At the Corner of King Street (25 page)

“It always matters.”

“Tell me about it.”

He arched a humorless brow. “So what are you going to do?”

“I've no idea.”

“Like it or not, Janet is not going to be able to take care of the baby. Not now, the near future, maybe ever. Social Services might be able to place her for adoption.”

The knot in my gut returned. “I haven't been thrilled with the choices so far.”

His expression softened. “There are lots of families waiting for adoption.”

“How many do you think know about handling a mentally ill teenager?”

A dark brow arched. “You don't know if she's sick.”

“I'm a worst-case-scenario girl.”

“Have you considered taking the baby to the vineyard? You and Scott could raise her.”

I picked at a loose thread on the waistband of my jeans. “He doesn't want a child now.”

“He said that?” His terse tone sharpened each word.

I could feel Zeb's anger. Pulsing. Not a minor storm, but a hurricane that, if unleashed, could destroy everything around it. “Yes. He was very clear about that.”

The anger swirled. “You don't want to give her up and you can't raise her with Scott. And we're in agreement that Janet can't do this alone.”

“I've got some thinking to do. Choices to make.” I smiled, hoping it would make me feel better, but instead my mood soured. One problem with no good solution. Turning from him, I headed inside.

I moved toward the table of trinkets and skimmed my fingers over the top of a collection of china cups covered with roses that we'd removed from the basement.

“The baby is sleeping,” he said.

“Great. That means I might be able to get an hour or two of cataloguing done. Be nice if I could sort what we have and get it posted online. Money will come in handy for Janet when she gets back on her feet.”

“You can't give her money, Addie. She'll spend it all on junk.”

I picked up a bone china teacup covered in roses. How had something so fragile remained intact in the face of so much neglect and abuse? How had it survived when the others in the set didn't? “I know. But I can dream.”

He moved behind me, not touching me, but so close his heat warmed my back. “Addie.”

My name sounded rough, as if saying it scraped against his throat. “Yes?”

“You're doing a good thing.”

Stinging tears clogged my throat, and I knew if I faced him and met his gaze, I'd cry. I had been in Alexandria less than two weeks,
but fatigue battered my defenses. Today's encounter with Scott fed the fear, making it grow like a weed on fertile ground.

Zeb's breaths were slow and steady and I counted each. One. Two. Three. He wanted me to turn around and face him. This I could feel.
Look at me. Me.
And God help me, I wanted to face him. Look him in the eye with a defiance that told the world I had this all under control. But Scott's sweet, soft words of rejection stripped my emotions raw.

I didn't turn around. Didn't dare. Because in this moment of isolation and fear, I felt an uncommon pull to Zeb. I sensed or maybe imagined a desire bubbling under the surface for what felt like centuries. To my great shame, I wanted him to hold me, even as logic warned that I couldn't bear the weight of more secrets and lies.

And so I stood stock straight, barely breathing until I heard him release a breath, turn on his heels, and call for Eric. The boy bounded down the stairs, and I wondered when I ever felt that light or free. When had I been a kid? When had I last laughed?

“See you later, Aunt Addie!” Eric shouted.

I cleared my throat, pressed cool fingertips to flushed cheeks, and smiled before I turned. “Later, Eric.”

Zeb's head was partly turned toward the door and partly toward me. But if he was tempted to look back at me, he didn't. Instead, he squeezed his son's shoulder and the two left.

Steady, even footsteps mingled with steps full of energy and light.

Penny is up and about, feeling more herself today. She has lost weight but she will survive. I didn't dare tell her about my visit to Faith for magic herbs. Mistress Smyth visited today. She came bearing scones and gossip. Faith, she said, delivered twin boys. Mistress Smyth heard the woman barely labored more than an hour before she delivered the lusty, plump children.

I
wandered back into the first floor of the warehouse and instead of going upstairs, I moved toward the table of newly sorted items. I walked along the table, touching each item, summoning the energy that some items released. My fingertips grazed over doorknobs, the old clock, toys, shoes, and a mirror, but all the items were stubbornly silent. Served me right. The past wanted nothing to do with me.

The front door opened with a burst of energy and I turned to see Margaret. “Addie. What's happening? I just saw Zeb, and he looks pissed.”

“My boyfriend just found out about my family, and then he nicely told me he doesn't want to raise a baby, and left.”

Margaret's bright blue eyes narrowed. “Ouch.”

“You're telling me.”

Bracelets rattled as she rested a fist on her hip. “Boyfriend was mad?”

“Yes, but he handled it well.” That was Scott. Cool and controlled.

“He's coming back, right?”

“I suppose. I hope. But he has lots of time to think between now and tomorrow.”

Margaret snorted. “If he doesn't come back he's an ass.”

I couldn't summon a bit of outrage for Scott. “I blindsided the guy. I've never told him about my family. He really is a good guy. It was wrong of me to drop all this on him.”

Margaret waved away my defense. “My guess is that Wonder Boy has secrets up his sleeve.”

“Scott is an open book.”

“No one is a total open book. He's not told you everything.”

“I'm guessing he doesn't have crazy sisters or secret babies.”

She waved her hand, batting away an imaginary fly. “It'll blow over.”

“That experience talking?”

“Not exactly. I can't make relationships or jobs last. I'm your consummate temp.”

Her honesty disarmed some of the knives jabbing at my gut. “Why's that?”

“Hell, if I know. Maybe I'm ADD or something. Maybe I just haven't found the right thing. But love me while you can, baby, because I'm a tumbleweed. I'll blow on to the next job or adventure soon.”

I smiled. “Fair warning. What's in the file?”

“Found something interesting about Faith.”

“Really?”

“Her husband, Ben Talbot, married her two weeks after she delivered twin sons.”

“Twins? You only mentioned one son. What happened to the other one?”

“He might not have survived.”

“Ah.” The birth of twins was not always welcome hundreds of years
ago. Twins were an oddity and oddities fostered distrust. “Did birthing twins add fuel to the speculation that she was a witch?”

“Thinking like the good ladies of Alexandria, circa 1751,” Margaret noted.

I slid my hands in my pockets. “People don't always add two and two and get four.”

“Not only did Ben Talbot marry his indentured servant but he also released her from her contract.”

“More magic?”

“It was very unusual and no one likes out of the ordinary.” A hitch in her tone suggested she spoke about herself.

“True.” Most of my life I hid my past so no one looked upon me with suspicion or worry. But on some level I needed Scott to accept me for it all and today he had not. My anger at Scott rose up unexpected, quick and sharp, and I immediately felt shame. I had no right to be angry with him. No right. I was nobody's rose.

Margaret twisted her bracelets on her wrist. “I'd like to x-ray the other two bottles.”

“Why?”

“To see what's inside. Maybe they have similar contents to the first one we found at the McDonalds'. Maybe they can tell us more about the ladies that made them.”

“Sure. Feel free to x-ray.”

“Think I could get Grace's bottle?”

“That's up to her. But I don't see why not.”

“Friend at the hospital is going to do the X-rays. I will be careful.”

“I know you'll treat them better than gold. I've seen the love in your eyes when you look at them.”

“Oh my God. I think I would die for them,” she said with a dramatic flair.

“Don't get carried away.”

We headed up the stairs and found Grace sitting in her rocking chair, moving back and forth slowly, eyes closed. “That summer you two were always running around getting into trouble.”

I glanced at Margaret, who shrugged. “You talking to us?”

Her eyes fluttered open and for a moment she didn't recognize either of us. “Sorry. I must have been recalling something my mother said to Elizabeth and me when we were young. But you two do look like trouble waiting to happen.”

“Grace, can Margaret borrow your witch bottle? She'd like to x-ray it.”

Grace pushed forward and stood with a groan. “Why would you want to do that?”

“To compare it to the other two.”

“Why?”

“Finding three intact bottles within miles of each other and within a couple of weeks is kinda really super rare, Ms. S.,” Margaret said. “I'd love to document it all.”

Grace's gaze moved to the bottle, which remained on her mantel. “Sure. But don't open it. That's bad luck.”

Margaret pressed her hand to her heart. “I wouldn't dream of it. I promise the X-ray will not damage it.”

Grace shrugged. “It's all yours.”

The baby fussed, and Margaret glanced toward the sound and then the nearest exit. “I promise to be very careful.”

Grace shook her head. “I'm not worried. Take it.”

As the baby's cries grew louder, Margaret took the bottle and carefully stuffed it in her bag. “I'll report back.”

“Thanks.” I turned without thinking and walked into my room. Carrie lay on her back, kicking and flailing her fisted hands.

As I picked her up, I couldn't help but smile. “What are you fussing about, Miss Carrie?”

The baby squawked louder, but I calmly moved to the changing station now set up on the dresser and quickly cleaned her up. Two weeks ago, this had all been awkward and scary and now it felt . . . normal. I lifted her up on my shoulder, and we moved into the kitchen. She nestled her face close to my neck and rooted around as I moved to the fridge and pulled out a bottle. With the baby balanced on my arm, I unscrewed the bottle top, put it in the microwave, and hit seventeen seconds.

“You look like a pro,” Grace said.

“You sound surprised.”

“I am.”

I glanced at Carrie and watched as she suckled the bottle. “Makes two of us. How the hell did we get here, Grace?”

“The curse.”

“You don't believe that, do you? Really? Many mental illnesses are genetic.”

“I've been thinking long and hard about this. I don't know much about medicine, but I understand curses. I've lived with them all my life. And it's not just Janet and your mother. You and I are trapped by the curse as well.”

I could have argued, but I didn't. “Why are we cursed? Is that why we have the witch bottle?”

“It's supposed to ward off evil. But it's not done such a good job. Bottles don't break curses, just hold them at bay. Takes a force more powerful than a bottle to break a curse.”

“What kind of power?”

“I wish I knew. I spent a lifetime wondering and thinking about what it would take to break a curse. What it would mean to be free.”

Logic aside, Grace believed the Shires were cursed, and looking
back over our history, I couldn't argue. We suffered under a bad run of luck for as long as I could remember.

I stared at Carrie's face, and my heart twisted. Didn't matter if I carried the trait for madness or not. A baby would never fill my womb, and I'd never know the elation of bringing a child into the world.

But, of course, Grace was once young and full of dreams. “What held you here?”

For a long moment she didn't speak and then finally she whispered, “Fear.”

Mistresses Smyth and McDonald joined me for tea today at our newly finished home. There is not a stick of furniture but I made do with the hand-hewn table from the cottage and the rough chairs. It did my heart good to speak to other women like me. We talked first of the tobacco crop and the servants. However, soon our conversation turned to gossip of Faith. Her boys thrive, Mistress Smyth said, and Ben Talbot is pleased with the bastard children he readily claims. Mistress Smyth is appalled a man would claim bastard sons when he should make legitimate heirs with a wife sanctioned by God. Mistress Smyth has promised to speak to the magistrate about Faith. She is certain she has bewitched Mr. Talbot and will trick him into marriage.