“Now then, Miss…?”
“White. Snow White.”
Even her name was breathtaking.
“Miss White. What may I help you with?”
She reached into her patchwork bag and pulled out an envelope. She flashed him a sheepish smile as she extended her arm. He noticed that her hands were slender, yet strong—her arms toned as if she chopped wood in her spare time.
He liked that.
Jack smiled and accepted the envelope. He sat back to pull out the packet of papers tucked inside. He could feel his smile fading as he read. Words like “at the bequest of the court” and “mandatory ninety days of treatment” and “crimes committed by Miss White” jumped out at him. The doctor felt dizzy. Like he’d been sucker-punched.
He looked up at this fair maiden with the eyes he’d wanted to swim in only moments ago. She couldn’t possibly be a criminal. “Surely, there must be some mistake.”
Snow White bowed her head. “I’m afraid there is no mistake. I am guilty as charged.”
Jack sat back in his chair, studying Miss White. She didn’t seem like the other lawbreakers who were ordered to attend his sessions. She was humble, shy, perhaps a little unsure of who she was as a person. But then again, he was a doctor, not a mind reader. It wasn’t as if he had a stash of magic beans lying around that could immediately illuminate the character of everyone he encountered.
Jack stood. “All right, Miss White. Looks like you and I will be spending some time together. As long as you arrive promptly every week, don’t do anything to violate your parole, and complete your community service, I’m sure you’ll get through this difficult time and emerge an even stronger person than you are today.”
Jack beamed at Snow and she lifted her head. Her lip quivered ever so slightly and for one terrifying moment, he thought she might cry. He couldn’t stand to see a woman cry. It was the reason he never married. It was also the reason he became a psychologist. Jack felt that the world was full of too many people encouraging the fairer sex to be meek, weak, and submissive. He wanted to right that wrong—to change the way the world viewed females and the way females viewed themselves. His success rate had been pretty good so far. He hoped his initial assessment of Miss White, with her strong arms, and capable hands, would be another victory for humankind.
As long as she didn’t cry, he was certain he could end this meeting with his reputation intact.
Jack held his breath, waiting for her to speak.
“But…don’t you want to know what I did?” she asked.
Relief rushed at him. He folded the papers and tucked them into the envelope. It was the court’s habit not to detail the crimes in the paperwork presented to the therapist. Personally, Jack suspected this had less to do with civil rights and more to do with Judge Redhood’s twisted sense of humor. A wolf in sheep’s clothing, that one. She seemed to delight in torturing Jack, and judging from the caseload he’d received this week alone she was having a ball.
“You can tell me all about it in group on Monday,” Jack said. “We meet Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Nine o’clock sharp.”
Her eyes widened. “In front of strangers?”
Jack nodded.
“Can’t I practice first? With you?” She smiled, and a bright flash of hope floated across those crimson lips. Jack wondered if they tasted like apples.
He shook his head. “I’m sorry. House rules. Everyone shares their story at the first session. That way we’re all playing on an even field.”
She sat there a moment longer, her brow furrowed just a bit. Then she stood, shrugged her bag over her shoulder and turned to walk out of the office.
“See you Monday then, Miss White.”
When she got to the door, she stopped. A sunray penetrated the window, creating a silhouette of her curves. Jack admired the view for a beat, grinning like a hormonal teenager.
“Doctor,” she said, her back still to him. “I just want you to know...”
“Yes?” Jack asked.
She squared her shoulders and in a tone that smacked down on him like a hammer, she said, “I’m not sorry for what I did.”
Snow White strolled out the door of Jack Bean’s office taking with her a measure of his confidence.
3
To Grandmother's House We Go
Snow collected her small suitcase from the receptionist and stood on the steps of the community center. She checked the address she’d been given.
13 Dragon Street.
She sighed, already missing her little brick cottage in the woods with the window boxes and moonlight garden. Although Everafter could hardly qualify as a city, the hot asphalt, the cold buildings, the noisy trucks, and the tacky lampposts that lined the streets in the heart of town were offensive to her sensibilities. She longed for pine trees and oaks, moss and ivy, squirrels and rabbits. She ached for nature and the soothing sounds of birdsongs and trickling creeks. But she had made her bed. Now she had to lie in it. Hard as it might be.
She pulled out a pair of butterfly shaped sunglasses and slipped them onto her face. Then she headed south for what was to be her new home for the next three months.
It took Snow fifteen minutes to walk to the house. She was drenched with sweat by the time she arrived, and her skin felt as if fire ants were crawling all over it. She wasn’t used to so much sun or heat—the temperature was much cooler in the forest, where the canopy of trees blocked the glare of the sun. She made a mental note to invest in a big floppy hat and lots of sunscreen.
She stood in front of the iron gate on the cracked sidewalk and took a deep breath, staring at the looming Victorian mansion. The wooden sign in the yard was painted with dull purple and gold letters that matched the color of the house. Granny’s Home for Girls, it read.
Snow didn’t consider herself a girl but she shrugged off the insult and stepped through the rusty gate and onto the cobblestone path.
The closer she got to the house, the more evident became its depressing state of disrepair, as if someone had given up on it long ago. The yard was freshly mowed, but the shrubs in front were being choked by weeds and brambles. The wasp nest embedded beneath a crumbling eave was better constructed than the broken gingerbread that harbored it. The porch sagged in the middle like an old woman who could no longer carry herself upright. Two dormer windows poked out from the third floor, each with a crack across its pane. They looked like tired eyes that had seen worlds of misery. The door was painted a shocking white in complete contrast with the dusty purple facade and faded gold trim, lending the entire structure a look of surprise, as if it couldn’t believe the state of itself. The foundation leaned to the left side while the right tried in vain to take up the slack, knowing full well it was failing.
Once, this had been a grand home filled with love and laughter, Snow imagined. Once, the purple paint had shone, but time and her elements had chipped away at its character and pride, leaving the face of it lined with wrinkles it no longer cared to camouflage.
“You poor thing.” Snow patted the warped railing.
She could have sworn she heard the house heave a weary sigh in response.
Snow shuddered and climbed the steps. She stood on the porch and pressed the buzzer.
A woman with hair the color of pink champagne and eyes like emeralds answered the door. She was wearing a white tee shirt and cut off jean shorts.
The woman’s green eyes danced up and down Snow’s body and suddenly she felt completely overdressed in her kitten heels and A-line skirt.
Snow was about to introduce herself when the woman shouted over her shoulder.
“Granny! We got a live one!”
She snapped her gum and blew a bubble, then opened the door wide, stepping aside to allow Snow entrance.
“Thank you,” said Snow.
The woman shut the door and said, “No sweat.”
She circled Snow like a shark stalking its lunch. “Nice sunglasses. Can I try them on?”
It was an odd r
equest, but since this was likely one of her housemates Snow obliged. She set her suitcase down, removed her sunglasses and handed them to the young stranger.
The woman snatched up the shades and slid them onto her face. “Nice.”
“Aura, don’t even think about it!” someone shouted.
Snow looked up to where the voice had echoed from. At the top of a winding, worn staircase stood a woman no more than five feet tall. Her silver hair trailed down to her waist, met by a floral patterned skirt and nurse’s shoes. She wore wire rimmed glasses and an attitude that clearly stated, “Do not cross me.”
Aura handed the sunglasses back to Snow and rolled her eyes. “Welcome to hell in a hand basket.”
She turned and called up to whom Snow assumed was Granny. “I was just trying them on. Don’t get your pantyhose in a twist.”
Granny slowly descended the stairs and Snow noticed she relied on the aid of a cane to help her along.
“Just keep your honey glazed hands to yourself, Missy,” Granny barked.
Aura mumbled. “You help yourself to a few little items and suddenly you’re a kleptomaniac.”
“I wouldn’t call a chop shop full of imported automobiles a ‘few little items’. Now find your manners and get the blazes out of here.”
Aura blew out a sigh. “Aura Rose.” She did an exaggerated curtsey and rolled her eyes again.
Snow gave her a shaky smile, not sure what to make of any of this. “Snow White. A pleasure to meet you.”
Aura smirked. “Give it time.” She sauntered out of the room, but not before sticking her tongue out at Granny who was now at the bottom of the steps, head bent, rubbing her knees.
Snow stood there, silently hoping she didn’t have to share a room with Aura and wishing she had packed a safe. With a lock.
Granny hobbled over, wincing in pain. “Damn arthritis. It acts up like a bird without a bath in this godforsaken humidity.”
Snow wasn’t sure what the metaphor meant, but she could see that Granny was aching. “I might be able to help you with that,” Snow said. “I’m pretty handy with holistic medicine.”
“What’s that?” Granny scowled, her thin lips writhing like snakes.
“You know, herbs.”
Granny wagged a crooked finger at Snow. “No. Don’t you bring that wacky tobacky into this house, young lady, or you’ll head straight to the slammer without a hammer. You catch my mouth mojo?”
Was she speaking a different language? Snow swallowed hard. “No, that’s not what I meant. I could make a salve for you to—”
“I said no,” Granny snapped. “Capisce my prosciutto?”
Snow nodded, as that seemed to be the path of least destruction. “Yes, ma'am. Got it.”
“That’s better.”
The old woman wobbled over to a large roll-top desk. The top protested as it slid into the frame. She fumbled through some papers and produced a thick long piece of cardstock. A pen hung from a chain around her sagging neck, and she used that to mark something on the card. Then she squinted at the grandfather clock that leaned against the chipped plaster wall in the large entryway. She made another note on the card and shoved it toward Snow.
The card listed the date and time, Snow’s name and a number she recognized as her court case file. Before she could ask what the card was for, a slim woman with breasts the size of cantaloupes and a platinum braid that draped over the banister and down to the floor appeared at the top of the staircase.
“Granny!” she called. “Did you take my mirror again?”
She was pretty in a porn star kind of way.
“No mirrors, Punzie. You know the rules. It’s not like I pulled them out of a crossword puzzle.”
“How am I supposed to get ready for work without a mirror?”
The green sequined bra top and matching panties she was wearing told Snow that Punzie didn’t work at the library.
“Use a hubcap, Buttercup. Now quit pestering me—can’t you see I’m occupied?”
Punzie slid her eyes to Snow as if noticing her for the first time. She smiled. “Who’s the stiff?”
Granny grunted.
Snow said, “Hello. I’m Snow White.”
Punzie scoffed. “You’re kidding.”
Snow wrinkled her brow, unsure of how to respond.
Punzie stared at Snow, drinking in her tweed suitcase, patchwork bag, and tea length skirt. “Pure as the driven snow. We get all kinds here, don’t we, Granny?”
Granny ignored Punzie and continued to search through her desk.
Punzie saluted Snow and said, “See you around, Princess.”
Snow had purposely unbuttoned the top two buttons of her blouse after the hearing so she wouldn’t come off as a goody two-shoes to her new housemates. Now she wished she had opted to remove her top altogether.
These women are going to eat me alive, she thought.
Finally, Granny found what she was looking for and handed it to Snow.
“House rules. Read them, study them, and above all, do not break them or you’ll be hobblin’ without a crutch. Do I make myself clear?”
Jiminy, she hoped she understood. This woman was either having a stroke or she had the strangest sense of slang Snow had ever heard. “Crystal.”
“Hmm,” Granny grunted and waddled down the hall and out of sight.
Good grief, what have I gotten myself into? Snow thought.
Beneath her feet, she felt the slightest vibration, as if the house was laughing at her expense.
4
Talking Clocks and Lollipops
Snow stood in the hall for a moment wondering what she was supposed to do now. No one had bothered to tell her where her room was located, so she decided to explore a bit of her new surroundings. She shrugged her bag off her shoulder and placed it on top of the suitcase. The entryway was wide and squat with paisley print wallpaper that was peeling off at the corners. Cobwebs cluttered the unlit chandelier, and a spider was busy making his home between the dull crystals. The staircase was covered with a pale blue carpet that had seen a lot of traffic over the years. Someone had recently vacuumed it, but the stains had taken up permanent residence and were in no danger of moving out anytime soon. A needlepoint chair sat next to the door, holding a stack of yellowing, torn magazines. Snow flipped through them and pulled out a title called The Art of Charm. Some of the articles were “How to Properly Cross Your Legs” and “Do’s and Don’ts on the First Date” and “You’ve Landed Your Prince, Now Keep Him.”
Snow cringed at that last one, although she wasn’t certain why.
The rest of the exploration would have to come later—she was exhausted. It had been a trying day and all she wanted to do was slip out of her shoes and rest. As she gathered her things, Snow thought about what she had said to the doctor and whether she still meant it.
She did. She wasn’t sorry. It had been the right thing to do even if it was a crime and even if she was stuck in this creepy house with these strange women because of it.
Her eyes lifted to the winding staircase. She assumed her room was somewhere up there despite the fact that no one had indicated any such thing. Both Granny and the other woman—Punzie, was it?—had appeared from there.
The grandfather clock gonged as if taking a deep breath as Snow hoisted her suitcase up the stairs and it so startled her that she nearly toppled over.
She steadied herself, clutching the banister, and looked back at the clock with the eerie sensation that it had done that on purpose. It wasn’t the top or half of any hour.
The clock face was stone still, with only the second hand ticking around it.
“Get a grip, Snow,” she muttered.
At the top of the stairs was a long hallway with numbered doors along either side. There were ten rooms in all. She looked at the card Granny had given her, but found no room assignment.
Then she pulled out the house rules and saw her name scrawled across the top in a cramped cursive. Next to it was the number seven.
Seven. Why did that seem significant? Had Granny indeed told her which room she would be staying in and she had simply forgotten?
As she trudged down the hallway to the door with the brass number seven screwed into it, she wondered what she would do if it was locked. Granny hadn’t given her a key. Snow enjoyed her privacy, especially in the presence of so many women. Women didn’t seem to like Snow, and she never understood why. She supposed it was because she had little in common with most of the females she had met in her life. She loved the outdoors and the woods. She liked getting her hands dirty, liked digging in the dirt, and growing her own food. Her hobbies were fishing, bird watching, kayaking, archery, and taking care of sick animals, wild or tame. She wasn’t fond of fashion and didn’t care for cosmetics. She wasn’t interested in fame, fortune, or power like so many of the girls she had gone to school with, nor did she have much desire to date.
She liked men as much as the next girl. Men weren’t complicated and they avoided drama—two traits that Snow understood. Yet she wasn’t, as the article downstairs implied, looking for a prince. She was happily single and it had been her experience that many females couldn’t relate to that—were frightened of it even, as if being single were contagious, or worse. They feared Snow would steal their men away. Of course nothing could be further from the truth. Snow was fiercely loyal. Betrayal simply wasn’t in her nature.
Betrayal. The word echoed in her mind.
Or had someone spoken it just now? She looked over her shoulder but no one was there.
As Snow reached for the doorknob to room number seven she had the sinking sensation that someone had—or would—betray her.
But whom? And how?
“Well, Snow, there’s a simple solution to that dilemma,” she said to herself. “Don’t let anyone get close enough.”
“Do you always talk to yourself?” said a deep voice.
Snow gasped and dropped her suitcase.
She turned to meet the man behind the voice.
He had ginger hair and a crooked grin. He was only a bit taller than Snow, with wide shoulders and biceps that his tee shirt could hardly contain. He was clean shaven and Snow could see from where she stood that a smattering of freckles covered his nose. There was a tool belt draped around the waistline of his jeans and he was holding a screwdriver.
1 The Bitches of Everafter Page 2
