him around before.”

  “Patient confidentiality will rule. But there’s usually a talkative nurse or two leaving a computer screen untended.” Dick flashed a wide grin.

  “Let me know if you find out anything. I don’t like strangers in my town associating with a woman of questionable morals and business ethics.” And that went for Thistle Down, too.

  He bounced back to his pickup whistling a catchy tune. What was the name of the music? He couldn’t remember it. Great. Now it was stuck in his head until he figured it out. Something to do with May flowers and honey wine.

  Nine

  DUSTY DRIFTED ON THE LIGHT BREEZE wafting along the river. She looked about with lazy curiosity, not at all concerned with the distance between herself and the water that would cradle her. For now she was content to allow air to lift her wings and take her wherever she needed to go.

  A slow smile spread from her mouth to her eyes to her fingertips as the huge white swallowtail wings carried her along. Freedom. No duties or responsibilities or fears chained her to the earth.

  No one judged her. No one threatened her. She didn’t fear saying the wrong thing or laughing at the wrong moment. She was who she was and the wind did not care.

  She laughed. What were the worries of the world when she could talk to the wind and listen to the river from stupendous heights while her wings took her to new places and marvelous sights?

  Slowly, lazily, and carefree, Dusty awoke. She stretched in the small white-painted bed of her childhood and relished the lightness left behind by her dream. And confidence. If she could fly with the wind . . .

  Next time she felt the need to hide in the basement, she should remember that dream and face whatever troubled her.

  A shaft of sunlight showed her dust motes that could easily be Pixies dancing.

  She rolled over just as the alarm clock clicked over to six o’clock and an obnoxious beep reminded her that freedom and self-confidence were only a dream. She had a museum to run and the grant committee to impress. And then a parade to manage and a Ball to organize.

  She just had to remember the dream. Remember it and float forward.

  Yeah. Right.

  Dick backed up his dad’s half-ton truck into the loading bay of the nursery while dawn was just a promise on the horizon. He yawned hugely as he set the brake. Just two minutes. All he needed was two minutes with his head on the steering wheel and his eyes closed.

  “Hey, Carrick, get the lead out!” Tom Ledbetter, otherwise known as Digger, yelled from right beside him.

  Dick jerked awake, swearing.

  “We’ve got a pumper wagon to decorate and horses to hitch before we can march in the parade.”

  A flash nearly blinded Dick. He pressed his fingers against his eyelids to calm the dazzle. “Did you have to take a picture of me asleep?”

  “Candid shots are the best for the social pages.” Digger shrugged and let the camera rest on its vividly striped neck strap.

  “Yeah, yeah. Let’s get those flats of flowers loaded while they’re still fresh. Did anyone bring coffee?” Dick yawned again. A bug fluttered against his lips.

  A big bug.

  He spat it out.

  “Hey, watch it, buddy.” A blue splotch twisted away from the inside windshield. “Phew, you musta had garlic for breakfast.”

  The blue splotch took on definition. Dick saw large green wings and a blue body. And . . . and . . .

  He froze in place, moving only his eyes. Digger had retreated to the rear of the truck to release the tailgate.

  “Who . . . who are you?” Dick whispered. Maybe he was only dreaming. He’d had a short night’s sleep on top of too many beers and too much salty pizza. With garlic.

  “It’s about time you noticed I hitched a ride with you,” the blue Pixie stood on the dashboard while he waved his arms about like a semaphore. He stretched and flapped his leafy wings slowly, as if he needed to work the kinks out of them.

  “Do I know you?” It was one thing to tell himself that Thistle was a Pixie grown to human form, quite another to confront a real-life Pixie.

  “Nah, I don’t hang out in The Ten Acre Wood much. But I know you, and you really—really—need to brush your teeth.”

  “Um, thanks, buddy. What’s your name?” Though Dick could guess, with the multiple thin blue-purple petals that made up his jaunty hat. “You must be Chicory.”

  “You guessed it. Now, quick, tell me what’s up with Thistle, so I can report back to my boss.”

  Dum dum do do dee dee dum. A bright tune surrounded Dick with a sense of well-being and cooperation.

  “Who’s your boss?”

  “Can’t tell. I’m sworn to secrecy.”

  “Nope. We trade information.”


  “It’s just gossip, Dick. Gossip is my job. I’ve got obligations,” the Pixie whined.

  “So do I. I need to load those flats of flowers.”

  “Better water them first. The pansies are looking a little limp. Kinda late in the year for them.”

  “That’s why the nursery donated them.” Dick unfastened his seat belt.

  “Hey, you can’t leave me in the lurch!”

  “Wanna make a bet?”

  “What are you betting on this time?” Digger asked as he shifted a cardboard flat filled with four-inch flowerpots topped with a rainbow of blossoms.

  “I bet a buck the parade finishes eighteen minutes late.”

  “Sucker bet. The parade always takes longer than planned.” Digger dropped the flat and pushed it into the far corner of the truck bed.

  “Dick, grab those snapdragons. They’ll make a nice contrast in height and color to the pansies,” Chicory whispered from the region of Dick’s left ear.

  Why not? He selected a flat from the array on the loading dock.

  “Not that one. They’re full of bugs. Get the one to your right,” Chicory advised.

  “Have you noticed how many bugs are around this morning?” Digger waved his hand in front of his face, chasing off some yellow flying things that might be Pixies, or dandelion blossoms floating through the air. “Loud buggers.” Digger’s gesticulations increased as the swarm of yellow grew to ten and then fifteen.

  “Dandelions,” Chicory whispered. “Always a dozen or more in the tribe. We call them by number; they’re too dumb to have names. Too many of them to bother naming.”

  “Just like weeds,” Dick mumbled. Then he spotted a flat filled with waving blue flowers. “I thought chicory was a ditch weed.”

  “That’s a low blow,” Chicory replied. “See if I help you again.” He lifted off Dick’s shoulder, grabbing a fistful of Dick’s hair. The swarm of yellow followed him.

  “It’s going to be a long day,” Dick sighed, slapping the stinging place on his scalp.

  “You got that right,” Digger replied. “Let’s grab some coffee at Norton’s on the way to the station.”

  “Dick, where’s Thistle?” Dusty asked as she wolfed down peanut butter toast and a cup of strong tea.

  “How should I know?” he replied on a yawn, running his hands through his rumpled hair. He’d shaved and pulled on his buff knickers with bright red suspenders, but not his blue fireman’s shirt for the parade. “Coffee. Don’t suppose you made coffee?” He looked at her hopefully. “I didn’t take the time to meet the other volunteers at Norton’s before they start decorating the wagon. Too noisy and bright for my hangover.”

  “In the pot.” She pointed to the coffeemaker full of his favorite exotic blend—organic and free trade, of course. She couldn’t stand the taste of the stuff even diluted with cream and sugar.

  Dick poured a big mug full and swilled half of it down, hot and so strong it almost had a life of its own. He kept looking at his left shoulder as if missing something.

  “You should have noticed if Thistle left before my alarm went off. The guest room is right across the hall from yours,” she reprimanded him. “The bathroom is between her room and mine, so I wouldn’t hear her even if she made a racket.”

  Besides, Dusty had been drifting in that lovely dream before the alarm brought her back to the real world.

  “Sorry. I was down at the nursery hauling plants long before your alarm went off. I’m back only long enough for a shower. It’s already hot, but not as humid as yesterday.” He shrugged and shuffled back up the kitchen stairs to the second floor.

  “I don’t have time to look for Thistle. The grant committee is coming to the museum early,” Dusty called after him.

  “Parade duty and then work,” he mumbled.

  Dusty took one last swallow of English Breakfast tea with just a tiny bit of honey and freshly-squeezed lemon, grabbed her purse, and dashed out the door to her little hybrid car.

  “I shouldn’t spend any more time with exiled Pixies. Nor will I believe I can fly. That’s as ridiculous as . . . as me having a date with a real man and not some lame fix up.” But, oh, it was a nice dream of flying. She sighed wistfully as she guided the car toward the museum on the ridge overlooking downtown. “I don’t think I’m going to accept the date Mom arranged with whatever his name is. It will be just like all the others: dull, embarrassing, and a disappointment for all concerned.”

  Most days, when the weather was fine, she walked the few blocks to work. Today she wanted to look professional for the grant committee. Two-and-a-half-inch heels, hose, and a tight navy blue skirt did not take well to walking any distance. At least not for her.

  A quick survey of the museum grounds told her that the herb garden planted in a knot design had been carefully weeded and watered. The signs on the outdoor exhibits looked straight, clearly visible, and legible. The City Parks Department had mowed the grass and raked it two days ago.

  The sprinklers turned on their automatic timers as she bent down to reset the strap of her navy sling-back heels.

  Fat droplets swished across her back and head. The spray of water passed on in its wide circle. The droplets hit in a distinctive rhythm. A tune, that might be the same one her old music box played but was catchier and brighter, caught the back of her mind in time with the sprinkles.

  “Who reset the timer?” she shouted to anyone who might hear. Hastily, she rolled up the car windows and scuttled toward the sidewalk where the watering system didn’t dare threaten potential customers.

  The tune seemed to dance along with her heels clacking against the cement.

  Dum dee dee do dum dum.

  The line of water followed her like a malicious and living monster. It broke every rule of high summer water conservation and plastered the sidewalk as she ran away from the museum grounds toward the place where the road dead-ended by The Ten Acre Wood and the curving cliff.

  Chiming laughter followed her every step until it suddenly choked on a sob.

  Dusty looked up, realizing the water had turned itself off, leaving her slightly damp around the edges but not seriously soggy.

  There, where the parkland grass met the first line of trees and sword fern underbrush stood a lone figure in a wilted purple-and-cream sundress. Her long dark hair flared out from a very pale face.

  “Thistle, what are you doing here?” Dusty wanted to yell at the woman. Something in her slumped posture and bedraggled appearance made Dusty soften her tone.

  “I can’t go home,” Thistle whispered. “I ache all over, my tummy is upset, and the light hurts my eyes. I need to go home to our den and let Trillium take care of me. I need to grow my wings and be purple again.”

  “You’ve got a hangover. No wonder, with the amount of beer you drank last night. Come on into the offices and I’ll get you some orange juice and aspirin. Dick swears that’s the only way to get over a hangover.”

  “You don’t understand. I’m stuck in this ugly, lumpy body forever. I can’t ever go home.” Fat tears trickled down her pale face, blurring her fabulous purple eyes.

  “Thistle, you are the only person alive who thinks that’s an ugly body. And most people admire the lumps. Stop whining. Come on. You can stay in the museum lounge today. I’ve got meetings and the parade and a bunch of scheduled tours today. But tomorrow you need to look for your own place to live and a job. I can’t afford to support you.”

  Though life would be duller and less bright without Thistle around. Years ago, all the color had drained from Dusty’s life when she got sick. Thistle had been the only bright spot in her life for many years after. Gradually, as Dusty grew older, Thistle stopped coming. She checked in once in a while, but it had been years since the tiny Pixie had graced Dusty with her presence.

  She deliberately called up her dream and the feeling of carefree flight. When she opened her eyes, the world seemed a bit brighter and less threatening.

  “Pixies don’t need to work,�
� Thistle sobbed. “A Pixie’s purpose is to befriend children who need us. We live on pollen and morning dew, gossip and an occasional mosquito. What will I do, Dusty? I need you and Dick. Without you, I am nothing. Without you two, it’s as if I don’t exist.”

  “I’m not a child anymore, Thistle. I’ve grown up. Now you need to do the same.”

  “But I can’t. Pixies can’t grow up. We just wither away and die when children stop believing in us.”

  “I still believe in Pixies, Thistle. I’d go insane if I didn’t hold our friendship deep in my heart.”

  Ten

  “HAYWOOD, WHY ARE YOU SITTING at your desk?” Phelma Jo tapped her foot in annoyance, hands on hips and chin thrust forward. Her first husband had told her he was afraid of her when she took that pose.

  Haywood maintained that strange frozen pause when she finished speaking. Then he answered her as if no time at all had passed. “I’m at my desk checking on some local ordinances . . . I’m checking on some local ordinances before you file documents on your latest project,” Haywood replied calmly, flashing his heartstopping smile. “It’s Saturday. No one will be in City Hall to notice me snooping through their databases and City Council minutes. I don’t think we’ll be bothered with state laws unless someone knows where to complain and bothers with acres of paperwork.”

  “I need you to go to the museum and get me my invitation to the Ball,” she reminded him.

  “I will be on Desdemona Carrick’s doorstep thirty seconds after she opens the doors to the public.” He returned his attention to his computer screen and frowned.

  “What?” Phelma Jo demanded.

  “Just a law we’ll have to get the City Council to override. I’d rather manipulate the mayor into signing off on the project before taking it to the City Council. But his authority may not extend to this.”

  “The self-serving bastard is retiring. Our less-than-illustrious mayor is always vulnerable to bribes. I’ll take care of the override.”

  “If anyone finds out what you did, you could be vulnerable to fines and possible jail time. That would make you ineligible to run for mayor.”