The Witch of Belladonna Bay (18 page)

“I like to bathe outside. It's from … home. I know it's odd, but we always bathe in the sea. Always.”

“Even in the winter?” he'd asked.

“No, silly. But as soon as it's warm, until the day the crickets stop singing their songs, it's in the sea that we bathe.”

“Why not bathe in the river?”

“It's a different kind of water. Too warm and placid. I already tried. I was going to try the creek, but it's too shallow.”

Naomi said “creek” and that was all Jackson needed.

“Look. Let me have some fellas come over here today and build you a proper outdoor bath, okay? Just don't go near the creek.”

And at the end of the day her magical retreat was done. He had builders hang paned windows from the branches with beautiful ironwork chains and an old copper claw-foot tub placed in the center of the space. A mosquito net hung over the tub to protect her while she bathed. There was even a wicker chair and a table to hold a vase of flowers or a book.

Soon, the grass grew over the trenches that were dug from the Big House to the little paradise, so it seemed that when you turned on the faucets the water came out of nowhere. Like magic.

Byrd sat in that very same tub, fully clothed and without any water. The bathroom was just as I remembered it. Only some of the panes of glass were broken. It made it prettier somehow.

Dolores was in the tub with her. And as that beautiful, regal shepherd watched over her, Byrd tucked little pointy leaves in her collar.

“There you are,” I said, softly so as not to startle them. I knelt down and tried to push her hair back from her face.

“I didn't want you to find me,” she said.

“Why?”

“I don't rightly know. But now that you found me, I'm glad. You're so pretty.”

She reached up, winding one of my curls in her tiny finger. It sprung back as she let go.

“These are for you,” I said, handing her the flowers.

“Thank you! But can you just put them on the ground for a sec? I have to finish this up, see?” she said.

“What are you doing there?”

“These here are beautyberry leaves, and if I put them all around her collar they keep the bugs away. 'Specially those damn gnats. Don't you hate those? But you already know about beautyberry leaves.”

I smiled. Minerva used to pound the leaves up and slather me with the oils before we went out to play on the nights when the gnats were thick like storm clouds.

“I like the way they make her look regal, all sticking up like that,” I said, helping her tuck a few in.

“Me, too. But I think she looks more like a joker than a queen. Maybe next year I can make her a crown.
We're
getting ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“For the parade! It's the Fourth of July, silly. Don't you remember the parade?”

“I do. But I think I must have lost track of days … that's today?”

“It sure is!”

I did remember the parade in all its Technicolor glory. One of the best days to be a resident of Magnolia Creek was parade day. And we held it on the Fourth no matter what day of the week it was. Not like other big cities I'd lived in where they had to accommodate all the other towns. We take care of our own.

“How about we get Dolores out of the tub, and I give you a real bath? Does the water still work out here?”

“'Course it does. But I don't like baths.”

“That, Princess Byrd, is obvious.”

“I ain't no princess, I am a
queen,
” she said haughtily.

“Okay, I promise to never call you princess again if you let me have the honor of bathing you, Your Highness.”

She laughed wildly, with her eyes closed and her mouth open. A full throttle sort of sound.

“Deal,” she said, as they both got out of the tub.

Byrd got undressed without any shyness, and I couldn't get over how quickly she'd grown to trust me.

I ran the water. A little rust came out at first, but then it ran clean.

Byrd motioned for Dolores to get in the tub, too. But the dog and I both shook our heads. Byrd got in when the water was ankle deep and sat down. The dirt started to come off immediately.

“When do you think I'll get boobies like yours?” she asked.

“Oh, soon enough, trust me.”

“Did Naomi have big ones? I can't tell because she's all shimmery. I can't get a good, long look, you know?”

“I suppose I'd say they were average size. Smaller than average, perhaps. Maybe you should ask Jackson?” I suggested, laughing.

I found an old, cracked bar of soap from God knows when and took my dirty niece to task.

We both giggled. I can't tell you how good it felt.

“I don't remember much about my mama,” she said, washing between her toes.

“Well, you never met her,” I said.

“No, but I knew her. I felt her. Aunt Wyn? I need to tell you something. And it's a big, fat secret.”

“Go right on ahead, my queen,” I said. “I'm a photographer, and what we do best is capture secrets that we never, ever tell.”

Minerva was headed toward us with a stack of fluffy, white towels, some shampoo and conditioner, and a comb, thank God. She dropped it all beside me and turned right on back around.

“Okay. Here goes. Sometimes I don't remember things. I don't know why, and it's probably part of all my other strangeness. All I know is that night, you know what night I'm talking about because you don't strike me as no fool … well, I'll just say it.” She took a deep breath. “Aunt Wyn, I don't remember anything from that night. Not one thing. And I'm afraid I might have done something I shouldn't have. Made a big mistake.”

“Byrd, honey, I know what you think,” I said. “I found my tarot cards. I'm not mad. I'll even share them with you if you like. But was that why you thought I was being obtuse?” I lathered her hair and rinsed it.

She nodded.

“Well, if it helps at all, memory or no memory, I don't believe for one second that you did anything wrong. Do you hear me?”

She nodded again, her eyes wide with relief.

“Byrd? Did you know something was going to happen that night?”

“I didn't … but the night before I had a bad dream, and I was all alone. I need to pay more attention to my dreams.”

“My mother had terrible dreams. She thought they were omens or predictions, but they weren't. That's why she died, hiding her magic. Don't worry about your dreams, Byrd.”

“I won't. I don't want to lose my magic. I can't even imagine a life without it.”

“I guess she wished she didn't have so
much
of it. It made her lonesome. It took things away from her.”

“That's sad, kinda like
you
tryin' to bury up the person you were born to be,” said Byrd.

Truth is worse than soap in the eyes.

“But there's something else,” she whispered as I put conditioner in her hair and tried to comb it through. What a
mess.

“Look, there's nothing you can say to me that will make me believe that you did such a thing. You loved them. You couldn't kill them. And I know you wouldn't harm your daddy, either.”

“Aunt Wyn, I have this collection of pocketknives. And you know somethin'? I haven't been able to find my favorite one since the night they died. How can you explain that?”

“I'm sure there's some sort of explanation, and I'm going to get to the bottom of it as soon as I can. I was planning on doing some of that work today, but it looks like we have other things to do.”

I wasn't worried about a little girl's missing knife. Not then.

I helped her out of the tub and wrapped her in the towels. She smelled so good, like sunshine.

“You ready yet?” called Jackson from across the yard.

“Not yet, Jackson!”
called Byrd.

“It's the Fourth of July! We got a parade to attend!” sang Jackson, who was dancing around the yard. Waltzing with his big bottle of bourbon.

“La, la-la-la-la-laaa,”
He hummed. “Annie's Song.”

Byrd broke free from my arms and ran across the lawn.

“You better go get dressed!” she called out. “You're still in your nightie and Ben's comin' off Highway Fifty as we speak! Lawdy, lawdy! You got yourself what? An hour at most to git yourself together? Hurry up, Aunt Wyn!”

I'd known he was coming, I just didn't know he was already in Alabama.

Nervous, I ran back to my cottage to get dressed.

I carefully pulled on a starched, white, button-down polo and a khaki miniskirt and slid on a pair of espadrilles. Then, standing in front of the mirror, I gathered my hair back. All the curls kept trying to pop out, but I wouldn't let them. Ben was coming.

Then I put my camera around my neck—again. My buffer against the world. I was mad, and yet I wanted nothing more than to see him and have him hold me. There was a tightness in my chest that I couldn't identify.

I walked back to the Big House as calmly as I could, went into Jackson's study, and poured myself a drink. Then Carter walked in from behind a bookcase, and I dropped my glass, whiskey and all.

Damn secret passages.

Before I knew it we were on our hands and knees gathering up pieces of glass and ice and mopping up the spill with a cloth he'd had tucked in his pocket.

A gentleman,
I thought.

After helping me up, he poured us both a drink.

He was quiet. Just staring out the window.

A strange, quiet gentleman.

“How was your morning?” I asked.

“Fine,” he said. He didn't look at me, he didn't even answer with a “How about yours?” He just stared out the windows toward the circular drive. Like he was waiting on someone, too.

Make that a strange, quiet man with no manners.

“So … I haven't had a chance to thank you, Carter.”

He turned around then, a little too fast.

“For what?”

“Well, for being good to Patrick. For making Minerva happy, and … oh, hell, I don't know. I was just trying to make conversation.”

I gave up and sat down on the huge leather sofa, sunken in from all the drunken nights Jackson spent there.

“Better watch out, you'll rumple yourself up good. Want to look your best for your fiancé, don't you?”

“How did you know he was coming?”

“Ran into Byrd,” he said. “She's mighty excited about the parade. She's taken to you quick. You might want to pull back on some of that love you're spreadin' on her.”

I stiffened. “I don't see how loving a child is a bad thing.”

“Look at you,” he said, taking in my outfit. “You don't look like you'll be stayin' 'round here. You'll be back up north and then traipsing around the world takin' pictures in no time. And then what happens to Byrd?”

“Now look, just because you're married to my great-aunt does not give you the right to talk to me like that. I don't think anyone has spoken to me that way since—”

“Since what?” he interrupted. “Since you left? Of course they haven't. No one really knows who you are up there. How can they tell you anything honest? You don't even know who you are anymore.”

A strange, quiet, mean son of a bitch.

It was all I could do to not throw my glass at his head. I was shaking mad.

“But,” he continued, “you're welcome anyway. It's been a joy takin' care of Paddy. And Byrd, too. And Minerva? She's a fine-lookin' woman for an old lady, so we got ourselves a nice little romance.”

He began to walk away but paused.

“You know what? You're a girl on fire. And seems to me, you been dousing those flames for years. Let yourself burn a little.”

Then he was gone.

“Screw you, too,” I muttered.

As if on cue, a rental car pulled up in front of the Big House. Ben.
I hope he's in the mood for a parade.
I thought.

*   *   *

One thing I had never forgotten about Magnolia Creek was the Fourth of July. I always loved it. No matter how hot, people would line the streets. The parade didn't start on Main Street like most. Instead, it began at the town limit sign and wove its way down all the oak-lined neighborhood avenues. There was the requisite fire truck, golf carts decorated with glittering flags, classic cars, and Uncle Sam riding a tractor. But the best part—the part that made it stand out from all the northern festivities—was that each of the parade participants that drove, biked, or even just walked by, threw things into the crowds. Beads, candy, even stuffed animals. The children of Magnolia Creek always brought bags with them to the parade. And when it ended at the small fire station in the middle of town, there'd be a picnic where they all got to compare their treasures.

Paddy and I were “Founders,” so we always had to march in the parade, tossing out gifts. It made Paddy jealous, so Jackson made sure he had some sort of present at the end of it. The day always ended with me and Lottie and Paddy and Grant running as fast as we could down to the docks and throwing ourselves, holding hands and fully clothed, into the Gulf. And the four of us would hold our breath, our hair and clothes floating all around us, and the reeds and the sea grass, submerged branches and moorings tickled our feet, making us giddy with fear. We'd come up for air screaming,
“Snake! Gator! Dead body!”

I could feel the water on my skin, the exhilaration of the fear. The companionship. All gone. Now I was all grown up and sipping a drink in my father's study, watching my fiancé get out of a green rental sedan.

Beautiful Ben, in a white linen shirt and a pair of lightweight jeans, was walking effortlessly up the steps to my home. So confident, so straight-backed.

And all I wanted was to sit down on Jackson's couch and drink myself far, far away. I missed my childhood friends. I wanted my baby brother back. And I couldn't help but think about how Ben had lied to me, had
always
been lying to me.