Bitch Witch (10 page)

“I’m not judging. It was because of the war, wasn’t it?”

Paul didn’t answer. He still wore the polo shirt and jeans he’d had on the last time she saw him, and dark circles ringed his eyes.

“How about I feed you? You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.”

“Nothing weird? I am ravenous.”

“No. I promise.”

On the way home Sarah swung by Chick-Fil-A and picked up too much food. They ate sitting on the sofa with the Weather Channel on mute. Paul devoured two sandwiches and two orders of waffle fries. He picked at Sarah’s fries until she surrendered them, wondering when he had eaten last. He fell asleep on the couch without having said much more than, “Do you have any more ketchup?”

It was eleven o’clock in the evening before Sarah remembered to change out of the wretched dress. Ten minutes later she stood in the backyard in her favorite pajamas and lit the dress on fire. It took three bottles of charcoal lighter to get rid of it and left a two foot in diameter scorched circle in the grass. When she turned around, Paul stood on the back porch leaning against the railing, watching.

“Didn’t like that one so much?” he asked.

“No.”

“Yeah. Me neither. Thanks for dinner, Sarah, and for bailing me out.”

“You’re not leaving?”

“Yeah. I have a bus ticket to get back up to New Hampshire. I’m pretty sure I can change the date on it, and I’ll wait for the car up there.”

“You’re welcome to stay with me, Paul. You’ll get arrested sleeping in a park up there too.”
Am I in-fucking-sane? I can’t have him staying here!

“I thought you were trying to limit our time together. I’m supposed to call instead of coming over, remember? Don’t feel sorry for me, Sarah. My family has money oozing out the ears, oil and fracking kind of money. All I have to do is toe the line for my share. I’m just not a cooperative man.”

It sounded familiar. The murky origins of the Archer fortune were far worse than oil and fracking, another one of the reasons Sarah wouldn’t touch it. Sarah crossed her arms and studied Paul. At this particular moment the obsessive draw to him took the form of a need to make sure he was safe. The term
three months in a psychiatric hospital
had done a lot to twist the pull toward him into something close to maternal.

“Are you honestly not drawn to me?”

Paul crossed his arms and leaned against a pillar on the porch, gazing down at her. “You seem really nice.”

Sarah laughed. “I’m not. You don’t have to try not to hurt my feelings. Be candid. You’re not dreaming about me? Or having obsessive thoughts about us? Desperate to—you know?”

“Do men ever do those first two, even when they are in love?”

The other witches in her family’s coven used to refer to Aunt Lily’s men as groupies or love slaves. Sarah nodded. “Yes, definitely. So not the first two, but the third? Despite these pajamas you find me attractive?”

“Ugly PJs don’t hide the pretty.” He pronounced it
purdy
. “But I’d say that about a lot of women. No offense.”

“None taken. I just want to be clear about this. When it comes to hot nasty sex with me you could take it or leave it?”

Paul shifted uncomfortably. “Yankee women say exactly what they think, don’t they?”

It was weird. Maybe she should tell him to go; it would make life easier on her. The fact that she could suddenly tell him to go was uncanny. The fact that Paul felt no pull was downright bizarre. Sarah knew the bindings of a love spell had wrapped them both that night in the parking lot. But if it hadn’t bound him to her or her to him for very long, what had happened to change it?

“Stay. Please? I’d like to figure out what’s going on. There’s plenty of room.” Sarah skipped up the steps and led the way through the back door. “There’s an apartment right off the kitchen. I think it’s nice.”

Sarah had never been inside it. Housekeepers had lived in it, quiet unobtrusive women who rarely spoke. She had a moment of anxiety before she flipped the door open and hit the light switch, half wondering if she’d find a cinderblock cell. But the space was roomy and bright, with a wet bar and small refrigerator. A window even looked over the side yard.

Relieved, Sarah led the way across thick carpet as though she’d been there before. “It has a bathroom.”

The bathroom startled her. It opened into the far side of the room. A mirror as wide as the double sink reflected Sarah and Paul as they approached. Apparently no one in her family had ever been in the room either, or it would have been destroyed. Sarah eyed it uneasily, but the only scary thing she saw was the mirror image of her wearing baggy pajamas.

Digging through drawers, Sarah found new toothbrushes, soap, and towels. The last woman had left immediately after news came of Aunt Lily and her mother’s deaths, but apparently she’d cleaned her room first. Other than three years of dust and some rust in the toilet bowl, it wasn’t bad.

“You sure?” Paul asked, already eyeing the toothbrushes.

“Positive,” said Sarah. “There are just a couple house rules. Stay out of the attic and basement. I’d rather you didn’t go into any of the bedrooms upstairs either, at least any of the rooms with the doors shut. Feel free to root through closets for anything you might need downstairs, but don’t open any clay pots or glass jars that are sealed shut. Um. I don’t cook, but I guess you can. Be careful not to use any cast iron or copper pots if you do. Oh, and they grow everywhere, but don’t use the fresh herbs. Also, don’t let anyone inside. In fact if anyone knocks at the door, don’t answer it no matter what they say. And the guy who does the yard work, don’t try to talk to him if you see him.”

“Okay, that’s more than a couple house rules. Is it all right if I run the vacuum and do some laundry?”

“Oh, hell, I might really fall in love with you if you do.”

Paul lifted his brows.

“You know that’s a joke, right? The laundry room and vacuums are down the hall to the right. I’m going to bed now. I have to be at work early. Call me if you have any problems during the day.” Sarah walked out the apartment door, then turned around and stuck her head back in. “Goodnight, Paul.”

IT TOOK A long time to fall asleep. Sarah had locked the bedroom door against Paul, just in case he had some sort of delayed love spell attack.
Like I’d have minded.
But in reality she might have minded.

The majority of the night passed with Sarah tossing and turning, worrying about Paul as though he were her child.
What happened to him in Afghanistan that left him in a psychiatric hospital for months? What is the story with his family? Does the guy sleep in parks often?
The dark circles under his eyes haunted Sarah’s dreams when she did fall asleep; consuming her thoughts more than the love spell gone astray. Whatever the spell had done, it had surely been festering and growing this whole time. Yet her feelings for Paul were no longer anything like any love spell she’d ever seen.

Paul didn’t come out of his apartment before she left for work. Sarah rooted through cupboards and found a lone box of Cream of Wheat that hadn’t expired. She left it on the kitchen counter with a note that there was milk in the fridge.
Just in case he doesn’t recognize milk when he looks in there.

Sarah entered the breakroom at work at the same time as Mindy. Someone else had already made a pot of nasty coffee.

Mindy swept her dark eyes over Sarah’s lavender blouse, black skirt, and sensible shoes. She glanced at the countertop in the breakroom. Sarah mentally cringed; she had forgotten donuts.

“I’ve never been so disappointed in you,” said Mindy. “We’re finished.”

Sarah used her lunch break to run to Natick Mall and get the cookie store to frost Cinderella mice onto a large chocolate chip cookie cake. She rushed back to work, located Mindy’s cubicle, and opened the box to display the treat.

Mindy raised her eyebrows. “I was joking about fucking you. I didn’t mean to get your hopes up.”

“I figured.”

Mindy shut the lid on the box. “Sorry. I’m not sharing my rat cookie with you. No offense, but you’re getting fat.”

Sarah made a mental note to find something in Aunt Lily’s closet that Mindy could wear.

FOR THE FIRST time ever Sarah’s work day dragged. Despite the dozens of texts Sarah sent to Paul’s phone, he only responded to one.

Sarah:
What do you want from Olive Garden for dinner?

Paul:
I cooked.

Did that mean he’d cooked for himself? For her? Since there were no groceries in the house Sarah considered stopping and getting herself something, then worried that he’d eaten Cream of Wheat all day.
Maybe I should get him something anyway. No. He said he’d cooked.
In the end she figured they could always make her frozen pizzas and went directly home.

It rained on the drive home, the kind of rain that blew down in sheets and nearly pushed her car off the highway. The kind of rain that swallowed umbrellas and turned them inside out, and followed Sarah to her doorway, spilling water down the back of her blouse, daring her to cast it away like all the Archer women had done for centuries. Sarah endured it and reached the front door feeling like a martyr, put upon and angry at the universe for making life so damn difficult.

The front door was locked and the key under the mat gone, which pissed her off. She had to dig through her purse and find her house key because kicking at the base of the door and swearing didn’t make Paul open it. Did the moron have no clue how impatient a witch was? A variety of minor but amusing spells flitted into the back of Sarah’s mind.

Make him speak in Pig-Latin for a day.

Or force him to walk everywhere like he’s on a balance beam.

Maybe the talk like Bob Dylan thing. Aunt Lily loved to do that to guys.
She was so good at it that Sarah used to think that Bob Dylan might have been her aunt’s first victim.

Fortunately for Paul, once she got the door open the smell of homemade lasagna wiped away every trace of annoyance. Paul met her in the vestibule wearing a pair of blue gym shorts and a navy t-shirt, more of his ship tattoo visible on his thigh.

“I hope it’s okay that I used dried herbs. You said no fresh.” He took her dripping pocketbook and hung it on a hook. “Are you cold? Come into the kitchen and stand by the oven. I’m a thirty-bowl cook, as my momma says. I’ve been cooking for hours and it’s hot as hades in there.”

Sarah followed Paul through the clean vestibule, kicking off her damp shoes. All her bags of stationery had been unpacked and the supplies were stacked neatly on a bureau next to the coat rack. She could smell lemon oil and vinegar beneath the delicious layer of Italian cooking.

Steam seemed to cloud the kitchen, and dishes and pots crowded the sink. The first thing to draw Sarah’s attention was the fresh breeze blowing through the room with the scent of basil on it.

“You opened the windows!”

“Don’t tell me that’s a rule too? This place needs fresh air. It took hours to clear the cobwebs and dust out of this room.” Paul opened the convection oven and took out a loaf of bread.

“You made bread? You shouldn’t make bread here!”

“Oh, come on! That’s a rule? You said I could cook.”