Page 6 of Love, Magic and Misfortune
Violet exhaled a heavy sigh, threw her phone into the passenger seat and took her chances with the rain.
* * *
“Didn’t getto talk with you at Gloria’s funeral last weekend.” Freddie Martin scanned her groceries (at an excruciatingly slow pace), smirking like he knew something she didn’t. Whatever it was, Violet would rather not know. Anything he knew probably wasn’t worth knowing.
“Didn’t think there was anything to talk about,” Violet said, avoiding his gaze and digging in her purse.
“You moving back here?”
“Not sure yet.”
“You got that fancy-pants job in the city… you’re a fancy-pants girl now.”
“I don’t know what that means. Please don’t talk about my pants.”
“No boyfriend up there? Girlfriend?”
“That isunquestionablynone of your business.”
Freddie swiped the peanut butter across the scanner, then paused, holding the jar up and looking at it in great detail. She’d never seen anyone ring groceries so slowly. It was a wonder how he stayed in business.
“Can you move with a little more urgency, please?” she asked, shifting toward the end of the lane and pulling her reusable bags from her purse to pack the groceries herself.
“Are you taking overallyour Gram’s business affairs?” he wiggled his dark golden eyebrows. “I know she’s got some fun stuff in that greenhouse out back. And is all of this going up to Jasper?”
“Again, none of that is any of your business.” She rearranged the items, frowning. Strawberries, fresh salad greens, almond milk and a bar of dark chocolate. Packing grocery bags was a bit like playing Tetris. Violet enjoyed the humdrum task, but she needed to concentrate. Good spatial reasoning took focus.
“He comes out once in a blue moon—was down here the other day since Gloria passed and nobody can take food up to him anymore. He’s like the Boogeyman.”
“You’re the only Boogeyman around here that I’ve ever encountered.”
“I offered to help him… said I’d take the groceries up to him, but he didn’t want me to, of course…”
“Sounds like his intelligence is still firmly intact.” Finally, the last item, a large bag of sunflower seeds, made its way down the conveyor belt and Violet placed it on top.
Freddie cocked his eyebrow. “Sassy Violet Ainsworth—you grew up pretty. The city’s been feeding you well. Your hips match your hair.”
“And your mouth still matches your butthole. Ring up my groceries and spare me your observations.” Violet dug into her bag and pulled her wallet out with a little more force than was needed.
He chuckled again, totaling her order. “Relax, darling, I meant it as a compliment. Fancy-pants women don’t like compliments?”
“We don’t like idiots.” Her transaction complete, Violet put her debit card away, dropped her wallet into her purse and grabbed the grocery bags, moving as far away from Freddie as quickly as possible.
* * *
The Boogeyman…
Laurent House was one of the oldest manors in the village. It sat a little farther off than the other homes, but was still easily accessible. The perimeter was lined with a stone wall. Oddly, it had seemed much higher when Violet was little, the enormity of it exaggerated in her capricious child’s mind. Dry ivy crawled up the front face of the home like spider limbs, reaching and creeping along the dusty beige stucco—even stretching over the dirty white window shutters.
Juxtaposed with the skeletal apple orchard, it wasn’t spooky, exactly. It simply… needed some love. A little affection. From whom, Violet didn’t know. But she’d played in the gardens here as a child. Had run amidst the apple blossoms in spring. It had been wonderful and not scary at all. She held those memories like warm candlelight at the forefront of her heart as she climbed out of the car, grocery bag in hand, and made her way toward the wrought iron gate. Thankfully the rain had subsided, leaving the air heavy and chilly with damp. It made her feel like a mist-breathing dragon.
Jasper was sick, but with what? No one knew for certain. There were speculations, of course. The adults had rationalized possibilities of a more serious nature—leukemia, lupus or some other autoimmune disease. But the children were, of course, ridiculous in their guesses: he was a vampire or rife with cooties. Overflowing with them to the point where contact with another person was detrimental. Violet hadn’t known any better than the rest despite being his best friend, but she’d always defended him fiercely.
She never saw him after that day in the garden when she fell from the apple tree. The situation had been a mess: a broken arm and wrist, coupled with a strict mandate from Gloria that she was forbidden from climbing another tree ever again. Her wrist still ached on rainy days like this.
The iron gate squeaked loudly as she pulled it open. Walking down the cobbled path, she glanced around at the wide, open yard. The grass was overgrown and dry where once it had been luscious and green.
As she approached the wooden door, she lifted her wrist to check her watch: 4:22 p.m. Well within the apparent 2:00 p.m. to 5:00 p.m. visitation range. Shouldering the single grocery bag, she took hold of the brass knocker and struck it against the faded olive-green surface.
