Page 14 of Love, Magic and Misfortune
Violet rolled her shoulders, trying to ease the tension there. “He did.”
“How was he? Did he look sickly? Was he Jasper the Friendly Ghost?”
Violet snorted. “He said he’s fine. He looked alright. A little ghost-like but solid. Not frail at all.” She decided to keep the part about him appearing unkempt and living among the dust bunnies to herself.
“Do you finally feel a little better?” Rose asked, calm. “You stopped talking with me about it a long time ago, but I know that had been bothering you—not knowing anything about what happened to him.”
In truth, she still didn’t know what had happened. He’d shut down her questioning so fast that there was no space for any meaningful revelation or closure. But seeing him and verifying his well-being in person, at the very least had been satisfying. “I do, actually. I’m relieved.”
“Good. Maybe we can move forward now?”
Violet drew back. “Ah, see there? You ruined it. Move forward where, Rosie? Where am I going, exactly?”
“Don’t play dumb,” Rose chided. “It’s like Jasper is thisstandardin your head. This nine-year-old boy that captivated you with all his whimsy and curious wonder, dragging you around in the enchanted forest behind Gram’s house. You’ve been comparing every man you meet to that image ever since.”
Shaking her head, Violet smirked. “Wow, whimsy and ‘enchanted forests’? That’s some pretty bold conjecture. You should consider being a psychiatrist. I bet life issuper greatfor Jillian existing under that kind of scrutiny—”
“Am I wrong?”
Violet turned to face the windows of the patio, basking in the warm light. She bent forward toward the luscious planter filled with mint and Roman chamomile. The puffy yellow centers of the small flowers seemed to glow in the bright stream of sunshine pouring through the glass. She loved this smell. On the opposite side of the porch, there was another solitary pot of chamomile. Jasper had served her chamomile tea. She suddenly wondered if Gram had dried it for him.
“It’s good to have standards.” Violet stood straight, staring out at the autumnal foliage framing the landscape. Gram’s greenhouse was set just before the thick grove of trees covered in red and golden leaves.
Rosie laughed. “Sure, but he was nine. Actually, I think this is good. Youshouldspend time with him. Maybe he’ll say something really offensive to you and the whole thing will come crumbling down.”
“That’s… a terrible thing to hope for, Rosie.”
“Well, notmorallyoffensive. Something light but important to you, like that he hates cake and thinks it’s gross.”
Violet scrunched her face in horror. “What monster doesn’t like cake?”
“See?”
“I’m hanging up.”
Violet ended the call in the middle of her sister’s loud cackle. She was deciding whether or not she should continue going through the poppy chest when there was a loud knock on the front door of the cottage. She wasn’t expecting anyone, so she kept her footfalls quiet while sneaking to the front room. She looked out the peephole. To her great disgust, Freddie Martin was on the other side.
She stood still. There was no way she was opening the door for him. Violet jumped when he knocked again, harder.
“Violet Ainsworth,” he called. “I know you’re here. Gloria’s dang car is in the drive. I just want to talk a little.”
Nope.Violet leaned with her back to the door and folded her arms. He knocked again.
“C’mon fancy-pants! I gotta open the store in twenty minutes. Why didn’t you come in to get groceries this week? I was lookin’ for you.”
Such a creep. Do not ever look for me.
Freddie mumbled to himself. “Maybe she’s in the bathroom or something.” He stomped away, down the gravel path and back toward his car. When she was sure he’d gone, she stood straight and walked back toward the sun porch.
Freddie had bullied her when they were younger: from the time she’d moved to Libellule Commune in first grade, and in every subsequent grade up until she’d finally left for college. He’d make rude comments about her curly, coily hair, or the peppery freckles across her nose. In high school he’d taken to calling her “turds for eyes” because he said the deep brown of her irises had reminded him of poop. Who said that kind of thing about someone with brown eyes? Statistically speaking,mostpeople in the world had brown eyes.
The summer before she’d left for college, the whole town threw a big party for all the graduates at the local community center. It was there that Freddie had caught her off guard and grabbed her shoulder, declaring he wanted to talk. But the minute she’d felt his hand, she’d turned and shoved him, screaming. It had been quite the scene, but that was the absolute last straw. Words were bad enough, but when he’d physically accosted her, she swore she’d stab him if he ever did it again. She didn’t carry a knife, per se, but there were plenty of sharp objects lying around.
On the back porch, Violet’s brow furrowed with inherent worry. She sincerely hoped this wouldn’t be a problem with her moving back here. Having regular conflicts again with Freddie would be a nightmare.
Shaking her head, she looked back down into the large antique chest. There was another book stashed underneath a pile of herb pouches. She reached down, pushing the small bags aside and wrapping her fingers around the book’s thick binding. It was heavy and dark with a hard, worn cover—an unmistakable symbol etched in silver within the center. The pages were dusty and discolored along the edges, with frayed ribbons, tags and folded corners marking specific places.
She read the title, frowning as a certain discontent washed over her.
