Indigo Springs (2 page)

How to change it back. “Let’s start with Sahara.”

“That’s two questions too.” Astrid cups her palms above the surface of the ten of hearts. The red ink fades, leaving it blank. Then a bead of brown paint wells from the stiff paper, like a minuscule drop of blood coaxed from a pinpricked finger. It streaks across the card, outlining a dilapidated car. Astrid watches it raptly. Me, I burn my mouth, slurping too-hot tea in a sip that becomes a gasp.

“Not what you expected?” Patience laughs.

“On the fifteenth of April, Mark Clumber told Sahara he’d been cheating on her,” Astrid says, eyes locked on the card as if she’s reading text. “He confessed, then took off for a few hours—to give her space. Sahara packed her bags the second he was gone. She took his car and cat, half their money, and drove west. She was eighty miles out of Boston before Mark slunk back, looking for forgiveness.”

“She just left?”

“When someone hurts Sahara, she cuts them out of her heart forever. Ask Mark.”

“Mark’s beyond speech,” Patience says sharply. The Clumber boy is in one of the compound’s other apartments, suffering from severe alchemical contamination.

“Beyond speech,” Astrid murmurs. “Sahara would be pleased.”

I can believe it. Sahara routinely attacks Alchemites who leave her cult, not to mention police who oppose her and reporters who question her claim to be a goddess.

On the playing card, brown paint colors in the outline of the car. Wispy strokes of black sketch a cat on its rear dashboard. Brushstrokes from an invisible brush; the hairs on my arms stand up.

“So Sahara isn’t particularly forgiving?”

Astrid doesn’t contradict me. “She called from Billings and asked if she could stay at my house.”

She means the home she inherited from her father, I know, on Mascer Lane in Indigo Springs, at the epicenter of the alchemical spill. “And you said yes?”

“I said she could stay forever if she wanted.”

“What did she say?”

On the card, dots of green brighten the cat’s eyes. “She said I’d have to make life pretty goddamned interesting if I was going to keep her around.”

If the house Astrid had inherited from her father was in unexpectedly good repair, the yard was in a state of war. The chief aggressor was a blackberry bush that had established squatter’s rights along the fence before allying itself with some bindweed vines. These two runaway growths were making a claim for the whole backyard.

The line of defense began at an umbrella-shaped fig tree. In the spring, Astrid could see, hyacinths had flowered under the fig’s protection. Now, with summer barely under way, the tree’s leaves had unfurled. They blocked the light at ground level, daunting even the blackberries. The hyacinths had yellowed and shriveled in its shadow.

What grass remained was marshy, forlorn, and edged by moss and silverweed.

Once, though, the garden had been loved. It was bordered by hexagonal paving stones, and as she cut back the blackberries, Astrid found sickly perennials—black-eyed Susans, a lone candytuft, rust-covered hollyhocks.

She cast a worried eye at the kitchen window. Her stepbrother, Jackson, had stalked off to the grocery an hour ago. He’d barely spoken since they moved in two days before, and her attempts to lighten his mood were hitting a wall. It wasn’t like Jacks: he was the most easygoing person she knew.

As for Sahara…she was overdue. She could have cracked up on the highway, or gone back to Mark.

Things might be easier if she did go home, she thought uneasily.

As if in response, a filthy brown Toyota wobbled to a stop behind the house. Its engine died with a surly bang and the horn started up instead. Tripled honks, loud ones, ripped through the neighborhood.

Groping for the water-filled bucket at her knee, Astrid began scrubbing dirt off her hands.

“Hey!” she shouted. “Cut it out!”

Blat blat blat
…extravagant and noisy.

Heart singing, she heaved the bucket over the fence, water and all. It hit the rear hood, splashing the back window. The honking stopped; the door ratcheted open. Sahara emerged, her hair shorn, arms full of cat, and manic glee written on her face.

“What are you doing?” Astrid shouted.

“Making an entrance!”

“My neighbors are going to call the cops.” She wrestled the gate open before Sahara could kick it out of her way. “You said you’d be here days ago.”

“Got into an altercation.” She leaned in to kiss her cheek. Astrid hastily put her dirt-slimed hands out of reach. The cat squirmed, momentarily squished.

“Altercation?”

“Car got towed. Had to take on the Spokane police with nothing but my trusty slingshot and some thumbtacks.”

“You stopped to visit your grandmother.”

“Should have called, I know. Did I miss the heavy lifting?”

“Not all.” That was Jacks behind them, emerging from the shadows at the rear of the yard, moving with the wiry grace of a natural athlete. A forest-green pack bulged on his back. Smudges of color—paint—decorated his hands.

Years of hiking trips, river rafting, and rock climbing had given Jacks a rugged physique that belied his artistic side, but as his gaze flicked over the two of them, Astrid could hear mental shutters clicking. He often drew, from memory, things he’d seen for just a few seconds. “There’s a ton of work waiting in there for you.”

“Is that so?” Sahara’s voice chilled.

“Fridge needs moving,” Jacks said. “And you can unload the boxes we packed and hauled over here.”

Sahara peered up into his gray-green eyes. “You martyr. Want me to nail you to a cross while I’m at it?”

He smiled faintly. “How are you, Sahara?”

“Dumped. Miserable. You still the most eligible bachelor in this lousy town?”

Instead of answering, he said: “Do you need a hand?”

“Thanks. Take Henna.” She held out the cat. Jacks collected the beast and disappeared indoors.

“Nice of him to help you move in,” Sahara said sourly.

“He’s living here.” Without waiting for an answer, Astrid hefted a suitcase out of the trunk. “His father’s lost it. ‘My son, my son, you must carry on my name.’”

“Lovely. Old-fashioned
and
maudlin. Who cares if Jacks takes over the family business?”

“Ask the Chief.”

“It’s a beer-bottle factory, not the crown of Spain.”

“Jacks needed some space.”

“Then why isn’t he leaving town, or at least quitting the Fire Department? Maybe it’s not so much about getting away from Dad as getting closer—”

“He did quit the Fire Department,” Astrid interrupted.

“So he’s homeless and jobless? And you, the woman who helps everyone with everything, all the time—”

“I love you both. You both need a place to stay. For the first time in my life I have room,” Astrid said. “Anyway, it’s not just the bottle factory. Lee wants Jacks to be Fire Chief too.”

“Doesn’t Jacks run back to Mommy’s place when the two of them start bickering?”

“Olive sold her house when Dad died.”

“Why didn’t you say Jacks would be living here?”

Because you wouldn’t have come. She kept her voice light. “You said you weren’t staying.”

“I said I probably wasn’t staying.”

“So you might stay?”

“No.” The reply came too fast, and Astrid tried to strangle a burst of hope as she led the way upstairs. “Is he paying rent? You’re not going to be a woman of property for long if you don’t start exploiting someone.”

“He’s my brother, Sahara.”

“Please. You’re barely in-laws. You were eighteen when your father married Olive.”

“This is yours.” Astrid dumped the suitcase in a bright, white-washed rectangle with west-facing French doors that led to a small deck with an outlook over the Victorian-era houses of Mascer Lane. In the distance, the Blue Mountains were visible above the roofs and trees, darkened peaks backlit by a showy peach and magenta sunset.

Sahara turned slowly into the light, revealing shadowed and teary eyes, a thinness around her mouth and cheekbones. Her hair, once waist-long, was a spiky mass of irregular tufts. Had she cut it off herself?

A night’s sleep, a good meal, and she’ll change her mind about Jacks, Astrid thought, fighting an urge to wring her hands.

“This is the master bedroom, Astrid. Shouldn’t you be living here?”

“I took one in back. It overlooks—”

“The garden. I should have guessed.”

“And the ravine.”

“Ooh, ravine view. Can you see the infamous Indigo Springs?”

“It’s too far, Sahara.”

“Indigo my ass. Should’ve called the town Stinky Algae Swamp.”

A streak of drying mud on the back of Astrid’s hand cracked. “Um…we can get you a different bed. I’ve got a desk for your laptop.”

“Relax. I won’t bolt if there’s a pea under my mattress.” Sahara peered into the closet. “This is nice. Not to bad-mouth the dead, but when you said Albert left you a house…”

“You thought it’d be a shack. Bad plumbing, leaky roof, sparks whenever you turned on a light. Me too.”

“He never told you about the place?”

“No. Mysterious, huh?”

“Why, Miz Lethewood, is that an attempt to intrigue me?”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be—it’s nice to be wanted.” There was a thump downstairs, then a curse. Sahara flung herself onto the mattress. “Half wanted, anyway.”

Astrid sat on the edge of the bed. “I need you two to get along.”

“Me and Jacks?” There was another bang, followed by the sound of running water. “If he’s making supper, I may have to offer him my body.”

“Keep your paws off the kid.”

“Meow! He’s all yours.”

“He’s my only other friend.”

“I left you with a perfectly good social circle.”

Astrid shrugged. She’d always felt as though their gang of friends was tolerating her for Sahara’s sake. Instead of explaining, she said: “When I tried going back to high school, Jacks was around. We got close.”

“Look, I have no designs on Eligible.”

“Anyway, it would be nice if the next person to fall in love around here was me.”

“Fall in love?” Sahara scratched her neck. “You don’t just want someone to fuck your brains out?”

She felt her cheeks redden. “That too.”

“I’ll get right on it,” Sahara said, yawning.

“I meant—”

“Astrid?”

“Yes?”

“Do I stink?”

“What?” She found herself scowling. “Is that something your ex said?”

“He’s still Mark the Unfaithful Prick. You have to stop caring before he’s an ex, and I’m still having bawling fits and revenge fantasies. What I meant was: Do I stink from being in the car?”

“Oh.” She leaned close to Sahara’s fluffed hair, inhaling a reek of vinyl, dust, and sweat. “Yeah, you do. Grab a shower, okay? I’ll help Jacks with dinner and you can find someone to take me to bed later.”

“‘In love.’ ‘Take to bed.’ Always the euphemisms.” She didn’t move. “Astrid?”

“Yeah?”

“I fucking love this room.”

“It’s yours as long as you want it.” Closing the door, she slipped downstairs.

She found Jacks making soup, hacking vegetables with grim brutality. Onion fumes scratched the air.

“Your mom’s coming by tomorrow,” he said, blinking rapidly.

“She called?”

“I’m not psychic. She’ll be here at eleven.”

“Great, thanks.”

“How’s the prodigal?”

“Weary. Are you okay—?” She swallowed the question when his head snapped up, eyes sparking with fury. “Do you need any help?”

“Every box I open is full of spices and dish towels.”

“What do you want me to find?”

“Bowls and spoons.”

“Didn’t that box go in the pantry?”

“Only thing in there is a bag of junk.”

“Junk?” She ran her thumbs under the flap of an unopened box, revealing four mismatched bowls packed in shredded paper.

“Albert junk—antiques,” he said, viciously cleaving a potato.

“Dad left something?” She set the bowls on the counter, abandoning the search for spoons. Opening the pantry door, she groped for the light.

“The usual. Cat dragged it out from under a pile of bolts and wire.”

“Bad plumbing, bad wiring, bad electricity,” she mumbled. The light flickered, and she saw it—a plastic grocery bag sprinkled with dirt.

“Bad checks,” Jacks grumbled.

Shaking off the grime, Astrid opened the bag, picking out its contents. A broken perfume atomizer first, lavender-fragrant, its pewter pieces glistening with a mixture of dirt and bluish oil that clung to her fingers. A lipstick next. A broken pocketknife and a pendant shaped like a mermaid, hung together on a rusty chain. A watch and a pencil sharpener. Last, a cheap red kaleidoscope…

Astrid’s mouth dropped open as she touched it, struck hard by a long-forgotten memory: herself, sitting on Albert’s lap. How old was she then?

She was five. The heat of her father’s body through his clothes, his smell of beer and aftershave, had held a delicious sense of comfort. She had held the kaleidoscope to her eye with too-small hands, Dad turning the cap to mix the beads. Then…

She frowned.

The kaleidoscope was tiny in her grown-up hand. She peered in, saw colorful beads jumbling, reflecting, and refracting. She turned the cap clockwise, watching the patterns shift and mingle.

“I said the spoons aren’t in there,” Jacks called.

“Coming.” Tingling with an idea that couldn’t, shouldn’t be possible, she turned the cap the other way.

There was momentary resistance, then a click…

…and like that, a circular section of ceiling melted away. Impossibly, she was looking through the floor at the bottom of Sahara’s bed.

She turned it counterclockwise again, heard the click, and saw through bed and mattress to Sahara’s thick cotton shirt. Click again and the shirt vanished, leaving a view of Sahara’s back. Another click, and Astrid stared through bed and friend both, up at the ceiling of the room.

Click again. She looked through the attic roof and saw the full moon rising against a darkening sky.

Magic toy, she remembered, blinking against a sudden flicker of headachy pain. I called it a magic toy, but Daddy had another name.

Magic. Sahara will stay for magic.

She felt like she’d been shocked out of sleep by a blast of cold water. Her flesh hummed; her right temple throbbed, her ears rang. Her eyelids blinked and jittered.

Her belly rumbled. She was starving.

Turning, Astrid looked through the closed pantry door and into the kitchen. Jacks was opening a box of oven mitts and potholders. She scanned the boxes, looking through the cardboard and packing materials until she spotted their bundled cooking utensils.

Sliding Dad’s “junk” back into its bag, she stepped out into the kitchen and opened the box. The spoons were inside, packed just as she had seen them. She tugged one loose and handed it to Jacks.

“Just in time,” he said, stirring the pot. “Sahara, come and eat!”

There was no answer. “You think she’s in the shower?”

“She dozed off,” Astrid said, and then added, self-consciously, “I bet.”

“Great. Let her sleep.”

“No, she’s hungry.” Skirting the boxes, she tiptoed upstairs to her room. She rolled the plastic bag into an old T-shirt and tucked it under her pillow.

“Magic toys,” she whispered.

Leaving them reluctantly, she crossed the hall. Sahara was on the bed, eyes shut, a sleepy pout on her lips. Tear tracks marked her cheeks.

“What?” she groaned as Astrid tapped on the doorframe. “Floor show starting already?”

“Chef’s got dinner on, milady,” Astrid said.

She sat bolt upright, sniffling once before reaching back to sweep aside the long hair that wasn’t there anymore. “Tell the opera to hold curtain until I arrive.”

“The opening is canceled. The soprano broke her nose playing rugby.”

“Hick towns.” Sahara leapt up and hugged her, overpowering Astrid with intense joy and clogged body odor. “You shall have to work harder, darling, if you propose to keep me entertained.” Then she swept out, head high.

“I’ll get to work on that, milady,” Astrid murmured, following her friend downstairs.