Page 63 of Witches of Honeysuckle House
“Three.” In.
“Four.” Out.
The truck slowed to a stop.
“Open your eyes,” he said.
Florence leaned back in the seat and slowly fluttered her eyelids open. Honeysuckle House stood before her. She gasped at the sight of the leaves littering the yard and the honeysuckle circling the columns beneath the front porch. Walls that once gleamed softly in the sun now absorbed the light instead of radiating it. Her breath caught inher throat, and when she finally managed to release it, it came out as a sob.
Sitting there in the car, a pang of loss and nostalgia hit Florence square in the chest. If she closed her eyes, she could remember the light in her father’s smile when she brought him a fistful of chrysanthemums, their petals wet from the first fall rain. She could feel the warmth coming off a hot pot of wax as she dipped the wick for a candle all her own. She could hear Evie chasing her across the wraparound porch, their laughter strong and bright and pure until the moment they ran into their mother’s potted herbs, sending the terracotta tumbling.
That, of course, brought the rest of the memories—the after. Because in the Caldwell house, there was always an after.
A flower patch razed as a reminder only her mother could take from that which she’d planted. The sensation of hot wax on skin, a punishment for making a candle not meant for her mother’s magic. The mended pots stained red and the resulting scars from gluing them all back together under her mother’s watchful eye. No gloves, no help, only blood and tears and lessons learned. When her father saw her ravaged fingers, she knew better than to tell him the truth of what happened.
But in every memory, the house had been on her side. Windows whispering hello through fluttering curtains. Floorboards creaking with love, always ready to catch her footfalls. Honeysuckle locking her away safely when she needed it most. She hoped it would help her again now and show her what she was missing about her family’s past.
She reached for the truck’s door handle to find Owen already on the other side of it.
“You’re very good at this,” she said.
“I dated a guy in my twenties who had complex PTSD,” he said. “I’m sorry this place does this to you.”
Florence blinked up at him as his words sunk in. She’d never thought her inability to come home was a result of trauma—that was for people who survived sexual assault or mass shootings or war. A single incident that changed your life forever. What had happened toher wasn’t one moment of darkness, one act that separated Florence’s life between before and after. It came in minutes and hours and days. One moment, her mother would tell her the world was a better place because she was in it, the next that her family would be better off without her—if only the curse had taken Florence instead of her father or her grandmother. It was the shift from a tender brushing of Florence’s hair to a sharp tug, making Florence’s eyes sting. It was a warm cup of chamomile to help Florence sleep, offered with love in her mother’s eyes, then the hot water pouring down her throat as Linda pushed the cup into her face after her first sip.
Of course it was trauma.
She held her hand over her mouth and blinked back tears.
“Florence?” Owen asked.
“I never realized it was PTSD. I thought …” She shook her head, not sure what she thought. That the memories were too much. That she wasn’t strong enough. That she was broken beyond repair, and somehow she was to blame. But if it was trauma, then it wasn’t her fault at all.
“You still want to do this?” Owen asked.
“I have to,” Florence said.
He offered her a hand. She placed her palm in his and let him pull her to her feet. As soon as she stepped on her family’s land, the vines around the porch railings trembled then grew, extending past the front steps, crawling across the freshly fallen leaves, and stopping at her feet. Florence almost jumped back at their approach. Flowers tilted up at her like little faces. They rose higher, but when they reached out to touch her, Florence pulled away. The vine drooped, then turned back the way it had come, guiding her to the house.
She placed her foot on the first step. The front door creaked open, the hallway light soft and warm on the other side. Despite her fear, despite what she had to do, she placed a hand on the nearby column and pressed her forehead to the wood. She stood that way for a few seconds, just her and the house and Owen, wishing more than anything this could be a safe place once more. Not only for her, but for every person she might someday let into her heart. Tears spilled downher cheeks. Beneath her feet, the floorboards shifted, lifting her a bit higher and pushing her closer to the column.
She turned to Owen. “Thank you. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to make it back here.”
“I’m sorry it had to be for this,” he said.
The door opened wider, and Florence bit her lip to keep herself from crying any more than she already was. It didn’t work.
She leaned her head back so she could see Owen better. She hadn’t realized how close they were standing, and in the light spilling through the open door, she could see that gray speckled his beard and honey threaded through the brown of his eyes. She still feared for him, still worried the curse might find a way to take him, but now that she’d let her heart open to him—now that he’d seen the truth of it and somehow showed it to her—she found she felt safe standing beside him.
She took his other hand and gripped it softly.
“I have to do this next part alone,” she said, a tremor in her voice. “I know your great-aunt died here, but this is between me and Evie.”
“I’ll wait out here until you need me.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Florence said. “I don’t know how long I’ll be.”
“I’ll go check on the bees,” he said. “Start getting things ready for your sister—since I won’t be here for the festival.”
