Fire Works in the Hamptons : A Willow Tate Novel (9781101547649) (7 page)

Maybe I was crazy, talking to them, trying to send mental images their way. But they came. They sat on my shoulders or on the wicker rocker next to me, or flew in a loose cloud while I urged them to leave. When the cloud appeared smaller or thinner, I begged them to stay in my yard where they couldn't get into trouble or draw attention to themselves or me.

Too late. Joanne at the deli slammed my sandwich down on the counter, without a pickle.

Walter at the drugstore put the Closed sign on his door when he saw me coming.

Bud at the gas station put expensive high-test in my car on purpose.

Mrs. Terwilliger at the library said my card had expired. She wouldn't let me take out any books because they might get burned.

Bill at the hardware store sneered at me while he displayed a new order of flyswatters in his window. He set the metal handles to playing the Bumblebee concerto.

Grandma Eve, my own grandmother, sniffed and told me to get to work if I wanted to see any of her beach plum jelly this year.

I couldn't get to work, not my work. I tore up my notes about the fire wizard, just in case. I'd work on something else, something safe. Bunnies and butterflies, good witches and princesses. Yeck.

Nothing came. No idea caught my interest, revved my engines, gave me that creative charge that was better than sex. (That's what I told myself anyway, since I'd sworn off men.) Now I had neither, a good man nor a good idea.

How come? I wondered. I'd always had plenty of fresh plots and new characters. Now I had none. This wasn't writer's block, when an author couldn't write. This was nothing
to
write.

Then a truly dreadful thought occurred to me. What if all my ideas weren't my ideas at all, but some slippage in the fabric of our world, letting in the unknown magic from Unity? What if everything I wrote as fantasy fiction was reality somewhere else? What if I was nothing but a channel for loose brain waves from another universe?

Then maybe I was nothing. I wish my father'd never put that dire word of uncertainty in my head. Maybe I had no talent. Maybe I didn't deserve my success. Maybe I'd grow old and lonely and unfulfilled. I already had no friends. My cousin couldn't look at me without shaking her head. My mother hung up when I asked if she could talk to bugs, not just dogs. Even my dog distrusted me. In my self-doubt and despair, I squeezed Little Red too hard for comfort. He growled, got off my lap, and ran to hide in the closet, where he could chew up another pair of my shoes.

The only one in Paumanok Harbor who didn't blame me for the bugs, didn't demand I get rid of them, didn't worry about the fires, was Barry Jensen, the would-be writer. He thought the giant-sized fireflies were escaped from a private collection of exotic insects somewhere, which was what we told outsiders. He found them interesting, and me fascinating, he said, how I immediately leaped to help my neighbors. He wanted to write more about me, but also about how small towns pulled together and solved problems, how the volunteers selflessly gave up so many hours to keep the village safe.

He thought he could move back into my house now that Ellen was gone.

Yeah, right after the fireflies turned into frogs and hopped away.

 

Things got worse. An abandoned shed in someone's yard caught on fire. Then a vacant beach cottage burned to the ground before anyone noticed the flames. Martin Armbruster's comb-over got scorched when he netted one of the bugs, then tried to bring it into his class to study. And Janie, who cut my hair, called to say she had a package to deliver.

“Here, you caused this,” she yelled as she pulled up at the house and started unloading paraphernalia and her “package.” “Now you can take care of it.”

“But I . . . I don't know how . . .”

“Your aunt will be home soon to help, or you can ask Mrs. Garland. I wrote down everything you need. You can learn the rest, the way everyone else does.”

 

My grandmother wasn't answering her cell. My aunt couldn't leave school early, not with the kids super-rambunctious on the first days after vacation, amped on the town's fears and furors. My cousin Susan decided to take the week off from the restaurant now that Labor Day had come and gone. She went to Manhattan, to stay in
my
apartment, since I wouldn't be there. I almost cried when she left. Not that I'd miss her. I missed my apartment.

Crying couldn't help. So I called Ty Farraday, the horse whisperer. He was kind and concerned, but he had no ideas. And no, he couldn't come to Long Island right now. He had performances booked and horses to train. He needed the money to build the horse-rescue ranch here in Paumanok Harbor.

“There mightn't be any Paumanok Harbor unless we solve this problem.”

“Then you better ask his lordship in London.”

Which was precisely what I didn't want to do. His lordship was the son of a British earl. He was also my former lover, my almost fiancé, and my mother's dream of grandchildren gone down the tubes. Oh, and he could translate some of the language the insects might use or understand, if he deigned to come to my aid.

He didn't. “I don't know anything about insects. We got a reading of some paranormal activity on the Eastern seaboard. I suppose I'm not surprised you're in the middle of it.”

That didn't sound lover-like to me. It sounded downright nasty and unsympathetic. “It's not my fault.”

“It never is, is it?”

So he hadn't forgiven me for getting involved with Ty so soon after breaking our engagement, even if he'd started seeing Martha from the real estate office. We'd never really talked about it, so I tried now. “Listen, I am sorry things did not work out between us. I am sorry I thought we could get married and live happily ever after. I am mostly sorry I realized we couldn't.”

“We could have if you'd given us half a chance.”

“No, it was never going to work. As my father says, we have to build a bridge and get over it. Besides, this is not about you and me. You are the highest member of the Department of Unexplained Events I know, so this is business, not personal. The bugs start fires when they are threatened, and now the locals feel threatened, so they are out for blood. Or ichor, or whatever you call an insect's blood. This is not a good combination. The people on a witch hunt and the insects defending themselves could destroy the Harbor or bring it to national attention your people would not want.”

He exhaled loudly. “I understand, Willy, but there is nothing I can do. We can send people, but no one knows anything about your bugs. I've never come across any references to them in the old books. We don't have so much as a word for them.”

“You could come brainstorm.” Or hold my hand, but I didn't say that.

“I'm sorry. You're on your own.”

I always was. “You didn't come help with the horses, either, not until we had it almost under control.”

“You didn't come meet my parents the way you promised.”

“I never wanted to go there. I agreed to go to make you happy. Now you can be happy we aren't married.”

“I am. You can bank on that. I never wanted a clinging, managing kind of wife. I thought you were independent and honest.”

That hurt. “Well, I thought you meant that crap about ‘One life. One heart,' on the back of my pendant.”

“I did, but the only time you remember it is when you need something. All you ever wanted was a white knight to ride to your rescue, then get out of your way so you could keep your comfortable little corner of the world neat and uncomplicated. Someone to take out the trash and check the air in your tires.”

“Well, all you wanted was a mother for your children. A mother with talent, who'd be happy living in your shadow halfway across the world from everything she knew and loved.”

He sighed again. “Listen, you are right. This is a waste of both our time. We've both moved on, we're over. I'll ask around to see if DUE has anyone in the field who can help in any capacity. Okay? I'll get someone there in a couple of days.”

“Days?” I panicked. “But what about the baby?”

He panicked. I waited while he picked the phone up from the floor.

“Grant? Are you still there?”

His voice came back on the line, raspy from choking. “Baby? Are you pregnant? If you are, I didn't do it!”

That was my line. “She's not my baby. Not our baby.” And not my father's turning Maybe either.

“She's a burning baby. Janie from the beauty parlor's niece's daughter.” The one who was asleep in my bathtub right now after catching her house on fire and injuring her mother.

Grant was so relieved I wasn't suing him for child support that he listened while I explained why I was temporary caregiver to a ten month old. I told him how the toddler had caught a bug, put it in her mouth and bit down. Now when she cried, she spewed flames. Janie had to go to the hospital with her niece, Mary Brown. Mary had divorced the baby's father, Roy Ruskin, because he was a drunk, a doper, and a spouse abuser, according to Jane. Then he'd been arrested for refusing to pay the court-ordered child support and now Mary had an order of protection against him. He couldn't be allowed near the baby.

“But you can? Is everyone in that town crazy?”

“Excuse me, but you did think I could raise your children.”

“We'd have a nanny.” He went on before I could tell him what he could do with his nanny and his blue-blooded brats. “Tell me why you have the fire-breathing baby.”

“Well, they can't send her to day care with the other kids, can they? And there are no other relatives in the state. Besides, Janie doesn't want any of the neighbors to know about the danger. Can you imagine what they'll do to poor little Elladaire if they think she's starting all the fires?”

“Worse than handing her to someone who's never held an infant?”

“I've done fine with her, I'll have you know. I took her to the beach—with sun screen and a hat—where nothing could get burned. She had a wonderful time, and now she's all tired out. I have a bottle ready the second she wakes up, and Jane promised she'll be back tonight. I don't know how safe she'll be with Elladaire. Babies cry!”

“Shite.” He pronounced it the British way, but I understood.

“They do that, too. I need help!”

“You need a keeper, Willow Tate.”

CHAPTER 7

I
NEVER SAID I WAS BRAVE.

Planes, snakes, subways; they didn't make the top of the list of things I was afraid of. Add boats, bats, and taxi drivers with eye patches. My grandmother, coyotes, hair dye, tornadoes, the gynecologist. Going crazy like my paternal grandmother, turning into a witch/bitch like my maternal grandmother, turning into my mother! Getting cancer like my cousin, living the rest of my life with my cousin. Sharks. Choking when I am alone so no one can perform a Heimlich. Being alone when I am eighty. Talking in public. Forgetting to send in estimated taxes. Catalytic converters, global warming, and religious fanatics of every denomination. You know what scares me most? The idea of being responsible for another helpless human being.

I had a baby. I had Mary Brown's daughter for a few hours only, but Elladaire had to be protected from herself, from a zillion dangers everywhere, and from my own inexperience and incompetence. What if I dropped her? Or fed her wrong? My house wasn't baby-proofed. Neither was Little Red. None of us was fireproof.

The trick was to keep her from crying, which meant keeping her happy. Half the time I didn't know what made me happy. Oreos and ice cream? A walk on the beach? A nice royalty check? Not applicable. Elladaire could barely walk or talk. And she might miss her mother, or cut a tooth, or bump her head. Hell, she might be afraid of strangers. I reread the lists Janie'd left me.

Do they make tranquilizers for babies? I'd read how centuries ago they gave infants gin to keep them quiet, rubbed liquor on their sore gums, fed them beer to help them sleep. I was tempted.

Elladaire was a sweet little munchkin, though, who gave cute drooly smiles and played patty cake and peekaboo and this little piggy and held up both hands to be carried, and I thought I was going to die before Jane came back. I knew damn well they made tranquilizers for adults, but I was afraid of falling asleep. I couldn't take my eyes off the kid for a second.

Her mother was going to be all right, Janie reported, but they sent her by ambulance to a specialized burn unit elsewhere on Long Island. Who knew how long she'd be there?

Janie stopped off on her way home from the hospital to buy a crib with metal bars and six fire extinguishers, three for her, three for me. Cripes.