by Terri Garey
“Your parents?”
I nodded. “Dan and Emily Styx.”
“They look like lovely people,” she said.
“They were.”
One of the pictures was of us on a camping trip when I was about twelve. My dad was laughing at something my mom had just said, while I sat between them, elbows on the picnic table, frosting on my face from one of Mom’s cupcakes. She always made cupcakes before we went camping.
“It would’ve made Peaches happy to know you were so well loved,” Bijou said.
“She knew.”
A carefully drawn eyebrow arched in question.
“Peaches came to see me, at home, after she”—after she died—“and we talked about my parents. She knew I was okay with her giving me up for adoption. She knew I had a happy childhood.”
“Ah,” Bijou said softly. Her gaze turned inward for a moment. “I’m glad.”
Odessa could be heard muttering to herself down the hall.
“I do hope you’ll forgive an old woman her whims,” she said briskly, changing the subject. “I know this is quite sudden, Odessa and me showing up like this, but we promise not to be a bother—”
A clatter from the bathroom made Odessa’s opinion on the matter quite clear, but Bijou ignored her.
“We absolutely promise not to be a bit of trouble.”
I had to smile a little at that, knowing blatant bullshit when I heard it. Still, I felt a surge of affection for this odd elderly person who’d recently come into my life; a true Southern lady, who wasn’t a lady at all.
“And you don’t have to worry about putting us up, because we’ve already taken a room at the Embassy Suites.” Bijou made it clear that everything had been decided. She patted her white patent leather purse with gloved fingers, lavender to match her hat. “We’ve come to see you, of course, but we’ve also come for a bit of sightseeing in the big city; I understand the new aquarium is quite impressive.”
“I’m glad you’re here,” I said, surprised to find it true. She was lying, of course; she was here because she was worried about me, but I found it sweet that she’d bother to lie about it. “As soon as Odessa’s through in the bathroom, I’ll show you both around the store, then we can meet up later for dinner at my house…say, seven? I’ll write down the directions.”
Bijou smiled, relaxing. Her dress had a girlish frill of ruffles at the hem. White sandals, pink polish on the toes. “That would be lovely.”
“How’s Kelly? Why didn’t she come with you?” My sister was going to get an earful for not giving me a heads-up about Bijou and Odessa’s visit.
“She’s fine”—a smile of affection creased the old woman’s face—“just fine. She and her young man had a date this weekend, so she preferred to stay in Savannah.”
“She and Spider seem to have really hit it off,” I said. “Do you like him?”
“Very much so. Never judge a book by its cover, I always say.”
Spider’s “cover” was one of earrings, tattoos, and piercings, as well as a deep and abiding fascination with the paranormal. I liked him, too.
“Good.” I smiled, glad all the small talk was out of the way. “Now tell me the real reason you’re here.”
She didn’t bother to lie this time. “I just had a feeling you were going to need me, dear,” she said simply. Rhinestones gleamed on her hatpin—a beautiful piece of vintage jewelry I wouldn’t mind having in my display case. “When I said the same to Odessa, she insisted we come right away.”
I somehow doubted that.
Bijou shot a glance toward the hallway, lowering her voice a little. “It was suggested we not call, because you’d tell us not to come.”
Got that right.
“And we didn’t want him to know we were coming.” She said this so matter-of-factly that it gave me pause. “If you knew we were coming, he’d know we were coming, and we’d lose the element of surprise.”
I knew exactly to whom she was referring, of course, though I’d prefer not to. She wasn’t saying Sammy’s name aloud, so neither would I.
“Here we go,” Evan said, a little too gaily. “Tea’s ready.”
“Ah, thank you.” Bijou beamed at him as he handed her a cup—his favorite blue-and-white one, I noted. “That smells heavenly. Chamomile, is it? Steeped with lemon?”
Never able to resist a compliment, Evan preened a little as he handed me my mug. “It is. I add a little honey to the mix.”
“You certainly do,” said my grandmother, decisively. “I’m so glad Nicki has you as her friend.” She lifted her tea briefly in his direction, then took a sip, smiling.
Evan surprised me by actually tearing up a little. He looked at Bijou for a moment, then he looked at me, and said, “I’m sorry I snapped at you for being late.”
“I’m sorry I snapped at you over the clothes on the floor.”
“You still owe me a Danish.”
“I don’t owe you a Danish, I owe you a muffin.”
“Danish.”
“Okay, a Danish.” I smiled at him, unable to resist adding, “But don’t ask me later if your butt looks big.”
“Deal.” We clinked mugs on it, and life was back to normal.
Kind of.
CHAPTER 13
“Simple Wiccan magic,” Bijou said. “Herbs and charms. Benign, for the most part.”
It was after dinner, around nine o’clock. Joe was helping Odessa in the kitchen, Evan had just gone home to be with Butch, and my grandmother and I were enjoying a well-deserved glass of red wine in the living room. I say “well-deserved” because my bad day had continued throughout the whole freakin’ day. The phone line for the credit-card machine had gone down, the plumber had never shown up, and I’d snagged my favorite black sweater beyond repair—vintage Pierre Cardin, hand-knit. Some low-life skank managed to shop-lift a three-hundred-dollar Judith Lieber bag I’d left on the counter while I was distracted with other customers, and I’d spent twenty minutes scrubbing profanities off the wall in one of the dressing rooms. I’d rushed by the grocery store on the way home to pick up some frozen lasagna, only to find my microwave blinking “666” instead of the time, completely useless no matter how many buttons I pushed. I’d stuck the lasagna in the oven instead, only to set off the smoke detector when it broiled instead of baked. If Joe hadn’t stopped at Papa Donatello’s for stuffed shells and cannoli on the way over, I’d have been screwed.
“Mostly benign?” Bijou’s comfortable acceptance of the gift basket I’d found on my doorstep that morning should’ve reassured me, but it didn’t. She’d been fascinated with it, poking through it while I’d poured the wine. Quite frankly, I’d forgotten it was still sitting on the coffee table.
Once she brought it up, though, I couldn’t stop thinking about my very bad day and the silly little charm that had helped me find my missing keys this morning.
I picked up the small envelope addressed to me and read the note again. “Please accept these in the spirit in which they are offered. I have a feeling you may need them.”
Whoever left it better be wrong.
“The first rule of Wicca is ‘And it harm none, do what ye will’,” Bijou said. “It’s an old, earth-based theology, one that promotes harmony with nature. Wiccans believe any good or any ill you do someone will come back to you three times over, so most coven members are quiet, gentle types.” She smiled and took a polite sip of her wine. “You’d be surprised how many are in the Savannah Garden Club.”
I wasn’t surprised by anything anymore, at least not at the moment.
“The women who came into my shop calling themselves the Sisters of Circe didn’t seem like garden-club types.” I remembered the mean look in the eye of Sally Smith, or Shadow Starhawk, or whatever she called herself. “The one who did the most talking was downright nasty. Do you think one of them left the basket?”
I guess I sounded worried, because Bijou tsked at me. “You mustn’t let yourself be intimidated, Nicki. Chin up. Shoulders back
.”
My body responded to her drill-sergeant tone without thinking, and she was right. I immediately felt better. Stronger.
“Whoever left the basket, it seems their intentions were for good, not ill; all the herbs are beneficial. Open the other scrolls,” she said, “and let’s see what the remedies are for.”
I reached for a scroll and opened it to find a purification and relaxation spell that was mostly about candles and a hot bath—I could’ve figured that remedy out myself. Another scroll held the words to a spell to free yourself of anger, and the third was a ritual to reverse a curse. The fourth one I didn’t like at all, because it was a spell to summon spirits.
But the last one was the worst, because it was a spell to mend a broken heart.
“Great,” I said to my grandmother, “I’m evidently expected to be angry, dirty, and broken-hearted. But if somebody out there thinks I’m going to summon spirits, they’re sadly mistaken.” No need to call any spiritual attention to myself, that’s for sure.
“What’s all this?” Joe came into the living room, leaving Odessa to clatter my dishes to her heart’s content. From the sound of it, she was poking her nose into every single one of my cabinets, but I didn’t care.
I handed him the wine I’d already poured for him, and said, “It’s a basket of stuff somebody left on my front porch this morning.”
He frowned. “What kind of stuff?”
“Herbs and charms,” Bijou said placidly, still apparently unconcerned.
Not so Joe. He shot me a look. “Why didn’t you tell me about this, Nicki?”
“I didn’t know it was a requirement,” I snapped irritably.
His brows shot skyward, and so did Bijou’s, which left me scrabbling for an apology. “I’m sorry, Joe, I’ve had such a bad day”—I patted the couch next to me, shaking my head at my own stupidity—“I didn’t mean it. Please, I’m sorry.”
A loud crash came from the kitchen, making all three of us jump.
“Odessa?” Grandma Bijou rose from her seat, alarmed. “Are you all right?”
“Broke a dish,” came the reply.
“Oh, dear.” Bijou gave me a worried look, then took the opportunity to beat a graceful retreat, heading for the kitchen.
“But don’t worry,” Odessa added, loud enough for everyone to hear. “It was an ugly one anyway. Don’t that child got no dishes that match?”
Bijou was shushing her, obviously embarrassed.
“I’m just sayin’,” Odessa was saying. Quieter now, but still “sayin’.” “Bad enough we got to eat Eye-talian takeout…”
A particularly loud “shush” was the end of that particular diatribe, thankfully.
“I’m sorry I snapped at you, babe, really I am.” I patted the couch again, invitingly. “Come sit with me.”
Joe gave me a rueful shake of the head from the other side of the coffee table. “Bad day?” he asked, and plopped down next to me.
“Was it ever,” I said glumly.
“I had a bad one, too,” he said. “Another round of grilling by the hospital administrator, and another meeting with Lisa Butler. I’m really beginning to think I need to hire my own attorney.”
My heart sank to my toes. Here I was feeling sorry for myself over an oil leak, three tickets, and an overflowing toilet, when Joe had real problems.
Caused by me.
I slipped an arm through his and leaned my head against his shoulder.
“The worst part of the day was the look on the lab tech’s face after I ‘accidentally’ managed to knock three separate trays of sterile instruments on the floor. I didn’t do it, of course—it must’ve been Crystal—but I couldn’t deny it, either. There’s no excuse for clumsiness in the E.R.”
Oh, no.
“If the staff thinks I’m shaken by this inquiry over Crystal Cowart’s death, they’ll lose confidence in me. I can’t have that.” He gave a tired sigh, resting his head against mine. “She’s obviously still hanging around, playing tricks. My office was a mess when I got in this morning—everything on my desk had been dumped on the floor. I picked it up before someone saw it; didn’t want anyone to think I’d trashed it myself and start rumors about my cracking under pressure.”
“This is all my fault,” I started to say, but Joe did some shushing of his own.
“It’s not your fault, babe,” he said, into my hair. “We’ll get through it.”
The clatter of broken china hitting the garbage can came from the kitchen. Despite the din, Joe and I just stayed where we were, and I slowly felt myself begin to relax for the first time all day.
“I’m sorry you had a bad day,” I murmured.
“I’m sorry you had one, too.”
“Yours was worse,” I conceded. “Tickets and plumbing problems don’t compare to truly scary things, like meetings with lawyers.”
He laughed, which made me smile.
“I hate meetings,” he said.
“I think Ms. Legal Beagle Butler has the hots for you,” I said, teasingly. “I would, if I were her.”
Joe stretched out his legs, putting his feet on my coffee table. “Yeah,” he said, with a sigh and a satisfied smile, “I think you’re right. She wants me.”
I jerked upright, laughing, and gave him a playful shove. “You’re unbelievable.” At least he knew the truth when he heard it. “Pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you?”
Joe gave me the grin that never failed to set my heart tripping, reaching out to drag me back down against him. “You make me feel good about myself, Nicki.” He tucked my head back to its place on his shoulder and kissed my hair again. “But the only thing I’m sure of is that I want to be with you. Lisa is out of luck.”
What could I do then but kiss him? And then I kissed him again, just for good measure, before leaning back and putting my feet up, too.
“It’s been such a lovely evening”—Bijou came out of the kitchen a few moments later, dragging Odessa by the hand—“but it’s time for us to turn in.” She picked up her purse and gloves, then held out her arms for a good-bye hug, which I was happy to provide. “The Embassy Suites awaits, as does a long day of sightseeing tomorrow.”
“Huh,” Odessa said, tucking her purse under her arm. “You won’t be up before noon and you know it. Why we needs to go see some stupid fishes anyway…”
“Thanks for cleaning up the kitchen, Odessa,” I said, interrupting. “I appreciate it.”
She eyed me keenly to see if I was being sarcastic. Not much got past those molasses-colored eyes, but since I was telling the truth, I wasn’t worried. I was bone-tired, and cleaning up the kitchen after dinner for five was a chore I was happy to avoid. Apparently satisfied as to my sincerity, she gave a grudging nod. “You welcome.”
“I guess I should be going, too,” Joe said. He accepted a hug from Bijou, speaking to me over her plump shoulder. “Long day today, another long one tomorrow. I’ve got early rounds.”
“Do you have to go?” I was disappointed—we hadn’t spent much time alone together.
“Let the man go on home and get some rest,” Odessa said, opening my front door. “He a doctor.”
As if I didn’t know.
Out of patience, I asked, “Is it my imagination or have you gotten crankier since the last time I saw you?”
“Is it my imagination, or has you gotten sassier?”
“Both,” said Bijou and Joe, at the same time.
To which I had no reply but a roll of the eyes.
I was in a garden, green with plants and damp with dew. The air smelled of flowers, of earth and growing things. A breeze touched my hair, and I lifted my face to the sun, blinking, and saw clouds flitting across the cobalt sky, high and fast.
A storm was coming. It would drown out the sun’s brilliance, leave the garden wet and dripping. But for now it was peaceful. Beautiful, beyond belief.
“Take my hand,” came a voice, and I turned.
A man with golden hair, nearly to his shoulders. He steppe
d from the trees, smiling, holding out his hand. Familiar, so familiar, though I couldn’t remember ever seeing him before. “I want you to see it with me,” he said, bright blue eyes looking directly into mine. He was wearing white, all white.
“Jesus,” I whispered, knowing I had to be dreaming.
“Not exactly,” said the blond man, with a wry grin. “Just the opposite, in fact.”
It was the sardonic curl of the lip that did it—otherwise I might not have recognized him. He looked so innocent and pure; his face was that of an angel, lit from within. His fingers, devoid of rings, reached for mine, and in the dream, I took them.
“Yes, it’s a dream,” Sammy said, tucking my hand into the curve of his elbow. “And when you wake, you will resist me again, as you always do.” The sideways smile he gave me as we began to walk through the garden was a rueful one. “But for now we will walk, and we will talk, and you will see a side of me that few have seen. You will see what was”—here he stopped, and looked me in the eye—“and what will be.”
And when I woke, some unknown time later, I was crying, with no memory of why I cried.
CHAPTER 14
“How exciting to be present at the birth of a new phobia,” Evan said sourly.
“It’s not a phobia,” I retorted. “You don’t like spiders, either. Anyway, I’m not going into the storage room by myself until you’ve replaced the lightbulb. You’re the man”—I waved him on with my fingertips—“go do your manly thing.”
I couldn’t tell him the real reason, of course—if I admitted that Satan himself had been lurking next to the cleaning supplies a couple of days before, he’d never set foot in there again. As it was, I needed plenty of light before I braved it again. “I’ll finish dressing Audrey.”
We’d been fitting our Audrey Hepburn mannequin into a floaty little cream-colored chiffon from the early seventies. It was elegant and supercute, with sequined straps and glittering beadwork on the bodice. “The shoes I want are in a box on the top shelf next to the water heater—strappy gold sandals, three-inch heels.”
