The Flower Bowl Spell (13 page)

I sit on the bed and try Auntie Tess’s phone,
hoping she hasn’t left yet for the Mellora Islands. But it goes
straight to voicemail. I text-message her:
What do you know
about Familiars? Like ducks?
She won’t be able to answer for a
while but I feel better knowing the message is out there for
her.

My heart rate is starting to rev up in panic.
I dial Gru. It’s late—she’s most likely home. But her answering
machine picks up, to my relief, I must admit. After the beep I take
a breath to leave a message, but change my mind and hang up. It’s
Viveka that stops me:
Please don’t tell her about this
. She
was so adamant. Also, I’m just not ready for Gru yet. I’m not ready
for the tone she’ll give me: understanding mixed with sage, smug
triumph. I take deep breaths, willing my heartbeat to normalize,
and it does.

Cleo and Romola have claimed the bed near the
window—“So when the monsters come through the door, they’ll get you
first, Memphis,” Cleo tells me, then adds, “Ha, ha! Only kidding.”
I wonder if she means real monsters and study her face, but it’s
free of any genuine qualms.

“That’s what I’m here for,” I say. “Monster
meals.”

The girls climb aboard the mattress and start
trampolining.

“We’re going to the concert,” Cleo sings as
her mahogany-colored curls bounce in the air. For a split second,
she has the look of zero gravity. I wouldn’t be surprised if the
girl really could fly. “We’ll go see Ty play the guitar!”

“I don’t think your mom would approve.”

“Mama thinks you’re smart,” Cleo says. She
starts to jump more slowly and with more force.
“And—Ma—ma’s—al—ways—right!” She leaps backward and falls on the
pillows, her hair grazing the headboard. She stands up and begins
jumping once more.

“If you say so.”

“It’s true,” Romola says, and is instantly
thrown off balance by her sister’s acrobatics. Her legs buckle and
she lands on the bed on her side and starts cracking up. One of her
front adult teeth has only grown in halfway. It’s a charming,
disconcerting look, as if she’s not quite all there. Soon she’ll be
a teenager, and who knows what bit of the sweet, practical little
girl will be left by then? All, I think. All of her, if we can just
get through this.

“Your mother really said that?” I ask.

“Uh huh,” Cleo says, still jumping.

“So that’s why she left you with me?”

“Uh huh.”

“Why…why not with your dad?” I haven’t wanted
to ask before, but they seem in good moods, at ease, the most
they’ve been since we met.

“Daddy’s at a conference,” Romola says as she
stands up for some more jumping. “It’s for, like, a month in
Belize.”

“What kind of conference?”

“The Conference of the Saved,” Cleo intones
in what I take is a sonorous announcer’s voice she must know from
Pastor Dick’s radio show, or some such place. “We have to stay with
you no matter
what
.”

Whatever. More toddler nonsense. “Does he
even know you’re gone?” I try to ask this casually, without
judgment.

Romola shrugs and Cleo imitates her. Jump,
jump, jump.

“Girls!” I almost shout. They stop bouncing
and look at me. It’s now or never. “Do you know where your mother
is?”

A frown mars Cleo’s sweet face, but is gone
in an instant and she stares off into the middle distance. Romola
shifts her eyes away from me and shrugs again.

“Maybe Grandy’s,” she says, looking suddenly
irritated and uncertain. She flops back on the bed. “Memphis, I’m
hungry.”

“I’ll order some room service.” I start
hunting in drawers and on the desk for a menu. The girls don’t know
what room service is, so I explain it to them.

“After you order room service, you’ll have to
go to Ty’s concert?” Romola asks. “We can do our schoolwork there.
We can sit in the car.”

“Hm.” That sounds like something my mom would
have suggested back in the day. But I’m pretty sure that’s a big
fat no-no now. There’s got to be something else we can do. I look
at my reflection in the mirror, but there are no answers there.
Just a bleary-eyed woman. “I think I’ll just call them and cancel.”
I hate to do it, and I try not to think about having to pay for
this hotel room on my own, and the gasoline for the car ride.
Especially after the call with Ned. He might kill me, then fire
me.

And then it comes to me, a last-ditch
possibility. I pick up my phone and dig through the press kit until
I find the number for Chad Beane, Arsenic Playground’s manager.
Even if he’s not the one who loved my writing enough to get me this
gig, he can point me in the direction of Yeah Right’s manager, who
does love it. And if he does think I’m so great, maybe he—or
she—will have a solution.

The phone rings a few times and I’m ready for
voicemail when someone answers.

“Memphis?”

It takes a second. “Tyson?”

“I recognized your number. Chad left his
phone in my room. He’s actually unavailable at the moment. I hope
he knows to light a match. I left them on the sink.”

“Over-share, Tyson. Over-share.”

“Sorry. What’s up?”

“Are you at the LeRoy Hotel?” I ask.

“Yeah. You?”

“Yeah,” I say. “What room?”

“Six two five.”

“We’re four zero eight.”

“I’m higher up,” he says.

“That’s no surprise, being the talent and
all. Listen, I have a problem.” I explain to him my dilemma.

“Is that all?” He laughs with the reassurance
of a confident lead singer. “Cheradon’s drummer is a baby-daddy and
he always brings his kids to the shows. There’s someone with them.
Bring the girls. They can hang out.”

“Someone?”

“A—what do you call it, nanny goat? Wet
nurse? You know what I mean. Babysitter.”

I look out the window, my fingers playing
with the locket around my neck. I feel the weight starting to lift
from my shoulders. It’s too good to be true. “Are you sure? It’s
going to go so late. What about all the boozing and coking
afterwards?” I say this hoping he’ll give me that laugh again and
tell me no such things ever happen at his concerts.

“We can skip that,” he says. “Come on, give
the chiquitas a night of fun. One late night won’t corrupt
them.”

“Right. A late night that happens to be
comprised of hanging out backstage at a rock concert. Do you or do
you not recall that they are home-schooled? Home-schooled!” I
glance around at the girls who are busy poking through the contents
of the minibar. I snap my fingers and gesture to Romola to toss me
a packet of M&M’s.

“All the more reason,” Tyson says, his voice
low, “to show them the dark side of the moon, Memphis.”

“The moon has nothing to do with this,” I say
with a tart little bite, trying to ignore the husky sexiness in his
voice, but I stop, distracted by something else. Maybe the moon
does have something to do with it. We’re still in the waxing phase,
which means all the little sprites coming out of the woodwork makes
a different sort of sense. I can check my online almanac for
details. “Okay, fine. Will there be a place for them to sleep if
they need to?”

“Bring them in their PJs. It’s what Rob
does.”

Rob. As in, Rob Duffy, Yeah Right’s drummer.
The baby-daddy. Viv’s girls are going to get to hang with Rob
Duffy’s kids. I feel like I might squeal like a tweenager. It’s a
surreal notion, even if it doesn’t involve fairies.
Calm
down
, I command myself.
You’re a professional reporter, not
a groupie
.

When I get off the phone with Tyson I see
that the girls have created a fortress out of soda and beer cans
and are using tiny liquor bottles as characters in their version of
The Wizard of Oz
. Dorothy is a miniature bottle of Curaçao.
I locate a faux leather binder on the vanity that contains the room
service menu and get down on the carpet next to them.

“So, who’s up for some chicken tenders?” I
ask.

“Me.”

“Me!” Cleo smiles at me and her eyes focus on
my necklace. She points to it. “Mama has one like that.”

I touch it. “Like this?” I look at Romola,
and she nods.

“She keeps baby pictures of us in it. She
wears it a lot.”

My mouth is dry and my heart is beating a
little faster again. I can feel it against my hand. I look down and
open my locket and gaze inside. I haven’t had time to put a picture
in it, but there’s one thing I know—the fuzzy face briefly
reflected back at me in the cloudy silver isn’t mine.

Chapter Twelve

Room service will have to wait—the girls are
munching on the contents of small packets of Pirate’s Booty and
almonds, healthy enough for the moment. I lock myself in the
bathroom. After a quick search of the room, even up the bathtub and
sink faucets, down the drains, in the toilet, and the trashcan,
it’s obvious I’m alone. I look in the mirror for anything, anyone.
No one here except me.

I close the lid on the toilet and sit down.
The locket against my skin grows warmer as my fingers fumble over
the clasp. Once it’s off, I place it next to the sink. I close my
eyes and wait. With a few deep breaths, my heartbeat is steady and
my mind is clear. I open my eyes and hold my hands over the
locket.

“Show me,” I say.

It takes a while, but the buzz coming off
this thing is strong. It’s an energy I could use right now, a
reinforcement. I put my index fingers on it, just lightly, and
there are flashes, so quick I wonder if they are my own thoughts or
actual visions. A tree in the light of day, then in the dark. The
turning profile of a woman, her hair blond or maybe gray, and
thick, obscuring her face. A ring of lights—candles?—with a large
gap so that the circle they make appears broken. Then darkness.

That’s all I’m going to get. I open my eyes
and look in the mirror. My cheeks are flushed but the skin
underneath my eyes looks dark and bruised. I open the locket.
There’s nothing there, not even the smear of my own face. I need to
call it back, to say the words out loud. I was never good at this,
the mumbo jumbo. Maybe it’s my generation, but I prefer plain
words. I take a big breath and try to get in the right frame of
mind.

“Who was there?” I say. I gaze down into the
locket. I wait. Nothing. I can answer on my own: Not me. Not
Viveka. Yet—she owns a locket like this one. Not that the locket is
so out of the ordinary.

But still. Wouldn’t a woman like Viveka wear
a crucifix? Not necessarily. A woman like Viveka would—should—wear
her daughters’ baby pictures. The daughters she leaves in the care
of a virtual stranger while she goes off to parts unknown for who
knows how long.

I wish I had a candle, but the heat lamp over
the bathtub will do. I breathe in and out and concentrate, blocking
out all thoughts, going empty, and soon I sense that Smarter
Memphis is there.

She looks around the bathroom, wearing an
outfit I’ve been coveting from the September issue of
Vogue
.

Well, this is an odd choice for a
consultation
.

“Not my first choice,” I say. “Sorry I didn’t
have time to project to a babbling brook.”

Maybe you’re just not as creative as you
used to be now that you’re caring for two little girls
.

What a smartass.

The maiden and crone always have it a
little easier. The mother
… She waves a hand to indicate
not
so
much
.

This place is a hot spot, you
know
.

“This—this hotel?”

Well, the land it’s on, of course. It’s
always the earth, not the building. Hm. If we were outside I bet we
could find a babbling brook
.

“Never mind. Look, what is going on?”

Yes, let’s get to the point
. Light on
her feet, Smarter Memphis rises and looks through a basket full of
complimentary shampoo and lotion as if she’s browsing in a shop.
If only you were more specific
.

“Who was in in the locket?”

In the locket?

“You know. A fairy or something?”

She fingers her own butterfly locket.
No.
Not a fairy. That’s not the way they play. I would be careful of
this bauble if I were you, Memphis.

This is alarming. “I didn’t sense anything
dark. I mean, I saw darkness, but nothing threatening.” I think for
a moment. “Are you saying my own boyfriend is trying to hex me and
I can’t even tell?”

No. Cooper knows nothing. That much hasn’t
changed. It can help you. You just need to take what you learn from
it with a grain of salt.

“I don’t have any salt.”

She shakes her head.
Oh, Dumber Memphis.
You’re a witch, you should always have salt. How hard can it
be?

“A nonpracticing witch.”

Is that what you’re calling it these
days?
She turns away from me and scrutinizes her image in the
mirror, turning her head this way and that. Smarter Memphis is
pretty damn vain.
Dabbling with telepathic manipulation. Reading
auras. Calling on yours truly. Seems pretty practicing to
me.

“So, now you’re judging me?” This is getting
us nowhere. “What about the ducks?”

Grim, weren’t they? Ducks, they have minds
of their own. Kind of flashy
—

“What was that all about?” I interrupt. “What
were they trying to tell me?”

She puts her hands together, as if in prayer.
I’m not withholding. I’m not speaking in riddles. The ducks were
a reassurance and a warning. Be alert. Keep your eyes open.

“You don’t have any idea what the ducks were
about, do you?”

If I knew everything, these visits
wouldn’t be any fun. You have an appointment tonight, right?
She smiles sympathetically.
We’ll talk more. You’d better go.
And try to get some sleep after the concert. You look pale.