Like a sea turtle.
I helped Daisy to her feet. She rested against the aluminum rail, trying to catch her breath as we watched the drama play out. There was nothing we could do, no help we could offer. Adam had brought this upon himself.
The turtle overtook Adam with only a few strokes. Its broad shell eased up over his back as he frantically tried to swim away. We watched it begin to submerge, taking him down with it.
People were running on the pier now, shouting and pointing. A muscular man in shorts and flip-flops pointed and yelled, then waded out from the beach and started swimming with strong strokes toward where Adam had gone under. It took the man only minutes to swim the short distance from shore, but when he reached the water beneath our feet, both the turtle and Adam were gone.
♦
It was two days before divers found Adam's body, tangled in the pylons beneath the pier. The police believed that Adam was killed by a gator, that he was grabbed and dragged down in the way that gators drown their prey. The witnesses on the pier saw what they wanted to believe, and they corroborated the story. The newspapers had a field day, dredging up old tales about monster gators in Lake Pontchartrain. A few days later, Adam’s body was returned to the family for burial.
♦
There was no circle for Adam, no elaborate funeral. Adam had always kept to himself, so he had few friends. I learned later from Aaron that some of his drinking buddies had gathered at their favorite bar in the Quarter for a makeshift wake. The family was not invited.
Adam, after all, was a murderer, and we couldn't stomach the idea of him resting in the family crypt beside Marie-Eglise. My mother decided to have his body cremated and his ashes scattered.
A week later, Aaron and I rented a pontoon boat for the afternoon. At the last minute, Daisy decided to join us. She didn't explain, but she'd been drawn inside herself ever since Adam died. No way was it her fault, I told her, and she said she believed me. But, still.
Pontchartrain isn't really a lake; it's a vast tidal estuary where salt water mingles with fresh, part of the system of low-lying wetlands where the Mississippi River meets the sea. It is a place of transition, and it seemed fitting to say goodbye to Adam there.
A heron stood watch as we cleared the jetty and headed away from the shore. A bull shark trailed us for a few minutes but lost interest as we left the shallows.
It seemed as if we chose the place at random, but really, when we came to the spot we all just knew. The evening was peaceful as the sun began to touch the horizon. The tide was going out. Adam's ashes would be placed in the water there, and the tide would take him into the open waters of the Gulf of Mexico. I found it comforting to think that he might finally meet up with his father there.
Aaron turned off the engine and let the boat drift. He reached into a storage locker in the bulkhead and pulled out a plain square cardboard box. Inside was a plastic bag filled with gravelly gray powder.
None of us was quite sure what to say, so we held to our own thoughts. Aaron had lost his only brother. I was sure Daisy was still twisted with regret, not just for Adam's death but for his lost childhood. My grief was more complicated. I understood Adam's pain, his jealousy and greed, but I wasn't ready to forgive him. I wasn't sure I ever would be. He had taken Marie-Eglise. I forced back a sob. He had taken John. I was there to witness.
Aaron stood at the rail and squared his shoulders. When he was ready, he bent down to the waterline, and as the boat drifted in the current, he poured his brother's remains into the lake. The water clouded and then cleared as the ashes dispersed.
As Aaron released Adam's ashes, Daisy leaned over the side and floated a small bundle of rosemary in the water. She was crying softly. Rosemary is for remembrance, not that any of us would ever forget Adam.
We sat together in silence, listening to the waves lap up against the side of the boat. A seagull whirled overhead and then, seeing that we weren't fishing after all, left us.
I took the empty box from Aaron's hands. I collapsed it and put it in my purse. I put my hand out, and he gave me the plastic bag. I put it in my purse, as well, to dispose of later. Such awkward things, I thought: the disposable containers in which a loved one had been transported. It felt as if we had thrown Adam away. I wondered if Aaron and Daisy felt the same.
Something bumped up against the pontoon on Daisy's side. I heard her gasp. She reached over the side and fished up something that was floating on the water. It was Marie-Eglise's comb. The sea turtle had come home.
Chapter Twelve
I felt Hazel watching me. "Do you have something you need to say to me, young lady?" she finally asked.
So I told her. I told her how John had found his dream job in Arizona, but now that he was gone I wanted the Arizona dream for myself. I couldn't see a way forward in New Orleans.
She was shocked but not surprised. Mostly, she was angry. That's Hazel's go-to emotion. It's not about right or wrong; if she wants something, she'll simply beat you down until she gets it. I was determined it wasn't going to happen this time.
Years of experience had taught me that arguing with her was useless. The best approach was just to let her get it out of her system. I sipped my tea and tried not to make eye contact while she unloaded on me. I have to hand it to her – she's good. She laid down a thick layer of family responsibility and glazed it with an elegant topping of guilt. A half-hour later she finally ran out of steam.
"Well," she sighed, flipping her hand, "I suppose you'll just do whatever you want, no matter what I say."
We'd finally fought it down to a draw. I clenched my jaw to keep from saying the first thing that popped into my mind. I took a deep breath and started in on my closing. "I'm sorry you're so upset. I never wanted to hurt anybody's feelings, but I think that it's time for me to be out on my own."
Hazel was all talked out. "If that's what you want," she said, clearly meaning no such thing.
I gave her my best smile. "I knew you'd understand," I said, which was a bald-faced lie.
She even let me give her a stiff-armed hug as I fled the room.
♦
I processed Philippe's paperwork and, while he chatted with Daisy, I opened the safe and pulled out the lead box that contained his consignment. Frank had hopped up into his lap and was allowing himself to be petted. He even managed to purr.
The cat's-eye ring rested quietly in the red satin lining as if nothing had ever happened.
I swear, it winked at me. If Philippe saw, he was gracious enough not to say anything.
♦
Hazel still believes that I should remain in New Orleans and resume my training in the shop. Structure, she says – structure will help me "get over it." But I don't want to get over John. I want him here, with me, in my heart forever.
My mother is certain that Pentacle Pawn will not survive without me. I am equally certain that things here will be just fine, with or without my help.
Pentacle Pawn will go on. Aaron has made it very clear that they all will be just fine without me, thank you very much. Aaron has learned his lessons well. Truth be told, Daisy and Hazel are spending much less time in the shop since Marie-Eglise passed. I believe they feel her loss most acutely there, and they are content to leave the day-to-day operations to the next generation. They spend their days sipping good bourbon in the parlor now, and gossiping on the gallery with their admirers. It's an old Southern custom to make courtesy calls in the morning, and I think Daisy and Hazel enjoy reminiscing with their many friends. Each day draws them further into the past.
I spent my entire childhood wanting to be far away from this place, but now that the moment has come, it's hard to put my feet on the path. I fought to distance myself from my family, but the whole time I knew they were always the safety net under me. If I break with them now, who will I be?
I've decided to dip my toe in the shallow end. I waited last night until Daisy had gone up to bed, and then sought Hazel out in the parlor to tell her. She had just
poured her last bourbon of the day and was sipping it as I walked into the room. I was hoping that having her whole days' allotment of whiskey on board might make her a little more mellow.
"I think I need to get out of New Orleans for a while," I said without preamble.
She didn't look up.
"I need to clear my head."
Still no reaction.
"Hazel?" I wasn't going to let her blow this off.
She raised her head slowly. "When will you leave?"
I was stunned. No argument? No guilt?
Okay, fine. Sometimes you have to take 'yes' for an answer.
"I have a plane in the morning."
She closed her eyes, then opened them again. "Someplace nice, I hope."
She'd said so much with so little. Nice meant safe, traditional, conservative. Nice, most of all, meant close to family.
"Arizona."
To her credit, she managed not to argue.
"I need to get some perspective," I said, keeping my voice level. "All this – it's too much."
"I understand that you miss John, dear," she said, "but in time..."
"It's not just John. I married him before I knew who I was. I grew up being Hazel's daughter, Daisy's niece, the next generation. There was school, and there was training in the craft. And then I married John, and I was John's wife." I looked her in the eye. "Who am I, Hazel?"
She met my gaze without wavering. She was slowly shaking her head. "You have always been yourself. You were all those things, but you were yourself every step of the way."
I remembered the screaming arguments, my tantrums, my stubbornness. My teen years had been a nightmare for everybody concerned. Now I saw that what my mother called willfulness, I saw as fighting for my life. I needed to do that again, and I couldn't do it here.
It was time for a truce.
"It's only for six weeks," I said. "It's just a vacation."
Her sigh was very quiet. She understood what I was offering, and she embraced the fiction. "Perhaps it might be good for you to get away for a little while. You'll call on Sundays, of course?"
"Of course."
And that was that. I had my benediction. The rest would be up to me.
♦
Aaron hates to drive, but he drove me to the airport in his Jeep. I was touched. Or, maybe, he just wanted to be sure I got on that plane.
I'd said goodbye to Daisy and my mother at breakfast. Hazel had managed a perfunctory hug. At least she had the good grace not to start another argument as I was literally on my way out of town. Daisy dabbed at her eyes and stuffed a bag of her herb-laced baked goods in my carry-on. I hoped they wouldn't set off the drug-sniffing dogs at the airport.
I promised to call soon and forbade them both to see me out to the sidewalk. I knew for sure I'd cry.
Aaron loaded everything into the Jeep for me. We weren't sure what to say to each other. He, Adam, and I had grown up together in the Royal Street house. Now, he would be carrying on there alone to create the next generation of Pentacle Pawn. It felt like I was abandoning him. On the other hand, it felt like he was coming into an inheritance that he, more than Adam or me, richly deserved.
We rode in silence all the way to the airport. "I am so sorry about John," he finally said as he pulled up in front of the departure gate.
"I'm sorry about Adam." I realized it was true.
Aaron nodded. "All those years that Adam was in pain and nobody knew – I wish I could go back and do it over."
"Same here. I had no idea."
Aaron was pensive. "But I should have known. I mean, he was my brother, right?"
"You had no way to know. He shut us both out." I hugged him. "Adam made his own decisions. There was nothing either of us could have done, even if we had known."
"I'm trying to believe that."
"Believe it. Marie-Eglise wanted you to be the one to carry the family forward. She saw the man you have become. Hazel and Daisy will help you if you let them. And I'm not going to the far side of the moon – I'm just going to Scottsdale. Pick up the phone once in a while."
Aaron pulled away from the curb, leaving me on the sidewalk, ticket in hand. Daisy's locket rested at my throat inside my shirt, and John's onyx ring was on my finger. Frank was in a cat carrier at my feet. I could hear him muttering to himself down there. "I told you," I heard him grumble, "cats don't fly. I should have been more specific. Cats don't fly economy class."
I was finally ready for whatever may come. Laissez les bons temps rouler, indeed – let the good times roll.
A note from Amanda
If you enjoyed The Sea Turtle Spell, please tell a friend – or two or three.
I'd also appreciate it if you'd consider leaving a quick review. There’s nothing mystical about book reviewing. All you have to say is whether you liked the book, and why. Honest feedback is important, and I need it from all sorts of readers.
Leaving a review is easy. The Pentacle Pawn series is published exclusively on Amazon, so just go to the book’s page. Under the title, you’ll see the number of reviews that have already been left (for some books, it might invite you to be the first reviewer). Click on that link, and it will take you to the reviews page, where you’ll find a button labeled “Write a customer review.” It’s that simple.
The online book market is huge, and even famous writers sometimes get lost in the crowd. You'll be helping me a lot as I start on this new adventure.
– Amanda Hartford
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Acknowledgments
Many thanks to Jim Fox for his help, counsel and high tolerance for fast food.
Intellectual property notice
The Sea Turtle Spell, first electronic edition
Copyright © 2019 by Amanda Hartford. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in critical articles or in a review.
Next in Pentacle Pawn: The Blue Amber Spell
The Sea Turtle Spell is the prequel to Amanda Hartford’s new Pentacle Pawn series of paranormal cozy mysteries. The first book in the inaugural trilogy, The Blue Amber Spell, will be published on May 13, 2019. A new book in the Pentacle Pawn universe will be available on the 13th of each month after that.
The Blue Amber Spell is available for pre-order now. Meanwhile, here’s an excerpt:
Excerpt from The Blue Amber Spell by Amanda Hartford
It was spring, and everything in the desert was blooming — including my allergies.
I rolled over and grabbed my alarm clock: 2 p.m. If I got moving, I’d have just enough time before work to steam my sinuses in the sauna.
The air conditioning in my condo was on full blast and I felt a little chilly, even though it was supposed to be over 100 outside again today. I tried to snuggle down into the blankets, but John was hogging them.
John???
I leaped out of bed. My husband John was snuggly cocooned on his side of the bed. My cat Frank was curled up in the crook of John's knee. Both of them were snoring softly.
The only problem was: John couldn’t possibly be sharing my bed. He had been dead for more than a year now.
I whispered his name.
I’m not a morning person — very few witches are. That’s why my business, Pentacle Pawn Scottsdale, is nocturnal. I’m only interested in seeing 7 a.m. if I’m coming in from the night before. But John wakes up happy. He rolled over and smiled at me, just as he had every morning of the six years we were married.
“Morning, gorgeous!” he said, following our morning script.
“Morning, sunshine,” I responded automatically, even though it was afternoon. I mean, that wasn’t exactly the weirdest thing going on here.
John sat up an
d swung his feet to the floor. Frank didn’t budge. “So, this is Scottsdale, right?” John asked, looking around the condo.
I nodded. I was having trouble using my words this morning.
“Nice.” He ran his fingers through his hair the way I’d seen him do a thousand times when he was puzzled. “I don’t remember moving here.”
I nuked myself a cup of chicory coffee. I didn't offer John one; he never drinks, er, drank coffee except in the newsroom. A good thing, because I wasn't quite sure how I was going to explain to him that food and drink were no longer his to enjoy. I was pretty sure John didn't understand yet that he was a ghost.
I sat next to him on the bed, resisting the temptation to try to slide my hand into his. This would have to be done carefully. “What do you remember?” I asked.
“The house on Royal Street. I was supposed to meet you somewhere.” He looked at me questioningly, and I nodded again. John was murdered by an incantation on the door of that house in New Orleans, but I was pretty sure he wasn’t ready for that information yet, either.
He was starting to look a little freaked out. “Maggie, why can’t I remember moving here?”
And here we go. “You didn’t exactly move here with me. I haven’t seen you since that last day on Royal Street.”
He shook his head. "I don't understand," he said. I needed to ease him into that understanding.
“Take a look at your rings.” I pointed to his left hand. His wedding band was still on his ring finger. Mine, an antique band that had been handed down through his family, was on his little finger. He was the last of his line and we had no children, so I had buried it with him.
I watched him touch both rings with his right hand, trying to figure it out. “You always told me that if you were the first to go, you wanted to take your grandmother’s wedding ring with you.” He raised his eyes to mine. “So that’s what I did.”
His eyes grew wide. “So you’re telling me I’m dead?” He looked around frantically.
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