by Meg Muldoon
Aunt Viv insisted on listening to the witchy queen of rock & roll in the kitchen back then, too.
“Stevie Nicks?” I said, shouting over the music. “Again?”
Aunt Viv looked up from the handful of herbs she was chopping, and her signature coral-stained lips spread into a smile. She wiped her hands off on her apron and came around the island to where I was, putting an arm around my shoulder.
“That’s something you never quite understood, hon,” she said. “Stevie isn’t just a singer. She’s a state of mind.”
I tried not to roll my eyes.
I had nothing against the singing legend. In fact, I liked several Fleetwood Mac songs and some of Stevie’s solo stuff wasn’t that bad, either.
But there was something about a real witch blasting a Stevie Nicks record and singing along to it the way Aunt Viv always did that just seemed like the biggest cliché in the world. There was also something somewhat ridiculous about a real witch changing her middle name to “Rhiannon” to honor her favorite songstress, the way Aunt Viv had done 40 years earlier.
But my aunt didn’t care what I thought about either one of those points. At the age of 66, she loved Stevie, and still styled herself after her icon, dyeing her hair blond, wearing black, flowy, lace outfits, and lining her eyes with dramatic makeup like a teenager might.
“You know as well as I do, Aunt Viv, that despite that witchy façade she puts on, our dear friend Stevie wouldn’t know the difference between a love potion and a soy latte.”
My aunt tilted her head, the way she did when she disagreed with something I said.
“Well, she’s not really a witch – not the way we are, hon. But mark my words, she’s magic in her own way. No witch I know has ever made me want to get up on a table and start dancing.”
Viv started tapping her pointy black shoes on the wood floor and swaying her hips in an awkward dance. She swiveled down low to the ground like a corkscrew, and I couldn’t help but crack up.
Sometimes I wondered where this lady had come from. My grandmother, Geraldine, was your typical coastal resident by everyone’s account – kind, but very reserved and distant. The same went for my grandfather. But somehow, the two of them had created my crazy Aunt Viv. Who while being kind, was about the farthest thing from reserved as you could get.
But then again, beachside communities were always full of eccentric types. And despite her rigid upbringing, she always sang to her own tune.
And most of the time, that tune sounded a lot like a Fleetwood Mac song.
I walked over to the large island in the center of the kitchen and took a seat on one of the barstools. I felt something brush up against my leg as I settled in, and I looked down.
A pair of bright green eyes gazed up at me.
Lindsey Buckingham meowed with happiness as I stroked his ears. A short while later, the fat orange tabby stole across the kitchen toward his food bowl.
Aunt Viv stopped dancing to catch her breath.
“Did you get along okay today, hon?”
I nodded, but I could see a hint of doubt in her eyes. Like she didn’t believe my answer.
She was worried about me, and how I was doing with Steve leaving. Which, I suspected, was the reason she was making her famous salmon chowder tonight. She didn’t like spending much time in the kitchen anymore, but she knew how special her chowder was to me, and that a bowl of that creamy, delicious stew with a slice of warm bread was my very definition of soul food.
“It smells amazing in here, but you really didn’t have to go to so much trouble tonight. I could have just brought home a couple of sandwiches from the café.”
“Aw, it’s my pleasure,” she said. “You know sometimes, all you need to be happy in life is a hot bowl of chowder, a glass of white wine, and a nice view.”
She turned down the music with the remote.
“And lucky us – we’ve got all three right here.”
I wasn’t sure if that was all you needed. But those things sure did help. Besides the chowder and wine, there was something soothing about watching the sun slip down beneath the horizon line and the waves catching fire in the dying light of the day.
There had been many times in my life when I’d thought about picking up and moving away from Broomfield Bay. But in the end, I never could bring myself to leave these views. To leave this fresh air. To leave the familiar, rhythmic sound of the surf pounding against the sand.
I’d come to terms long ago with the fact that this place was in my blood. And that even though I’d always be somewhat of an outcast in Broomfield Bay, I wasn’t going anywhere.
Besides, towns needed outcasts, the same way they needed fishmongers, strong-willed deputies, city councilors, and mayors.
Oh, the mayor.
The thought jolted me back into the present just as Aunt Viv slid something cold into my hand. She set the bottle of Pinot Grigio down on the kitchen island in front of me.
I glanced at the label.
“Wow, pulling out all the stops tonight, aren’t we?” I said.
The wine was a high-end Willamette Valley white that she only drank when things were either really good or really bad.
I studied her as she stirred the pot on the stove.
“Everything okay?” I finally asked, wondering if there was more to Aunt Viv cooking my favorite meal, dousing me with expensive wine, and telling me to notice the view. “I mean, is there anything wrong?”
She took a long sip of wine herself as the pot bubbled, leaving a ring of coral-pink lipstick on the rim of the glass.
“You mean other than our illustrious mayor driving off a cliff this morning?” she said.
“I was wondering if you’d heard the news. You didn’t call.”
“Hon, I know how busy you are down at the café. And I don’t mean to brag, but I knew long before anyone else that Penelope was nearing the end of her days.”
I sat up straighter.
It was a well-known fact, as evidenced by her tsunami prediction in 1964, that Aunt Viv was prone to dream-like visions in which she saw future events.
“You had a vision of her accident?”
“Something like that,” she said. “What can I say? It was in the air.”
She stirred the chowder in silence for a while.
“And let’s be honest here,” she finally said. “That old witch got what she deserved.”
“Aunt Viv!”
My aunt never could exactly keep her opinions to herself. And while she knew that Penelope Ashby most certainly was not a witch, I was betting she was thinking of a different word that rhymed with it.
“Oh, relax. I’m just being honest. I’m not going to change my tune about the woman just because she was stupid enough to build a house on the tallest and steepest cliff on the Oregon Coast.”
She placed a hand on her hip.
“The problem is that Penny never did have any sense,” she continued. “Not in all the time I’ve known her. Which is a pretty dang long time, Ginger Marie.”
Penelope Ashby and my aunt went way back. All the way back to high school, where the two of them had once been best friends. But things between them went sour a few years after graduation, when Penelope outright stole Aunt Viv’s high school sweetheart. That was bad. But what was worse was that Penelope went and married him.
But it wasn’t a fairytale ending. After over 40 years of a stormy, childless marriage, they divorced.
Meanwhile, Aunt Viv never did get married. And I always got the impression that even though it happened so long ago, she never quite got over losing Jerry.
“Stupid Penny,” she mumbled, walking over to the window. “Everybody told her that building a house up there was insane. But she wouldn’t listen. And now…”
She stared out, watching the waves fold over each other in the dusk.
She didn’t say anything for a long while, and I suspected that despite her callous statements, some part of her was sad.
She shook her head,
and then went back to the stove.
“How was business today?” she asked.
I wondered whether I should tell her about Sherwood falling, but decided not to.
“Business is picking up,” I said, taking a sip of the wine, feeling it go down nice and easy. “The tourists are coming back. I think I might need to hire another baker for the season ahead.”
Aunt Viv pulled two bowls down from the cabinet. She started ladling the chowder into them.
“I tell you, you’re doing a lot better than I ever did with the café. It took me two decades to realize it – but kitchen work really isn’t my true calling.”
Aunt Viv had taken over running the café when my grandmother passed away. My grandmother Geraldine, who everybody around here called “Ginger” because of her flaming red hair, was the original owner. She loved baking and put her whole life into Ginger’s. Aunt Viv kept it going in her memory, but after 20 years, she’d lost all passion for it. Which was one of the reasons why she let me take over when I was just 24 years old.
“Want to know what my true calling really is?” Viv said, coming over with the steaming bowls of chowder.
“What?”
“Texas Hold-em.”
I smirked.
Aunt Viv loved her poker. When she wasn’t gardening or working at the Farmer’s Market, she could be found at the casinos in Lincoln City.
I felt my mouth water as the aroma of salmon, cream, butter, bacon, onion, and spices floated up from the stew in front of me. I inhaled deeply, savoring the smell. Aunt Viv sat down across from me.
“Thanks again for making this,” I said. “It’s so nice to come home to.”
But Aunt Viv didn’t say “it was my pleasure,” the way she normally would have.
Instead, she played with her napkin awkwardly.
“Listen, Ginger Marie,” she said, not meeting my eyes. “There’s something I need to—”
The doorbell suddenly rang. The long, old-fashioned chime reverberated throughout the house.
I studied my aunt.
She seemed nervous.
And Aunt Viv rarely got nervous.
I looked over at the pot of chowder. She’d made a lot of it.
“Is there someone else coming to dinner?” I asked.
Aunt Viv took in a breath and then let it out.
Steve?
Had she invited my husband who I hadn’t heard from in three months to dinner?
“You better get that,” she said, patting my hand.
I swallowed hard, then stood up, feeling my insides turn to jellyfish.
I headed down the hallway, stopping in the entry to straighten out my hair in the mirror.
I was mad as hell at him, and I wouldn’t be able to hide it.
But deep down, I also couldn’t hide the fact that I still loved him.
Would I take him back if he apologized?
If he begged me to?
I wasn’t sure yet. I needed to hear him ask first.
Maybe that’s why he was here.
I opened the door, my heart in my throat.
But I stumbled backwards when I saw that it wasn’t my husband waiting out on the porch.
“Ginger Westbrook?”
A young man in a blue cap stood there, fidgeting.
“Uh, yeah,” I said, still a little stunned. “That’s… that’s me.”
He pulled out a manila envelope from the messenger bag strapped across his chest, and handed it over.
My stomach dropped like I was on a seaside carnival ride.
“I also need you to sign this return receipt, ma’am,” he said, handing me a clipboard and pen.
I thought about not signing. About giving the envelope back and slamming the door and running upstairs and jumping into bed under the covers. About locking the world out and ignoring the fact that my entire life was crumbling before my eyes.
But in the end I put down a shaky signature.
“Have a good evening, ma’am,” the young man said before I closed the door.
I hardly heard him.
I was numb all over.
When I got back to the kitchen, the papers in my hand, Aunt Viv had a pained expression on her face.
“You knew the divorce papers were coming?” I asked, my voice trembling.
She got up and gave me a big hug.
“I’m so sorry, Ginger Marie,” she said. “I saw it in a dream last night. I just didn’t know how to tell you…”
I tried not to. But the tears broke through like water from a busted dam, and before I knew it, I was sobbing uncontrollably.
The salmon chowder sat on the counter getting cold.
Chapter 6
I sat out on the narrow widow’s walk, looking into the darkness. A big, waxing moon inched across the sky, its reflection casting a stream of bright light across the ocean, skipping over the black waves like a pebble. The damp, salty breeze tousled my hair as I downed my third glass of wine.
I thought about all the things those divorce papers meant.
That Steve wasn’t just taking a few months to think things through, that the mysterious dark-haired woman he left town with in a sports car – which my friend Christopher had seen – must have been more than just a fling. And, of course, the obvious: that Steve didn’t love me anymore and our marriage was dead in the water.
Spending money on an attorney for my frugal, soon-to-be ex-husband was akin to jumping out of an airplane in the desert with his drunk buddies. I knew that both things would only happen once in his lifetime.
The papers meant that he was done, and that he wasn’t even willing to work things out.
It was a hard pill to swallow, especially being that the divorce seemed to come out of nowhere. Sure we had our fair share of marital problems, but what marriage didn’t? I didn’t like his rowdy friends from the mortgage firm and he didn’t like my clients stopping by the condo for help of a magical nature. But divorce? Moving down to Crescent City? Another woman?
That just wasn’t him.
I took another gulp of the wine.
Who was I kidding? That was the same sorry statement every woman used who had been blindsided by an affair.
I probably wasn’t paying attention like I should have been. Between the long hours at Ginger’s and my side business – all that time spent working to cast spells and create my magical elixirs and potions – I had blown it and failed to notice the distance growing between us. I had totally missed the fraying of the seams that kept our marriage together until those seams busted wide open.
I took a big gulp of wine, remembering the last time I had seen Steve.
“It couldn’t be helped, Ginger. I love her and there’s nothing more to talk about…”
“Where is this coming from, Steve? Who is she? How could you do this to me?”
“It’s over, Ginger. It has been now for a long, long time.”
He flew up the stairs as I stayed at the table, stunned and trying to make sense of his words.
I listened to his footsteps overhead in our bedroom, back and forth, back and forth. Burning tears slid down my cheeks.
The sound of a metal hanger falling on the wood floor echoed throughout the house.
He was packing his work suits.
Those perfectly-pressed suits hanging on his side of the closet. The ones he lived in.
If he was packing those, then he really was leaving.
I curled my fingers around the edge of the table, my nails digging into the soft wood. My eyes lingered on the photo of us up on the wall – the gray metal frame above all of my spices and elixirs.
In the picture, he was dressed in one of those linen suits, his dusty blond hair gelled perfectly in place. He was looking down into my eyes with an expression of pure and absolute love. A look that said I could do no wrong. A look that said he only had eyes for me.
I felt that sick feeling crawl up inside when I realized Steve would never look at me like that again.
I heard
him coming down the stairs.
This was it.
He was leaving for good.
My eyes drifted over to the small ruby bottle on the shelf above the frame. One of Aunt Viv’s elixirs.
The one I had never used before because Aunt Viv warned me not to.
What was it doing here?
Last time I’d seen it, it was high on the shelf in her garden shed. But now, it was here in the condo with the rest of my potions.
It didn’t make sense.
Something suddenly came to me.
If the ruby elixir was as powerful as Aunt Viv made it out to be, then all it would take would be a small drop. A small drop, and a muttering of words. It would be that simple.
And those suits would go back in the closet.
And everything would be back to normal…
“Ginger!?”
I didn’t say anything. My tongue felt like a dead, swollen fish in my mouth.
“Ginger, I’m leaving now.”
The front door creaked open.
I grabbed the bottle and put it in my pocket, but by the time I made it to the living room, he was already gone.
“Steve, wait...”
I heard the sound of an engine revving somewhere in the distance.
I shuddered at the memory.
I’d been carrying around that old ruby bottle ever since.
Chapter 7
“Life is 20 percent what happens to you and 80 percent how you respond. It’s all just a number’s game. Happiness is as simple as a mathematical equation.”
Dr. Victoria Honeycutt’s saccharine voice echoed in my head as I reached for the wine bottle and emptied the last of it into my glass.
Dr. Honeycutt was right. So what if I had been served my divorce papers? Lots of people had gone through this. Fifty percent of those who tied the knot did, in fact. I had to look at the positive. It might take a barrel of wine or two to do so, but there was no use in crying over spilt milk.
What was done was done.
“I am as happy as I allow myself to be,” I said, closing my eyes to stop the world from spinning.
