by Molly Ringle
She was ruining his life, yet she couldn’t bear to let him go. She closed her eyes. She’d thought the spell couldn’t get any worse, but it already had.
Kit had wanted to ask her. God, how tempting it had been to beckon Skye aside and just say those few words: “Hey listen, did goblins have anything to do with this?”
But seven years’ worth of keeping this liaison business a secret was too heavy a roadblock to shift. If she wasn’t enchanted—which, odds were, she wasn’t—he’d sound crazy if he asked that. And then she’d tell her lovely, hot sister how insane he was, and he’d never get to enjoy milkshakes or anything else with Livy again. Word might even get out to the rest of the town: what was up with Sylvain, talking about goblins or some shit? Losing his mind like his parents, real shame. Yeah, no. He couldn’t ask.
Besides, if she was under a spell, there was nothing he could do about it. No method existed for humans to counter goblin magic, or at least none that he or his unlucky ancestors had ever heard of. So, really, he prayed it was ordinary depression, much as depression sucked.
Maybe it was, and maybe Grady was about to turn everything around for Skye, just by virtue of being himself, with his good nature and mad cooking skills.
If Grady was honestly up for it.
“Sure you want to do this, bro?” Kit asked him as they drove across the one-lane bridge to Crabapple Island.
Grady gazed out the side window. Bridge railings blurred past. Behind them rippled the expanse of silver-gray water separating the island from the rest of town.
Kit’s question seemed to register a few seconds late. “Yeah, of course,” Grady said, his eyes still on the water.
“She’s pretty,” Kit admitted. “I just wonder if, I don’t know, she needs more help than you can give. She seemed really…withdrawn. Especially compared to how happy and talkative I remember her being in school.”
“She talked to me a little.”
“Well. Good.” They came off the bridge and curved onto the loop road. Tall conifers took over, interrupted by the occasional mailbox. “Anyway,” Kit said, “it’s not like helping her is totally down to you. Livy did say she was getting counseling. This is just more like hanging out with her. And feeding her kale or whatever so she’s healthier.”
Grady finally looked at him. “So she wasn’t like this till recently?”
“Yeah, Livy says it came on suddenly, a month or so ago.”
“Caused by what?”
“No one’s sure. Guess it’s not like her at all.” Kit pulled the truck into the rutted gravel drive that led to his house.
“Huh.” The cabin came into view, with its asymmetrically sloped roof and the sprawling mess of sculptures-in-progress in the yard. “I wonder if something happened.”
Kit parked the truck, and frowned out the windshield. “Let me know if you find out.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
GRADY SET HIS ALARM FOR 7:30 THE NEXT MORNING, AND AFTER A SHOWER AND BREAKFAST, HOPPED IN HIS OLD Jeep Cherokee and drove up to Quilcene to buy groceries. While he poured his nervous energy into selecting the nicest-looking produce, his phone rang.
He glanced at the caller ID: Mom. He answered, “Hey,” and tucked the phone against his shoulder while he bagged some bell peppers.
“Hello, Grady.” She sounded upbeat. “Now what’s this about a cooking job?”
He smiled. He’d left his older brother a text about it late last night, knowing that would be all it took to spread the word to both parents and every one of his siblings. “It’s nothing much. Just some part-time cooking at home for two women in town.”
“Old ladies? Doesn’t sound like the kind of thing old ladies would hire someone for.”
He wheeled the cart along and inspected the tomatoes. “Actually no, they’re in their twenties. Two sisters.”
“Oh! Well, even better. What are you going to cook for them?”
“For today, I’m thinking something that’ll work as lunch and also leftovers for dinner. I’ll bring recipes they can choose between, with ingredients that’ll work for both. I’m in Quilcene getting the groceries right now.”
“Is Quilcene the one that has the good store?”
“Yeah, or at least, nicer stuff than Bellwater.” He picked out four tomatoes. “Bellwater’s store is tiny and it’s all, like, iceberg lettuce and marshmallows and cans of soup.”
“Those poor people. It’s a wonder Kit’s survived this long.”
“That’s what I keep telling him.”
“Any luck on other job leads?”
Grady rolled the cart toward the dry-goods aisle. “Not really. I’m still looking. Getting kind of demoralizing.”
“That’s what job hunts are like, hon. Don’t give up. But if you do want to give up and move home, we would of course be over the moon to have you back. We miss you.”
A twinge of homesickness pinched him. “I miss you guys too. What’s new over there?”
While he set groceries into the cart, his mom gave him the rundown, though he’d picked up some of the gossip from texts or emails already: his oldest sister’s wedding plans, his older brother’s new job, his second-youngest sister’s awesome SAT scores, and his freshman sister’s scandalous flirtation with a senior guy. He could move back to Moses Lake and settle right back into the midst of that happy chaos anytime. They’d welcome him, and within fifteen minutes everyone would forget he’d ever been gone. He was lucky to have such a comfortable home. Maybe it was insane to be out here looking to live somewhere else.
But…no way was he jumping ship now. Not until he figured out what was up with Skye. Helped her, if that’s what she wanted. Generally just hung out with her to soak up her hotness.
He was a little too hooked at the moment to leave Bellwater.
“Well,” his mom said as he neared the checkout line, “hang in there on the job front, kiddo. And I’m so glad you’ve got these two ladies giving you a chance in the meantime. Sounds like they’re being good to you.”
“Yeah. They’ve been nice.” If by nice you meant grabbing you in the woods and planting the best kiss ever on you. “I’ll let you know how it goes. Bye, Mom.”
Grady arrived at the Darwens’ house at five minutes before ten. Two canvas bags of groceries weighed down his shoulders. He knocked, his pulse thrumming in his throat.
Livy opened the door and beamed. “Hey. Right on time.” She took one of the grocery bags from him. “Listen, I really appreciate you trying this out. I know it’s kind of bizarre.”
“No no, it’s fine. Should be fun.”
“Skye appreciates it too, no matter how it seems. Believe me.”
He nodded. “Well. I brought a couple options for lunch recipes. I’ll let her choose what sounds good.”
Livy beckoned him in with a tilt of her head. “Let’s get these into the kitchen.”
Skye wasn’t there. Grady pressed his lips together to keep from asking where she was. He started fitting cheeses, eggs, and vegetables into the fridge.
Livy cleared counter space by putting away mugs and cereal boxes. “Use anything you want—pots, pans, spices, ingredients.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“Skye’s in the shower. She’ll be out soon.”
He swallowed, trying to get the picture of her naked and dripping wet out of his head. He wadded up one of the empty canvas bags and stuffed it inside the other. “Okay,” he repeated.
“I’ve got to get to work now,” Livy said, “so I’m off. I’ll go tell her goodbye.”
Grady stood in front of the small kitchen table and smoothed out his two recipe pages with nervously chilled hands. He heard Livy walk down the hallway, knock on a door, and call through, “Hey, Skye, Grady’s here, and I’m taking off. I’ll text you later, okay?”
He thought he heard a soft “Okay” in response.
Livy appeared again, zipping up her coat, keys jangling. She took a backpack from a hook in the entry, and glanced into the kitchen at Grady. “Call me
if you have any questions. Or if you can’t find the garlic or whatever.”
They had acquired each other’s numbers last night through Kit. He smiled. “I will.”
“See you.” She hoisted the pack onto her shoulder. “Looking forward to the food!”
“Thanks. Bye.”
The front door shut. In a minute she started up her car and drove away. Grady slid the papers around, paced across the kitchen to inspect the cookware, and paced back. He took out the set of knives he’d gotten from his parents for Christmas—you always brought your own if you were serious about cooking—and arranged them on the table beside the recipes. From down the hall came the soft thumps of Skye moving around, muffled by the white noise of the bathroom fan.
The fan shut off. The door down the hall squeaked open. He swallowed.
She came into the kitchen, arms folded, dressed in an olive-green hoodie, artfully ripped jeans, and thick gray socks. Her hair was damp and wavy and hanging loose down her back.
“Morning,” Grady said.
She wandered up beside him and looked down at the recipes his fingertips lay upon. The smell of shampooed hair drifted into his nose. Her arm leaned against his. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder.
He cleared his throat. “So, yeah. These are your two choices for lunch. Frittata or breakfast burrito—which, despite its name, is awesome as lunch. Or dinner for that matter. Uh, what do you think? Would one of these work?”
Skye examined both recipes, then tapped the breakfast burrito page with her forefinger.
“Good choice. Okay. I’ll get that one started. It involves chopping up a lot of vegetables.” He paused and looked around the kitchen.
Skye walked to the counter, reached behind the toaster, and slid out a plastic cutting board. She brought it to him.
“Ah. Thank you. Perfect.” He set it on the table beside the knives, then turned to fetch the bell peppers, onions, chilies, and tomatoes. While he washed them at the sink, Skye held up a bag of coffee beans, and lifted her eyebrows at him in question.
“Making coffee?” he said. “Sure, sounds great. Thanks.”
She opened a drawer and held up a small silver tool with a disk-shaped whisk at the end, and again gave him the questioning eyebrows.
Grady squinted. “Oh, no way, is that a milk frother?”
She nodded.
“You can make a latte or cappuccino or something?”
She nodded.
“Then yeah, for sure, I’ll take a latte. Awesome, thanks.”
They worked in almost-companionable silence for a few minutes, Grady dicing vegetables and Skye grinding coffee beans and heating milk.
She brought mugs to the table a few minutes later, partially filled with strong black coffee. He paused his chopping to watch as she tipped the frothed milk in from the little saucepan. A few tilts and swirls of the mug, and the white froth formed a feathery shape like a fern against the creamy brown.
“Ah, look at you,” he said in admiration. “Are you a barista?”
She nodded, meeting his gaze, and though she still didn’t smile, he caught a hint of pride in her posture.
“See, I still can’t do that,” he said. “The foam, the designs. That takes artistry.”
She set the saucepan in the sink, then padded over to the wall beside the table, and touched a framed painting hanging there. She looked straight at him, her fingers lingering on the bottom corner of the painting.
The painting showed a marina, with sailboat masts and board-walks and reflective rippling water, all in crazy bright colors, its paint splashed about in a way that made it look perpetually wet. He leaned closer to read the words inked in the corner in black pen: Winter is bright in Bellwater, followed by a half-illegible signature that could have been Skye Darwen.
“No way. You painted this?”
She nodded, then glanced at the fridge, where a colored-pencil sketch of little pink flowers was stuck with magnets. He had absentmindedly noticed it when dealing with the food, and now gave it a second glance. “You’re an artist.” He looked back at her and got another nod. “A barista and an artist. There, see, I’m getting to know you even if you won’t talk.”
She picked up her latte and wandered out of the kitchen with it.
Unsure about whether to follow, he went back to chopping.
She returned in a minute with a sketchbook, spiral-bound with black cover. She set it next to the tomatoes on the table.
“Do I get to look at that?”
She nodded.
Grady wiped his hands on the dishtowel he’d hung over his shoulder, and picked up the sketchbook. Inside it was mostly black ink or pencil, and the first several pages showed various everyday scenes: rain pouring off an umbrella as someone huddled beneath it, a dog curled up beside a cafe table, a sailboat tied to a buoy, close studies of flowers and other plants.
“These are awesome.” He glanced at Skye, hoping for a smile at least, but she only watched the pages.
He turned to the next one and paused. “More surreal now?” It was like something from a fantasy film, or steampunk maybe: a treetop village with rickety bridges overhung with strings of mismatched lightbulbs, and ramshackle houses wedged between trunks. “That is super cool.”
Skye breathed faster; he heard the swift little sounds through her nose. She looked pale, her eyes bright. Her gaze latched onto the book, then onto him. He gazed back at her, trying to understand.
She reached out and turned the next page herself, then looked at him again.
He frowned at the sketch: another in fantasy style, a gremlin-like creature crouched on all fours, its limbs like twigs, its razor teeth showing in a grin, a ring on a tattered string around its neck. The sketch was all in graphite, except for the stone on the ring. She had colored that a brilliant red, making it stand out like an evil eye. “Wow,” he said. “Creepy. You have serious talent, you know that? You can draw all these different styles.”
Her lips tightened and she released a sigh through her nose, sounding exasperated.
“What?” he said. “You do. I’m not just saying that. I can’t draw at all, so maybe I’m no judge, but I think it’s amazing.”
She took the notebook back, tucked it under her arm, and sipped her latte. Without looking at him, she murmured, “Thanks.”
“Ah, so you are going to talk to me.” He picked up the knife, and began dicing a jalapeño. “Okay, I’m not just going to ask you yes/no questions, then. Where’d you study art?”
She parted her lips, considered, then walked to the counter. She picked up a small note pad and a pencil, wrote something, and brought him the pad. She held it up to show him.
Univ of Puget Sound, it said. Her writing didn’t suggest an unhinged mind to him. It was free-spirited and graceful.
“Cool. Did you graduate?”
She nodded.
Earning a degree at UPS wasn’t usually something the unhinged did either, as far as he knew.
“Okay. Is writing easier for you than talking?”
She tilted her head, as if to say Sort of.
“What about with your sister? You talk to her, at least?”
She scrawled Not much lately.
“You’re left-handed,” he noted. “Okay, so you write messages for her, lately?”
Not much, she wrote.
He looked at her, bemused. “But you’re willing to for me?”
She nodded again, gazing into his eyes with a hint of desperation.
“Why? You said, ‘I pick you.’ I’m almost sure you said that. What does that mean?”
She glanced away, looking miserable.
“You pick me to talk to? To write to, at least?”
She tilted her hand side to side. Sort of.
“You got to know how confused I am here,” he said.
She nodded wearily.
“It’s weird, but I like being with you. I may not know why you picked me, but I’m glad you did. It feels…right.” His heart pound
ed at delivering this quasi-romantic speech, but then, none of the usual courtship rules applied here, it would seem.
She still looked sad and haunted. But she dropped the notepad on the table, moved closer, twined her hand around his upper arm, and kissed him there. He felt the chill of her fingers and the warmth of her mouth through his flannel shirt. He trembled with each breath. What was this crazy pull she had over him? Why did he already want her so much?
He kissed the top of her head, inhaling the fragrance of her wet hair. They stood like that a moment, almost an embrace, definitely something intimate, he didn’t know what to call it.
Whatever it was, it wasn’t what her sister was paying him for.
He shifted away an inch, and smiled when Skye looked up. “Going to help me make lunch or what?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
IT DISTURBED SKYE HOW MUCH SHE WANTED TO TWINE HERSELF AROUND GRADY, AND DRAG HIM TO HER ROOM OR the couch or, better yet, some bed of moss deep in the woods. It was the magic at work; she felt that clearly enough.
She retained enough of her un-ensorcelled logic to recognize she would have liked him anyway. A date with him under normal circumstances might have gone smashingly well. But she’d never know, because normal circumstances were far from her reach.
She tried to meet his efforts halfway, or at least quarter-way. After their lunch of breakfast burritos, she helped him put away the leftovers. Then they sat across the small kitchen table from each other, knees almost touching, texting each other questions and answers. She could say more that way, and Grady told her with his cute grin that it made him feel less like he was babbling.
He told her he was twenty-one. She answered she was twenty-three. Their eyes met a moment over the table. A certain humility now mingled with the desire she saw there. Totally endearing. She returned her attention to the phone and thumbed in a question about his cousin.
She learned Grady often came to Bellwater for a few days in summer, to stay with Kit. He and Kit got along well, he said, though Grady didn’t exactly feel like he knew Kit inside and out.
