Page 9 of Faking It with the Off-Limits Doctor

Her shelves are full of tinctures, concoctions, and salves that she makes with herbs, flowers, and plants from her own garden. She really is a natural child of the earth, barely ever wearing shoes and floating about in loose, linen clothes. Some years ago, she told me that the material you wear, is as important as the food you put in your mouth.

“Hello, my darling,” she exclaims, throwing her arms around me as I enter her small cottage. Exactly the kind of home a witch ought to have, in my opinion.

Astrid is some inches shorter than me, slender and pretty, with beautiful brown hair. She seems to have a glow that always emanates from her.

She looks me deep in the eyes and then shakes her head and tuts. “You look exhausted. Come on,” she says, turning and wandering into her quaint abode. “I have a tea that will pick you right up.”

“Of course, you do,” I reply with a smile.

Her home always reminds me of Bilbo Baggins’s house, as if J. R. R. Tolkien had created his character’s living space based on Astrid’s interior, which of course, couldn’t possibly be true given the fact that the books were written before either of us were born.

I would say it’s the other way around, but I know for a fact that Astrid has neither read the books nor watched the movies.

There are alcoves filled with all sorts of books, many of which she has read. There are books on nature, herbs, healing, there’s fiction, and then there are encyclopedias and history books.

In other alcoves there are shelves of brown bottles, all labeled with their contains. Rows and rows of medicine she has grown. Astrid doesn’t believe in weeds. For her, weeds are medicine. “People pull up the most useful plants without even knowing it,” she will say. “There are healing remedies everywhere you look.”

Her windows are small and don’t let much light in, but she compensates with candles and lanterns dotted around the place, giving it such a magical look. Sometimes I wonder if she realizes how jealous some interior decorators would be to see what she’s created.

I have to duck a little to get from one room to the other, just like I would if I happened to be in Bilbo Baggins’s house, and eventually, we reach the kitchen.

“Now, sit down and take the weight off your poor feet,” she says, pointing to the large oak table in the middle of the room.

She grabs her copper kettle, and, after filling it with water, she places it onto the gas hob. Honestly, I’m surprised that there isn’t a huge black cauldron sitting over an open fire. That would really set this whole scene off.

“Well,” she says, dropping herself down on the opposite side of the table, “what’s new with you?”

“What do you want to hear first? The fact that I might have a gig that will pay me a lot of cash, or the fact that my brother’s best friend has moved to town?”

She gasps. “Is that who that is? He’s bought the big house just past Mr. Falk’s farm.”

I nod. “That sounds about right.”

“Who is he? Tell me all about him,” Astrid pushes herself from the table and opens a cupboard door. As she’s reaching for some kind of powdered concoction, I begin to fill her in.

“He’s a very wealthy surgeon,” I begin.

Astrid curls her lip. She doesn’t have much time for modern medicine.

“He does plastic surgery,” I continue.

This nearly makes her drop the jar she’s holding in her hand as she stares at me with disgust. I can’t help but giggle at her.

“He’s not the devil, Astrid,” I laugh.

“How do you know?” she counters. “Surely anyone who slices women up to try and make them look better can’t be far off.”

I shrug. “It’s their choice at the end of the day.”

“Hmm, I suppose,” she agrees with little enthusiasm. “So. Tell me more.”

“Well, he’s a billionaire, and as far as I know, he has an apartment in the city.”

Astrid has given up trying to get the lid off her jar while listening to me and now is gawking at me in astonishment.

“A billionaire? Living here in Riverdale?”

“Apparently so.” I grin. “It takes all sorts, right?” I give her a teasing look.

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