Gifts of the Blood (3 page)

She shooed me away again, her tiny fingertips darting, quick as hummingbirds, to catch the tears before they collected on her thick dark lashes. “I know, I know. It’s entirely a selfish thing. I just want to make him something myself, and try, you know?” I nodded slowly. I did know. God knows I tried it often enough myself. The results were a lot of leftovers and a very fat Abigail. “And don’t you think I’m doing this out of the kindness of my heart,” she half-whispered, half-hissed.

I groaned. “We’re not supposed to ‘help’ with each other’s models.” I utterly loathed ceramics, hated using the slimy dirty water and sloppy clay, and could never scrub the gray stuff out of my nails entirely. I thought fast. “But if we go over the weekend, maybe at night, we should be ok,” I assented.

She let out a pent-up sigh. “Thank God. You know I hate that class as much as you do. Maybe, after we get my stuff caught up, we can get some of our other pieces done together, too. Now go! Shoo!”

“Ok, ok,” I grouched, giving my apartment one last longing glance before scooting out the door.

***

The antique iron clock on the corner gave me another twenty minutes before my shift started. I was not known for being early, and I had an extra caramel latte literally burning a hole in my hand. Living right on the square meant I could visit a dozen people in ten minutes or so. The bakery would be open for another few hours. They’d probably already reduced the price of some of the morning’s stock, if there was anything left. I licked my lips speculatively. Mr. Peppers might even be willing to trade some of the morning’s goodies for my extra beverage.

Or there was J. Roth, Bookseller. The stuffy, half-crazy old man might have some rare new book, fresh from his travels to a place I’d never heard of. If I smiled sweetly enough, he might even let me leaf through it. If he was traveling, there was always his pink-haired punk rock princess of a niece, Calla, who kept the store stocked with magazines and the latest thrillers. Various restaurants and bars dotted Old Town Square; most stayed open late, some until dawn. Life on the square was eclectic and continuous. I sighed happily and sipped. Whom to grace with my brief presence before work?

Twilight was fading into full dark when I hit the sidewalk in front of Moore’s Hardware. I stopped, as I always did, to watch the miracle that was Old Town Square at night. The fountain turned from an impressive, three tiered stone monument to a brightly shining beacon shooting colored streams of water. Graceful Live Oaks spotted the park at the center of the square. Smaller oaks and pines came to life as darkness brought hundreds of tiny white lights to life in their branches. Fairy lights, my mother called them. I never got tired of watching the daily ritual. Only in darkness could the light be so completely, brightly beautiful.

As much as I loved it, I’d spent precious minutes gawking on the sidewalk, so in the end I decided just to run across the street to Mrs. Alice’s store to see if any of my hand-painted tarot card sets had sold. Mrs. Alice had been doing business in Whitfield longer than anyone could remember, and adamantly objected to the term “new age” in conjunction with her store. But that was exactly what she ran: her store sold crystals, herbs, books about all kinds of rituals and religions, candles, incense… the works. But Mrs. Alice insisted she ran an apothecary shop, even though she supplied every self-styled Wiccan and pagan in Whitfield. Ironically, her business partner and great-granddaughter, Cassandra, was a veritable poster child of nouveau hippie chic. Her rippling blond hair hung down past her waist; she wore a different hand-dyed caftan or billowy skirt every day. If the wind was right, I could smell her patchouli cloud from across the square.

My cards were a specialty item and unaccountably popular in a town the size of Whitfield. I usually managed to sell a deck or two a month. They were pricey because I put so much detail into the painting. Selling just two was more than enough to pay the electric and cable bills.

A chill wind hit me as I ran. I’d forgotten to grab my hoodie from its spot by the door. I had no one but myself to blame. If I’d spent thirty seconds putting it back on its hook, I might not have forgotten it now. My t-shirt was thin, short-sleeved, with a deep v-neck; the wind sliced straight through it.
Oh well,
I reassured myself as I crossed my arms protectively.
I’ll be inside a warm coffee shop for most of the evening anyway.

I practically sprinted through the door, racing the October chill. Wind chimes caught against the edge of the door and announced my arrival in a smashing crescendo of copper and glass. The faint, papery smell of dried herbs mingled with the stronger aroma of scented candles as I practically skidded across the threshold. Cinnamon. Pumpkin. Apple. Clove. The store smelled like autumn. Dried flowers, braided lengths of grasses and herbs, and strings of crystals hung from the front window. Votive candles flickered in neat little lines on glass shelves in the front window, twinkling and welcoming against the deepening darkness. One soft, butter-colored sofa and two sage green love seats faced the counter in a u-formation. Afghans and quilts lay folded across their backs in sharp triangles. Magazines and workbooks lay scattered about the coffee table. Soft, recessed lighting gave the store a drowsy glow, as if it was one giant candle shining steadily in its western corner of Old Town Square, where it had been since before I was born. Other than the noise of my arrival, the store was silent except for the occasional pop of wax. That meant Mrs. Alice herself was minding the store. Cassandra always played some nauseating new age track, complete with whales or dolphins or rainforests.

Mrs. Alice popped up from behind her counter with more speed than any sixty-year-old woman had any business possessing and glared at me. She adjusted her purple glasses and looked with disapproval at my heaving chest, wild hair, and wind-blown cheeks. “Caspia Chastain! What’s the matter now? Being chased by wolves? Because you almost blew the glass off my door, running in here like that!”

“Sorry… Mrs. Alice.” The fact that I had to catch my breath to speak wasn’t helping my case. I smiled as angelically as I could and held up my extra caramel latte, which had cooled slightly but was still on the scalding side of warm. The Coffee Shop insulated their beverages like some banks did their vaults. “I forgot my jacket, so I was running to keep warm.” She relaxed just a little, so I held up my peace offering. “Besides, I have to get to work in a few minutes and I had an extra coffee, so I wanted to offer it to you before it got cold.” Mrs. Alice, being sixty years old, didn’t speak barista, so I kept it simple.

“Well, that was thoughtful, child,” she smiled, reaching for the cup. “Mmm. Caramel.” She sniffed again. “Cinnamon too, I think.” Decades of working with herbs gave her a killer sense of smell. Nicolas used only the faintest hint of cinnamon. Mrs. Alice reached under a side cupboard and pulled out a real china cup. “Your fancy coffees deserve a proper cup, dear.” She took a delicate sip, her pinky finger popping out like an aristocratic flag. “Ah, yes. Just as I thought. Perfect thing to knock off the chill. Would you like a cup, dear?”

“No thank you,” I said as politely as I could. “I have to work soon, unfortunately.”

She nodded in understanding. “Of course, dear. If that boss of yours didn’t have you to invent such delicious creations, he’d be serving plain old black coffee in a sterile white room.” It was no secret that Mrs. Alice and Mr. Markov didn’t exactly get along. Neither one would breathe a word as to why, though. “Well, he might get as inventive as beige. Oh, before you go.” She reached under the counter and produced a fat white envelope. “All five of your decks sold today. My entire stock.” My jaw dropped. I took a step towards the counter to steady myself. She reached over and gave me a reassuring pat. “To the same person. I didn’t know him. From out of town, I suppose. He says he’s a collector, and would be interested in a private commission.” She slid the heavy envelope towards me, her clear hazel eyes sharp on mine. “He left his number. I wrote it on the envelope. He paid cash.”

I fingered the envelope and swallowed hard. It was a
very
thick envelope. “Cash?” I squeaked out. “All
five
decks?” Five decks would pay the rent. With plenty left over. Mrs. Alice nodded solemnly. “But who would buy all five of my decks? And what did he mean, private commission?” I mused out loud.

The questions were partly rhetorical. My mind was already racing ahead, trying to juggle my schedule so that I would have time to paint another deck for Mrs. Alice to stock. She liked to keep one or two, and it took so long to paint them. The idea of a private commission sounded out of my league and slightly scary, so I let that idea simmer. Another part of my mind was dividing up the money in the fat white envelope, paying bills and buying groceries, especially the ridiculous things I hadn’t bought in months and months. I imagined imported chocolate bars and spicy Red Rock ginger ales and fancy canned cat food with spoiled purebred Persians on the labels. I’d get a real down comforter for Logan. I wouldn’t even complain when Abigail got orange fur on it.

Part of my mind was filling up the car with gas. It was still warm enough to take a quick road trip to the ocean. Logan loved the sea. He wasn’t supposed to be around a lot of people, but I would get around that. I would pack all our food and pump all our gas so he wouldn’t have to go in restaurants or gas stations. I would personally chase everyone away from our spot by the waves, creating a people free zone of sand just for Logan where he could lounge under an umbrella while I read to him. I would just go up to people and politely say, “Excuse me, but would you mind moving a bit over there? My brother is sick, and the doctors say being around people might make him sicker, but he loves the beach so much, and I’m afraid that next summer he might… he might not…
be here….”

I couldn’t see the fat white envelope full of money anymore. I could feel it underneath my drumming fingertips, but I couldn’t see it. Everything was blurry and light. I was choking and someone was making a strange whimpering sound. The envelope underneath my fingers had torn into ribbons; someone had shredded it. Mrs. Alice was trying to take it from me, but I couldn’t see her. Something was wrong with my eyes. The whimpering sound continued, climbed higher in pitch, until I recognized a keening sound. I matched it to my own throat, to my own shaking body, just as surprisingly strong perfumed arms pulled me down to the sofa. “I know, dear,” Mrs. Alice said simply, rubbing the back of my neck in soothing circular motions. “I know.”

“It’s too late,” I sobbed. “For money. Too late for it to make a difference. For
him
.”
I clung to Mrs. Alice. I don’t know why the sight of all that money pushed me over the edge. It was money, after all. It meant, at the very least, that I could take a few days off from work. I could spend some more time with Logan. I could spend some time resting, relaxing. We could get take out and watch bad movies late into the night. But the thought of resting, of
not
driving myself like a machine, finally clicked the last puzzle piece into place.

I was working myself ragged so I didn’t have to face up to how bad things really were.

Nothing on earth would help my brother recover. No matter how hard I worked, no matter how much money or energy or effort I threw into making him better, it was out of my hands. I smelled lilacs and felt soft cotton beneath my cheek as Mrs. Alice rocked me and made soothing noises. I was beyond embarrassed, beyond coherent, even. I was losing him. He was too fragile for this world. All I could do was make my peace with him and try to make him happy and comfortable. I should be happy with that. It was more than we had with my parents, who had been taken so suddenly. It was more than most people got. I lost track of how long I let myself rest on Mrs. Alice’s lavender colored dress before I pulled away and scrubbed my raw, snotty face with my hands. I opened my mouth to apologize, and she opened her mouth at the exact same moment, probably to tell me everything was going to be fine or some other kind of grandmotherly advice.

“Your grief,” a soft, wondering voice interrupted. “The depth of it... is shocking. I don’t know how you can bear it, and live.” The voice came from the depths of the store, preceding its owner into the light. It was low and quiet, but there was steel there, too. I thought of smoke and honey, of minerals and snow. It was a voice that beckoned and promised safety, even as it warned away.

Then he stepped into the light and up to Mrs. Alice’s counter. He looked down and away, as if not quite daring to study me. His designer clothes marked him as someone who came from far away. His black leather jacket was cut like a blazer. His shirt and pants were soft heather gray. His hair was dark brown shot through with threads of gold, and it stuck up in all kinds of crazy directions, like he’d just clutched it in disgust or despair. His lips were tight and twisted. I wished he would loosen them so I could memorize them, so I could draw him later, this strange man with warnings on his lips and troubles everywhere else, this man whose thickly fringed lashes rested against smooth skin and high cheekbones.

I scrambled away from Mrs. Alice, who had gone strangely quiet and still beside me. I was acutely aware of this stranger’s presence, of the way my body reacted to him even before his words registered in my mind. I felt pulled to him, like a magnet drawn true north or a starving person discovering a food so delicious it satisfied hunger simply by smelling it. My throat raw, I managed to croak, “I bear it because there is no one else. We only have each other.” My fingers curled around the edges of the butter-colored sofa; I balanced on the very edge, leaning towards this man with my entire body, straining for a closer look. But he kept his head down and away. “Is that why you did it?” I prompted when he remained still and silent. “Bought all my cards? Because you heard about the poor girl with the dying brother, and felt sorry for us?” I couldn’t keep the anger out of my voice then, although I tried. I worked hard not to be anyone’s charity case. The idea that a total stranger had heard about our predicament and felt sorry enough for me to buy all my decks and still want a private commission… whatever
that
entailed…