When Libby Met the Fairies and her Whole Life Went Fae (9 page)

He nodded again.

“So here’s my question,” she said. “Have you—have you seen it?”

“No.”

She slumped back onto the couch. “I’m not crazy.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“Any sane person would say so.”

“What did he say? The . . .”

“Little man. That’s what he looked like. A little man. Not a dwarf—proportioned just like a normally developed . . . ” She took another sip of wine. “Maybe I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

“Kind of late for that.”

“Yeah.”

They sat for a minute. And she thought he would just let it drop now. If she let it drop, he’d let it drop.

But she went on anyway.

“I don’t really remember the first time very well.” She shifted her position and set her wine glass down on the table at the end of the couch. “Except that he seemed . . . sort of offended that I . . . well, it freaked me out, to see him. So I didn’t exactly clap him on the back and invite him in for a beer.”

“Can’t say as I blame you. And the second time?”

“That one . . . that one I remember. Real well. It was the day of the ice storm. Dean, he told me to move my car.”

A log popped in the woodstove and in the sudden flare of light she saw his brow knit. “Oh, really.”

“Yeah. Tuesday evening. About 6:30.”

The flare died down and it was again too dark to see his eyes.

“I’m telling the truth,” she said. “It’s . . . I’m not happy about this. It’s actually freaking me out a bit.”

He nodded. “Yeah. I could see . . . how it might upset someone.”

She set her wine glass down on the end table near the couch. She wasn’t sure, now, if it had been a good idea to . . . she didn’t know this guy. What if he—

“You won’t tell anyone, right?”

“No.”

Tears began to well in her eyes. She supposed it was the wine. But it wasn’t just the wine. She’d been holding them back. She’d been holding them back since she’d shone the flashlight beam on her car and realized that freaky little creature that was apparently haunting her property was somehow able to predict the future. “You’re sure you haven’t seen it?” she whispered.

“You’re upset.”

“I’m sorry. But you know, it’s scaring the shit out of me.”

“Hang on.” He came back a moment later with a box of tissues. He sat on the couch next to Libby and she pulled a tissue from the box and wiped her eyes. “Well. Let’s take a look at this head on, okay?”

“Okay.” She wiped her eyes again.

“First off. Why does it scare you? Has he threatened you?”

“No.”

“Okay. Did he have horns?”

“Horns?”

“You know, devil horns.” He put the tissue box on his lap and made horns on his head with his index fingers. “Like this.” He wiggled them.

“That’s not funny.”

“You’re smiling.”

“To be polite.”

“Well, did he? Have horns?”

“No.”

Suddenly he reached out and touched the back of her head, stroking her hair. “Libby, I‘d like to kiss you now.”

She should have said no. But she didn’t. So he kissed her. And she let him. And then a second time, with his tongue.

She broke away and stood up.

“I . . . can’t.” She felt giddy from standing up so fast. “I’m got a—I’m in a Pau—I’m in a committed relationship.”

He looked away. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s a good relationship.”

He laughed. Forced it a bit, maybe. “I’m sure.” He got up. “Here. You can have your seat back.”

She realized she was rubbing the space over her breastbone and stopped herself. “It’s okay,” she said. “I mean—it’s okay that you—I just don’t want you to think—”

He stepped over Bo, waking him. The dog raised his head to watch Dean for a second, and then he must have figured nothing exciting was happening, and flopped back down again.

Dean picked up his glass from where he’d left it by his chair. It had a finger of wine or so left in the bottom. He tipped it back and drained it. Then he looked at her. “Whatever it is you saw, Libby,” he said, “sounds to me, it was trying to help you.”

“I guess.”

“So, as far as I can see, maybe you could just, you know, be curiouser. Instead of scared. And see what happens.”

“Curiouser isn’t a word.”

They stood for a moment, facing each other.

“Goodnight,” he said, and a minute later she could hear him climbing the ladder into the loft.

13

“Okay,” Paul said. “Here’s the deal.”

Two weeks had passed. The power had come on at Libby’s. Her car had been freed from the tree and towed to a lot behind a local body shop so an insurance adjuster could pronounce it officially totaled. She was driving a rental now.

She’d said goodbye to Dean and hadn’t seen him since.

So things were back to normal.

Now she was sitting across from Paul and his nachos appetizer, and he was preparing to pronounce the fate of
Skin Tones
.

“You liked the last issue though, right?”

“Oh yeah.” He scooped up a glob of melted cheese with a tortilla chip that was almost too big across for his mouth, but not quite. He chewed and swallowed and said, “We’re keeping the same name. Same format—everything.”

“Same everything?”

“Well, except instead of stories about sick people getting better, it’ll be stories about old peop—aging people getting better.”

Libby sighed. But it was a quiet sigh. She’d pretty much expected this, and since Paul was, technically, her boss on
Skin Tones—
off with the boyfriend hat, on with the boss’s—she had to act . . . you know, accommodating. Client is always right, all that stuff. “Does Dormet have the contacts—customers I can interview?”

“Oh yeah. They have a rocking customer database.” He angled another nacho into his mouth with one hand and caught a falling slice of jalapeno pepper in the other just before it hit his plate.

The server walked up and slid their entrées onto the table.

“Well, just tell me who to interview. And what your deadline is.”

“You should be happy about this, you know,” he said. “I was kind of worried they’d make it a glorified sales letter. But they got it—the whole concept.”

“Thanks for doing this.”

“Yeah,” he said, and took a bite of steak.

♦ ♦ ♦

It was a Saturday night, so they’d met at Paul’s condo and taken his car to the restaurant. They talked about going to a club after dinner, but Libby found herself unable to get enthused about the idea. Maybe she just didn’t want to stay up very late. And it’s not like there was a band in town either of them was dying to see. So they ended up driving back to Paul’s place instead.

“How d’you like the rental car?” They were standing on the sidewalk, because Paul’s condo is in a converted mansion. There’s only room enough for one car per tenant in the driveway, so his guests have to park on the street.

“It’s fine,” she said. “It’s not a Toyota.”

“Well, at least you didn’t owe anything on it.”

“I had two payments left.”

“That’s nothing. Dinner tomorrow night?” He put his arms around her.

She shook her head. “Probably not. I have some stuff I need to get done.”

“Do it during the day.”

“Have a newsletter to get out, too.”

“What kind of stuff?”

She still hadn’t told Paul about the business with the little man, of course. Which made two things she hadn’t bothered mentioning to Paul, counting that her neighbor had by the way kissed her and kind of like he meant it. “I have a ton of paperwork to do, to get this certification thing started.”

He must have been thinking about something else, because he didn’t press it. “Come in with me for awhile?”

But she wanted to get home. The truth was, she needed a little space right now. She wanted to be able to focus on everything that was going on in her life without the added strain of having to hide things—temporarily, of course—from Paul.

“Lemme take a rain check, okay? I’d kind of like to get a good night’s sleep and . . . you know. Have a fresh start. All that paperwork—”

He looked disappointed but they necked awhile leaned up against her rental, and then he seemed okay, so she got in and headed home.

She thought about the little man as she drove and felt her heart rate pick up because she had decided what she was going to do about him. She’d decided she was going to see what would happen if she sought him out on purpose.

♦ ♦ ♦

She spent the next day filling out forms about her property, the paperwork she needed to do to start the organic certification process. She had to draw up maps to show where she was going to plant, and how the adjacent land was being used. She had to answer questions about whether she might get hit by industrial run-off or drift from crop dusters. She had to document where she was buying her seed and what sort of fertilizer and pest control she planned to use.

She finally finished late afternoon, and then she had to go into town and make photocopies and mail off the originals.

Then finally, after supper, she was ready for the second item on her to-do list.

She put on a sweatshirt and picked out a blanket and went downstairs.

Maisey and Tyler were curled up on the couch watching TV.

She reheated some decaf and poured it into a Thermos. Then she told the kids she was going for a walk and she’d be back in a little bit.

Outside, she grabbed one of the old boat cushions that was hanging in the shed. Walked up back. Picked a spot near where she’d seen the little man the second time, sat down, and made herself as comfortable as she could.

On the one hand, yeah, she was a little sorry she’d told Dean about her little man. It would serve her right, she figured, if he blabbed it around town and she ended up labeled That Crazy Lady Up On the Hill. But she also had to admit his response had been helpful. There was no real reason for her to be afraid. The best thing was to face this thing head-on. Go out and look for him, ask him what he wanted of her.

And Dean—a man that taciturn, what were the odds that he was a blabberer? Not very high. Which is why, of course, she’d felt comfortable opening up to him in the first place. It didn’t have anything to do with . . . anything else.

She poured some decaf into the Thermos cap. Of course, now that she’d decided to look for the little man, he was nowhere to be found. She chalked it up to a “facing your fears” kind of deal. You decide not to run away anymore, and the scary thing disappears. Which in some ways would be a relief. Maybe now that she had decided not to resist the experience, it would never happen again.

Good deal, she thought. She’d be pretty happy if it worked out that way.

♦ ♦ ♦

The sun had gone down quite awhile ago. The sky overhead was a deep royal blue, the air smelled damp and earthy.

The coffee was all gone, and she started to feel chilly and a bit stiff. Nothing had happened. She’d been waiting a good hour and a half.

She picked up her things and started back down the hill.

But she hadn’t gone ten paces when a voice said, “Been waiting long?”

Only it wasn’t a man’s voice. It was a woman’s. Sort of. Kind of reedy, but not as low-pitched as the other’s had been.

Libby looked intently in the direction of the voice, but she couldn’t see anything.

She took a deep breath to try to calm her hammering heart.

“Who’s there? Where are you?”

But there wasn’t any answer.

The sky was darker now, setting off the half-moon and next to it Venus, dangling in the southwest sky just above the treeline.

Libby plunked her cushion back down on the ground again and sat on it, pulling the blanket back around her shoulders. And waited some more.

The chill stopped bothering her for some reason, and she supposed maybe she became a little drowsy. Then all of a sudden she realized someone was sitting cross-legged on the ground in front of her. And her first impression had been correct. It was a woman this time. Same size as the little man. Same sort of dark clothing. Leggings, not a dress. But her face was softer and there was no beard.

“You’ve calmed down a bit,” the little woman remarked.

Libby had planned out what she was going to say. Over and over again, scripting and re-scripting in her head. And now, of course, remembered none of it. “Who are you?” she blurted out, instead.

Libby noticed she could see the little woman’s eyes quite well, despite the dark. She seemed to be studying Libby’s face very intently. Finally, she answered. “We,” she said, “are what you sometimes call ‘fairies.’”

Libby suppressed a groan.

“But you don’t have to think of us that way, if it bothers you so much.”