Page 68 of The Seven Miracles of Beatrix Holland
Slightly embarrassingly, the book she enjoyed most was Evie Oxby’s recent memoir. The psychic’s tone was conversational, and she came at the subject with an edge of disbelief, one she herself was battling, and one Beatrice recognized. Her favorite part so far came from chapter 7: “How can this be true? I can see thatlighting a candle’s wick with a few words and a bit of my energy should be technically impossible. Yet, I can do it. I know that the man speaking to me in the dark died two hundred years before I was born. That makes me desire to know more, and at the same time, I distrust anyone but myself to tell me anything about how the universe works. But since I can’t remember to move my laundry from the washer to the dryer until it smells like mildew, I’m not sure I should trust myself this way.”
Not that Beatrice would ever tell Grant she was a new fan of his famous client. She was trying not to tell Grant anything at all, which was difficult with his near-daily text messages. Apparently he was sticking with his belief that they could split “amicably,” because so far he’d asked her: where the laundry detergent was (shockingly, above the washer), where the dishwashing pods were (had he really not looked under the sink?), and her absolute fucking favorite, when trash day was. Beatrice hated that as a proud bisexual feminist, she’d fallen prey to outdated binary gender roles, but yes, she’d been the one to remind him every Monday night to roll the trash and recycling to the curb for their Tuesday collection. She’d honestly thought he just forgot each week, not that he didn’t evenknowwhat day it was.
No one could possibly fault her for telling him trash day was Wednesday. It would probably still take him a few weeks to figure out why the garbage was piling up.
Meanwhile, at the bookstore, Winnie had posted Beatrice’s auto-writings from the cemetery on a billboard in her fortune-telling annex. According to Cordelia, who Beatrice had coffee with every morning, two of the messages had already been claimed by townsfolk who recognized themselves. Norman, whoever he was,hadneeded to know that the key to his deceased wife’s safe-deposit box was in the freezer inside the gluten-free pizza box. Patrick admitted he did need to be forgiven for something, and he was willing tolisten to Andy, who’d said to wait. The message about Nutella and potato chips still hadn’t been claimed.
“Word’s getting around,” said Cordelia. “Winnie hasn’t told anyone you’re the scribe yet, but she’s been clear with people that it isn’t her. Someone is going to want you to do more of it at some point.”
“I’m not ready.”
“Yeah, well, it can be really hard to turn away people desperate for help. In hard times, people look for certainty.” Cordelia touched the pile of colored Post-its that Beatrice was organizing into questions in a companion notebook to herMagicspreadsheet. “Isn’t that what you’re looking for?”
Beatrice exhaled before nodding.
“So… when will you have enough of it?”
“No idea. I just want to learn what to avoid. The last time I auto-wrote, I triggered a miracle.”
Cordelia dropped the small pink block of Post-its. “Oh! But you didn’t auto-write before the other three miracles, right? Could that just be a coincidence?”
“I have no idea. About anything, really.” And that was why she would keep studying. “What if there are multiple miracle triggers? Like trip wires. Auto-writing is one, and um, sitting with coffee, and looking into traffic…” No, it didn’t make sense.
“Auto-writing is magic, not a miracle. I think you might be trying too hard to make connections that might not be there.”
“Hang on,” said Beatrice. “My sister, the actualwitch, is telling me I might be getting carried away?”
It felt good to laugh with Cordelia, but still, if all of this was true, Beatrice had only three shiny miracles left. She needed a shit-ton more certainty about all of this before she got cocky. Feeling that little jolt of her own energy moving a plastic spoon was more than enough to keep her happy for quite a while.
And it felt good, honestly, to dive so deeply into something new. She loved being on her boat, and she loved seeing Cordelia and Minna almost daily. And it was so easy to avoid Astrid that the evasion must have been mutual.
One evening, when she arrived home after having dinner with Keelia at the diner, Reno was still there in the dimness, finishing up her work on the deck. She wore a headlamp, and she was bent over a sawhorse, sanding a long plank.
Beatrice stepped on board. “Hi.” The light of the headlamp dazzled her.
“Sorry.” Reno switched off the lamp.
But there was still enough light dropping from the sky to see the work Reno was doing. The edge of the wood was marled and unique, perfectly smooth and stained a deep reddish-brown to match the paneling inside.
“This is gorgeous. You’re a magician.”
Reno shook her head. “I just like wood.”
“It’s going to be beautiful.”
Reno looked out at the water. The lights of the mainland were visible, the clearest Beatrice had seen them yet. “It’ll be nice, yeah.”
Beatrice remembered what was in her bag. “I got you something.” She rummaged under the pile of her research books and pulled it out. “Keelia said you were looking at it the other day.”
Looking startled, Reno said, “You bought me a book?”
“I love Nick Offerman’s voice. I’ve never worked with wood in my life, but I read this when it came out and loved it.” The more she said, she sillier she felt. Not everyone responded to everything in life by reaching for a book.
“That’s… really kind.” Reno gazed at the cover with a serious expression, and then her face melted into a slow, warm smile. “Thanks.”
Her words were simple, but they felt good to receive. Beatrice rocked on her heels awkwardly. “You’re welcome.”
“I’ll get out of your way now.”
