Page 68 of Witches of Honeysuckle House
“Unfortunately, this isn’t a social call,” Florence said.
“No worries, my dear.” Sadness had crept into Mary Louise’s words; Florence wished things had been different. “What do you need?”
“I know this is a long shot,” Florence said, “but do you have anything from the bookstore from before your family opened up shop?”
The older woman laughed softly. “That was a long time ago. I was only twelve when my parents moved to Burdock Creek and bought it.”
Florence tried to keep the disappointment from her voice as she said, “Sorry to waste your time.”
“Now wait a minute. Just because I was taking a trip down memory lane, doesn’t mean I can’t help. I never came across anything from the owners, but Ididreceive a letter back in the 70s addressed to their son.”
Florence’s heart stuttered. “Is there any chance you kept it?”
Florence and Owen sat inside the sitting room of a small colonial home. Lace doilies covered almost every visible space, and a very old, very tired-looking dachshund lay snoring in the middle of the room.
A warm, elderly voice came from down the hallway along with a significant amount of rummaging. “Are you sure I can’t get you something? Coffee? Tea?”
Despite Florence’s efforts to hold Mary Louise at an arm’s length, the woman would come in from time to time to pick up a book and drop off cookies or brownies or cake. Apparently, retirement brought with it a lot of baking.
“We’re alright,” Florence called. “Just in a—”
“—hurry, I know.” The older woman stepped into the room with a yellowed envelope in her hands. She had silver hair that hung in a long braid down her back and eyeglasses perched on the tip of her nose. Her deep crow’s feet spoke to years of laughter. “I can’t believe I still have this. My husband was always trying to talk me into getting rid of my old files from the bookstore before he passed last year. ‘It’s been over a decade, Mary Louise. No one is going to come looking for your parents’ taxes from the eighties.’ Now, I’m no hoarder, mind you. But there are some parts of history that are worth holding on to.”
She crossed over to Owen and held the envelope out to him. “Seeing as this letter was addressed to your grandfather—and he’s no longer with us—I suppose it belongs to you.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Violet, 1973
It had been almost thirteen years since Violet left Burdock Creek—and her sister—behind forever. Thirteen years since she lost the love of her life. Since the plans she’d so carefully set in motion fell apart, leaving her heartbroken and alone.
In that time, the lines at the corners of her eyes and along her forehead had settled in. The fullness of her cheeks had hollowed out. She’d grown her hair long and shaggy not so much in the style of Jane Fonda as a reminder of the way Tillie always wore hers full and wild and free. She’d started to go gray at her hairline, and she imagined Tillie would’ve said it made her look distinguished. Regina would’ve told her to dye it. Once, the thought would’ve made her laugh. Now, it was a reminder of how her sister had tried so desperately to control her.
Violet sat in the small living room of her Greenwich Village apartment, listening to an old Billie Holiday album and settling into her melancholy and grief with a freshly poured drink. She’d never found love again, not like the kind she had with Tillie. She’d tried, once or twice, managing a couple of good years with an older divorcee who had an apartment on the Upper East Side, but the weight of Violet’s heartache was always too much for anyone she might start a life with. Even her magic had weakened, as if the flame in her heart had burned to an ember. Yes, the candles did their work, but inquieter ways. Where once Violet could bring in enough money for half the year with a single green taper burned, now one spell would pay her rent with only a little left over to buy a bottle of gin.
So she lent herself to helping other people who society thought didn’t belong. She registered Black voters. She marched for an end to the war in Vietnam. She joined the Women’s Strike for Equality and dipped candles for the Women’s International Terrorist Conspiracy from Hell.
While these things brought her a sense of purpose, they were never enough to fill the hole of what she’d left behind. Selling spells had been a quiet existence—it could’ve been a happy one, had things turned out differently—now she offered her power freely to those in need, the double boiler on her small gas stove always warm and ready. But it would take more than a few weak candles to change a country hell-bent on maintaining a status quo built on oppression.
Still, she did what she could.
But for the past few days, none of her spells seemed to work correctly. Every candle dipped came out warped or twisted, the wax all wrong. It wouldn’t cling to the wick, or if it did, the wick would get lost, and the candle couldn’t be lit. With each failure, it felt like a light was going out inside of her, like she herself was the flickering flame and one gentle breeze was all it would take to snuff her out. She’d chalked it up to the approaching anniversary of Tillie’s death and her own unhealed heart.
The lights softened overhead, a reminder that though Tillie was gone, Violet wasn’t alone. Her magic had brought these seven hundred square feet to life, and while it was no Honeysuckle House, the apartment loved her, and that, at least, was something.
She took another sip of her drink, when the phone started to ring. She considered letting it go, ignoring whoever might need her. With how her candles had been coming out, it would probably be for the best. But the work she did was all she had. So, she set her rocks glass on the table and pushed up from her chair.
She picked up the handset and wrapped the cord around her finger.
“Violet Caldwell,” she said.
There was a brief pause, a sigh. Then, a familiar voice. “It’s me.”
Cold crept along Violet’s spine. She leaned against the wall for support, and it softened into her.
“How did you get this number?” Violet asked.
“Magic,” her sister replied.
