The Witch of Belladonna Bay (3 page)

You know what? I think those Old-timers and Towners are right. I think I do act too old for my age.

“And there's more,” said Jamie, pulling me out of my worry over caterpillars and poppy fields.

I'd moved in closer. I was frightened of what he'd say, so I needed to be nearer. That way his words might fly right past me and wouldn't sink in. I hugged him tight. Let him feel the love come out of me. Not a sexy kind of love. A better kind. True love. It let me know things about Jamie. That weakness made him queasy. It's why he loved me from the start. I ain't afraid of nothin'. Well, almost nothin'. His next words, those words scared me.

“What Jamie, what else?” I asked, not wanting to hear the truth.

“I think she's been over to Belladonna Bay.” He nodded his head sideways toward the back of the house and past the creek where the mist, which never broke, enveloped that horrible piece of land.

And that's when I knew things were gonna change. But I couldn't foresee, even with all my tryin' and scourin' in bowls of water. Even with laying out a million tarot cards in all kinds of spreads and combinations. I couldn't tell he'd be gone from me by morning. Or that everyone important, all the grown-ups all around us, would consider him dead. Or that they'd blame my daddy for his murder, too.

*   *   *

Jamie'd been missing for six months when Jackson finally fired the last prissy nanny and called my aunt Bronwyn out of sheer desperation. Carter and Minerva were too busy to take care of me (even though they asked Jackson to let them), and Jackson was too drunk. I tried to explain that I was just fine taking care of myself, but he wouldn't hear of it. He said I couldn't just “run wild.” And I gave him a look that said,
And just what do you think I've been doin' my whole entire life, Jackson?

In the end, it took him a whole half a year to get up the courage to call his own daughter. And even though I can't look into his mind like with folks I don't know so well, I already knew he wasn't really lookin' for Bronwyn to come home to take care of me. He'd just had enough of her bein' gone. And with my daddy gone too, he needed his other kid around.

But
damn
. six months is a long time in a girl's life to wait for the inevitable. I could already feel those boobies growin'. Minerva tells me I'm crazy and flat as a board. Seems that having strange ways slows down the whole process of getting old. But I swear I can see 'em, I swear it.

Thing is, I ain't never even been sick. And I don't expect to. And I'm beautiful and therefore useful. That's a funny idea, ain't it? It comes from my very own bible.
The Little Prince
. It's full of all sorts of funny ideas that don't seem to make sense at first, until you sit and think on it for a bit. Those are the best kind of ideas, in my opinion.

The book belonged to Naomi. She brought it with her from some little crazy town called Fairview up north. Only the view wasn't so fair, as far as I've been told. That little town sits right across from its own misted island, one just as cursed as Belladonna Bay. Only Jackson told me that Naomi's island was rumored to have mermaids.

I sure wish Belladonna Bay had mermaids.

Anyways,
The Little Prince
belonged to Naomi, and she read it to my daddy and my aunt Bronwyn.

It's the story of a pilot and a little boy, and the pilot, see, he's stranded in the desert. But then the Little Prince comes along and helps him to understand all sorts of things. And that's when they become best friends. But mostly, it's a book about bein' practical and strange all at the same time. Which is exactly how I like to see myself.

When Bronwyn left, she tried to take the book with her, but Jackson wouldn't let her. The cover ripped a little when they were fightin', but I don't care. I like broken things.

Like my daddy. He's been broken since before I was born. It makes him more interestin'. Jamie used to say it ain't good, how much I love my daddy. But I don't think you can love anyone or anything too much.

So I said, “But I love you, Mr. Jamie Smarty-pants. I love you almost, if not as much, as I love my daddy.”

We were sitting up in a tree, and his head was crowned with a wreath of leaves I'd made. The sun shone through his dark curls and the heat made his cheeks pink. He was more beautiful than any boy or girl I'd ever seen, except for me. But you couldn't compare me and Jamie because he's a boy and I'm a girl. Other than that, we got a lotta similarities. We're both dark and small with hair black like the night. Daddy tells me I'm just like Snow White. Dark hair and pale skin.

I know what I see when I see my reflection in other people's eyes. Like those Towners and Old-timers. They see my
potential
. But Jamie didn't ever need to live up to his potential. He's just plain beautiful. Born that way and stayin' that way. Even if only in my memory.

He laughed a little in the tree that day and snuck a kiss on my cheek. I moved from my branch to his and wrapped my arms around him, letting our black hair mingle. Our congruities always made my heart sing. Made me feel less alone, too.
Congruity
means bein' similar, and it's one of my very favorite words.

And because we were both so amazing, me and Jamie, most other folks let us be. And the whole town of Magnolia Creek just lived in the shadow of our usefulness. Because we were gonna be famous together. We were bright shining stars 'bout to shoot off this tired planet and into the sky. Then we'd rain stardust into the eyes of every living thing this side of Mobile. Or the whole world, if you wanna think big.

Now I'd have to rethink that particular dream, 'cause Jamie disappeared into the dark, velvet Alabama night. Leaving a whole lot of blood. Blood that sent my daddy to prison and brought my aunt Bronwyn home.

 

3

Bronwyn

 

I tried to hang up the phone, but I was shaking too much. Ben placed his hand over mine, and we hung the phone up together. Then he gently led me to the front porch, a place that always calmed me. I'm happiest outdoors.

After we left Manhattan, we moved upstate. I'd been working as a freelance photojournalist for about six years and had become well known enough to have a decent savings (not that I needed one, Jackson's checks kept on keepin' on). The subtle notoriety brought me more of what I
really
liked about my job. The running away part. I was called when anyone needed really good pictures of a place no one else wanted to go. War-torn nations were my specialty.

We decided to move to the forest, both of us inspired by the trees. And it was on the porch—the porch that sold us on the house before we'd even walked in—that I told him what happened to my brother. And told him how my father needed me to come back home.

Ben leaned back easily in the Adirondack chair and stretched out his long legs, cupping his hands securely around his coffee mug. “Why do you suppose he didn't call sooner? You've gotten letters, but no mention of any of this…,” he ventured hesitantly.

“That's not how Jackson works, Ben. And it probably wasn't in the news because Jackson wields a lot of power with his wealth.”

“I can understand keeping it out of the news, but keeping it from you? Why?”

“Because he wanted me to come home on my own terms. Don't underestimate Southern pride. I bet he thought he could just fix it all up and I wouldn't have to know a thing. Remember, Ben—this man let my mother die. I love him, but he practically spoon-fed her drugs. Anything to make her happy. Anything to avoid conflict, to stay in control. He knows I'll come back now. That man knows I don't have a choice.”

“Are you going to go?” he asked.

“I have to go.”

“Why? Why do you have to go?” he asked.

Because I promised Paddy I'd try to be his mother, and now I have to face the fact that I've been a crappy, absent one
, I thought.
Just like Naomi.

But Byrd was easier to think about, and easier to explain.

“Because she needs me. Byrd needs me,” I said.

My niece I'd never met. Byrd.

I tried to push away the questions that were tugging at my heart. Sure, I knew the basics from Jackson's letters: that Paddy'd gone and found himself a crazy, beautiful Italian girl from somewhere in Virginia. Turns out, she had magic in her, too. “I guess us Whalen men can't love no ordinary type of woman,” he'd written. He said Stella came looking for bits and pieces of her own scattered family, and it brought her to Susan Masters, the one person of Italian descent in the whole town. Later, I'd find out that her searching led her to the Big House as well. The only thing I did know was that Stella died giving birth to Byrd. And I should've been there.

And why wasn't I? Why hadn't I gone straight home the second I heard? Why hadn't I at least called? For a second I felt myself panic, a childhood fear slowly lacing itself through my veins.

“The mist over Belladonna Bay is
inside
.… It seeped into me, Mama, I can feel it!”

“Hush, Bronwyn, Hush, darling, there's no mist inside of you. I promise.”

That old, familiar boogeyman. That same feeling churned inside me now as if Jackson's voice was casting some sort of memory spell all his own.

I'd never even seen pictures of Stella or Byrd. Jackson never sent any, and Paddy never wrote. We were in a communication stalemate, my brother and I. First person to give in and contact the other would be the loser. “You two are competitive to a
fault,
” Jackson used to say.

But there, in the safety of Ben's gaze, I knew the truth. It was
me. I
should have called Paddy.
I
should have requested a photo of my niece. Damn
, I
should have gotten on the first plane back to Magnolia Creek when I found out she was born. I was the abandoner. It was my responsibility, and here I was just living my life and thinking it was
their
fault for not reaching out. Guilt sits uneasy in the belly, and mine was churning with all I'd missed.

Byrd. Paddy, Stella … Lottie.

“Why haven't you ever gone back?” Ben asked.

And Lord, if that wasn't the ten-million-dollar question.

The one I'd been worried he'd ask, at first, because I didn't have an answer. Then, after enough time passed, I didn't think about it anymore. Short memories, remember?

“I don't know. I guess, as cliché as it may seem, I was running away from everything, and I guess I never stopped,” I said.

“Why?”

“That woman they say Patrick killed, she was my best friend. And her brother, Grant … I don't talk about him. And I won't. But my mother? I did something pretty bad the day she died.” I sighed, looking away.

“What do you remember about that day? Bronwyn, if you remember it well enough, you could just stay here and we can send for Byrd. Raise her here, together,” he suggested.

“So, you're suggesting we rip her away from everything she knows, right when she needs something real to hold on to. Sounds great,” I responded, shaking my head.

“You didn't answer me about what happened to your mother.”

“I don't want to answer that. Some things don't need to be remembered.”

“Let's try together. Want to try?” he persisted.

Usually Ben's soft voice calmed the mean right out of me, but right then I was in no mood to be soothed.

“Why is this such a big deal? What do
you
remember from fourteen years ago?” I said.

Snotty was always my best defense when I was home in Magnolia Creek. The fact that it made its appearance at that moment should've been a warning sign of sorts. There she was, the old me … BitsyWyn Whalen rearing her ugly, vain head. Susan Masters had given me that nickname because I was so tiny when I was born. My mother hated it, but it sure stuck in Magnolia Creek. It's the name of a girl who makes trouble, and I lived up to it.

Names are so important.

“The day your mother dies is a watershed moment. Something you can't forget,” said Ben.

“Well, I guess I'm not like all those
other
girls,” I responded. I'm damn good at sarcasm too, when I need to be.

“Be serious,” he said. My sharp words, though few and far between, never managed to cut into him. It's part of why I loved him so much.

“Fine. You win,” I whispered, the edge leaving my voice as quick as it had come.

Ben leaned forward, fixed on me. His feet planted far apart, his elbows on his knees. Solid, solid Ben.

“All I know is we had a fight, and I was pretty hard on her. But I don't remember what I said.”

“That doesn't sound like you.”

“You didn't know me then. I was Southern belle mixed with rattlesnake. My venom hurt people.”

“Venom?”

“I always managed to say exactly what cut the deepest, especially with Naomi. That's her name. Did I ever tell you that? Naomi.”

“You didn't. It's a really beautiful name. Was she beautiful?”

“More than beautiful. And I loved her something fierce. More than anyone ought to have the right to.”

“So what happened? How did that change?”

“I grew up and realized she was a junkie and I hated her for it. Then she died. The end.”

“Don't go,” he asked quietly.

We sat, a new, uncomfortable silence growing between us.

“But if you do? I should come with you,” Ben added, breaking in before the silence began to weigh on us. When Patrick and I were little kids and we'd have a fight, it would last for days because neither one of us would give in first. Paddy would have called Ben an “easy mark.”

But, easy mark or not, Ben couldn't come. He didn't know my people. He didn't know BitsyWyn.