An Unlikely Witch (26 page)

Lizard blew through the door, eyebrows up.  “What’s the emergency?  The line over there’s thirty feet long.”

Lauren just sat back and watched.  Time for her best friend’s happy buzz to spread.

“I need you to come with me.”  Nat smiled.  “There’s a gift ready.  For Helga, but you and I are going to collect a bunch of collateral awesomeness.”

“I don’t need stuff.”  A dopey grin hit the poet realtor’s face.  “If Josh hides any more presents at our house, I’m not even gonna be able to walk in the front door.”

“It’s not a thing.  You just get to be an audience.  Trust me—you want to come.”

Lauren hid a grin—Nat was dancing in place like Aervyn did when he was ready to explode.  She pinged her associate. 
You gotta go. 
In case that was in any doubt.

Duh.  I’d go just to keep her looking this happy.
 Lizard was already sliding back into her coat. 
I don’t suppose you have any idea what this is about?

Not a clue.

Pants on fire. 

Lauren, still laughing, tapped into Nat’s head as they walked out the door.  They’d already agreed that the fewer people present at this reveal, the better—less likely that Trinity would combust with embarrassment.  But no way was she missing the chance to be a mind-witch fly on the wall.

Because Helga’s garret was about to be ground zero for absolute joy.

-o0o-

Nat had walked up the stairs expecting to adore whatever she found.  Whatever art had flowed from the hands of an artist off the street would be lovely.

She hadn’t expected this.

Opera music played quietly in the corner.  Trinity tried to hide behind it, nearly melting from embarrassment and pride.  Lauren’s and Lizard’s chins were both on the floor, gaping at the murals in stupefied awe.

And all of that vanished as Nat looked at the walls.  At an artist, unveiled.  At Paris of the imagination.  She sank into the beautiful, flowing brush strokes—sexy and evocative and brimful of possibility.

And felt some awful band around her heart slip free.

She didn’t know what the universe had in store for her.  But if a girl from the streets could channel Van Gogh’s brilliance and meld it with her own, the world was an amazing, fantastic, awe-giving place.

Even when it hurt hard.

Moira was right.  She’d set aside the old dream.  And in time, it would make space for the new.  For whatever came next.

Lauren and Lizard turned as a unit and Nat shifted toward the stairs, knowing they heard on channels she didn’t have.  Footsteps sounded on the stairs a moment later. 

And then Helga stepped onto the landing of her cottage garret.

The loft froze.  Time froze. 

And then it started again, pushed by one slow, awed breath from an old lady.

“This is my favorite painting in all the world,” Helga barely whispered.  “My very favorite.”  She turned to Trinity, eyes bright with emotion.  “You did this?”

“Yeah.”  A quick shrug.  “I messed up some parts.”

“It must have taken you days.”  Helga’s fingers moved, an inch from the wall, following the lines of one of the flowing beams of light rendered in acrylics on her wall.

Another shrug.  And a shifting of feet that said far more than words ever could have.

Helga turned, gaze glued to Trinity now.  “You gave me Paris.”  Her eyes shone, unnaturally bright.  “A Paris of my very own.”

Nat felt her own tears well up in response.

Don’t,
sent Lauren quietly. 
Trinity’s a hair away from hightailing it out of here.

Nat refused to believe it.  Not today.  Today was for joy.

“It’s just a painting.”  The artist jammed her fisted hands down into cavernous pockets.

Oh, God. 
Lauren winced—and then beamed fifteen kinds of delight. 
Never mind.  Helga’s a genius.

“And a fine one.”  The zesty old lady raised an eyebrow, entirely casual.  “Have you ever seen the original?”

“Nah.”  The painter kicked some invisible rock on the floor.  “Saw a poster at the library.”

“Ah.  That’s perfect, then.”  An edge of mischief leaked into Helga’s voice, even as she returned to staring at the magnificent walls of her garret.  “How’s the seventeenth of January?”

Lizard raised a silent eyebrow. 
What the hell’s she up to? 

Nat wasn’t entirely sure.  But she knew Helga.  Whatever was coming would be epic.

Helga intently studied one of the stars of her Paris night.  “If that date doesn’t work, I can be flexible.  But I really want to go before the end of January.  My traveling feet are itching.”

Her quarry blinked.  “What?”

“It’s perfect.”  The vibrant old lady sounded like she was discussing a run to the corner store.  “Edric doesn’t like flying, and he likes museums even less.  We’ll have a wonderful time together, you and I.”

Nat had caught up now—and if she hadn’t already loved Helga, this moment would have tipped her way far over into complete adoration.

Trinity was a lot further behind.  “What?  Wait—where do you think I’m going?”

“To New York, of course.”  Helga waved an arm at her glorious walls.  “To commune with the original.  You’ll love the Museum of Modern Art—I could get lost in there for days.”

“No way.”  Dark, fierce eyes swept over everyone in the room.  “No more free stuff.  No paint, no clothes, no fancy trips.  I’m nobody’s charity case.”

“Of course you’re not.”  Five feet of old lady exuded righteous indignation.  “I’ll be deducting the cost of your trip from your painting fee.”

Lizard turned carefully away from the action, face ten kinds of amused. 
Trinity’s so screwed.

The woman in question only stared.

“We have a lot of really boring walls in our main house,” said Helga, sliding a hand under the elbow of her newly appointed artist-in-residence.  “And nothing would make me happier than having them covered in the work of the masters.  You can come visit my house, see the spaces I need livened up.  Then I thought we could go to the museum together and choose what you’ll paint.”

Nat hid a smile.  Her yoga studio wall was going to have to get in line.   She might have given this gift its start, but Witch Central would make absolutely sure it kept rolling.

“There are museums here.”  One ex-street tough fired her last volley in a losing battle, naked desire written all over her face.

“Surely, and we can visit those too.  But the one in New York is my favorite.”  Helga leaned in conspiratorially.  “You’ll learn that clients can be annoying and demanding and you should just give them what they want.  You can write curse words on the wall under the paintings if I’m too terrible.”

Perfectly played.  Nat restrained the urge to applaud, and instead just drank in the befuddled elation on Trinity’s face.

And then the mindlink came from Lauren. 
That’s nothing.  Here’s what’s streaming out of her head.

It was very hard not to sniffle. 
I think this somehow turned into a gift mostly for me. 
Again.

Yeah.  Pretty sucky day for me and Lizard. 
Lauren’s mindvoice was dry as dust. 
And Helga’s definitely going to lodge a complaint.

There was no such thing as a gift that gave only to one.  Nat hugged her ribs.  A reminder to herself to keep her heart open. 

To be ready when joy came knocking.

-o0o-

Moira smiled out her parlor window as a pack of children, scarves wound up over their noses, ran past her front door.  Delivering wreaths.  Uncle Billy made them, his rough hands fashioning the circles of greenery for every door in Fisher’s Cove.  Said it gave him something to do in the winter.

The villagers kindly accepted that explanation, and left pies and plates of cookies and hearty tureens of soup outside his door.  To keep his fingers warm for the work.

Love, Nova-Scotia-fisherman style.

Her hands had been busy too, finishing small Solstice gifts and the last of her baking, including some of the Yule logs Uncle Billy liked so much.

Now she was just taking a moment to sit and let the feel of the holidays slide into her heart.

The weight the healers had been carrying from Nat’s journey was quietly ebbing, thanks to resilient hearts, children who insisted on laughing no matter what the day carried, and the deep reassurance delivered by a glass ball that had once sat lodged in her suitcase for the long and emotional journey across the sea.

That it had reached out after all this time to soothe her heart was an utter astonishment.  Perhaps it had finally forgiven her for all the curses a seasick, homesick Irish lass had rained down on its head.

So long ago.  And she’d had a fine life on this side of the waters.

The children were still running outside, making their wreath deliveries.

Her hands reached for her knitting, ready to be busy.

And stilled as she looked at the yarn on her needles.

Two little red mittens, almost finished.

She nestled them in her palms, thinking of the small boy they’d been meant for.   

And then gently, she set them aside.  Perhaps the children could use some help with their deliveries.

-o0o-

Nat squared her shoulders and walked into the grocery store.  Funky and locally owned and her favorite place to find bits of yumminess to spoil body and soul.

She hadn’t been here in weeks.

It felt right to come.  Her time in Helga’s loft had been magical, and she didn’t want to lose it.  Stay open to joy.  It was the holidays, and be darned if she was going to spend all of it in a funk—she’d done that enough years growing up.

Landing in the heart of the Sullivan clan had totally transformed her Decembers.  Nowhere in the world did light shine more strongly out into the dark.  A fierce glow, kindled by a family that entirely understood its purpose—and had a deep and gorgeous understanding of how to feed it.  Giggling laughter in festive sofa-cushion forts, topped by raggedy blankets and strings of Christmas lights.  Misshapen cookies that might be stars or reindeer or monsters, offered up by hands that fully expected their creations to be appreciated and immediately consumed.  Quiet touches and glistening eyes and whispers in corners—secrets on the prowl.

She wasn’t going to miss all that this year.  Even if she occasionally had to take time out to be sad.

Even now, with the jagged, empty wasteland where part of her heart used to be, Nat could feel the light.  Soothing.  Sprinkling tiny seeds in the emptiness so they might one day be flowers.

Healing, whether she was ready for it or not.

Life, insisting on her attention.

Drawing on so many years of practice on and off the mat, she began following her breath.  Letting the sights and sounds and cheerful odors of the store feed her.  People talking, with the happy, slow beats that said they were taking time for conversation.  Icicle lights hanging over the produce bins.  Something Celtic and festive playing on the airwaves, and the distinct smell of cinnamon. 

She looked around, following her nose.

A young girl of five or six hung out behind a table at the far end of the produce section.  A woman sat on a stool behind her, quietly watching.  Mom, no doubt—the bond between them was obvious.

Nat made her way over, enticed by cookies and big, provocative brown eyes.  

The child flashed a gap-toothed grin.  “Hi.  I bet you want a cookie.”

They looked unmistakably homemade.  “I would love one.  Are you raising money for something?”

“Nope.”  The girl held out her hand to shake.  “I’m Molly.  You can have a cookie, and some eggnog if you want.”

Nat knew a natural salesperson when she met one.  “You’re sure that’s all?”

Molly nodded solemnly.  “Yes.  You don’t have to do anything else, but if you want to, you can look at the pictures.”

There were no pictures on the table.  Nat frowned, trying to understand.  “Which pictures, sweetheart?”  It was clearly really important.

“These ones.”  Molly pointed at the wall beside her.  “These are kids who need a forever family.  I want people to have a cookie so they have a reason to slow down and look really carefully.”

Nat fought for her shields, the same ones she used whenever she ventured too close to the pet store on adoption day or found a sad face sitting on a street corner.  Not every stray could live with the Sullivans.

“Just look, okay?”  Molly’s voice tried to reassure her, but something in it caught Nat’s attention.

She focused on the child again, studying the solemn eyes and the easy grin.  And somehow knew.  “This matters a lot to you, doesn’t it?  Is this how you found your forever family?”

The woman behind Molly leaned in and kissed the top of her head.  “Yes.  It’ll be two years ago on Christmas Day since she came to live with us.”  Her eyes carried so many messages.  “It’s a big responsibility.  Molly just wanted to help people start to think about it.”

Nat knew all about trying to help little kids with big dreams have realistic expectations.  Gently.  In a way that didn’t break their spirits.

Molly’s eyes shone.  “Mama helped me bake the cookies.”

A child who had been granted a miracle—and knew it.

Just like the woman who had once been a lonely sixteen-year-old girl.  She smiled at Molly, heart totally shaky.  “I didn’t find my forever family until I grew up.”

Molly said nothing.  Just sat, her solemn brown eyes never looking away.

Whatever power Nat might have had to resist fled in the face of the implacable wish in those eyes.

And in her own heart.  Stay open.

Haltingly, feeling a little desperate, she stepped closer to the wall.  Walked past the first and second pictures in a blur, and then forced herself to slow down.  To truly look. 

Stay open.

She gave each one her full attention.  Let the faces touch her—the awkwardly happy ones and the cautious ones, and the eyes that told too many stories. Children too old to be easily adopted, too scarred by their lives to step easily into a new one.

The cookie in her hands crumbled to dust.