September 26, Thursday
THE SHRILL ring of my phone shattered the peaceful morning silence. I glanced at the screen and groaned. Mother dearest. Bracing myself, I answered.
"Hi, Mom."
"Josephine, darling!" My mother's voice was a mix of cigarettes and champagne. "How's my favorite literary disappointment?"
I rolled my eyes. "I'm fine. How are the Greek Isles?"
"Oh, fucking marvelous. The wine is divine, the men are delicious, and the inspiration is flowing like the Aegean. But enough about me. What's this I hear about that shit-wit ex of yours demanding money?"
I sighed, sinking onto the porch swing. "How did you—"
"Vivian called me, of course. A hundred thousand dollars? The audacity of that peabrained parasite!"
"Yeah, well—"
"Listen, darling," she cut me off. "I'll pony up the cash."
I blinked, sure I'd misheard. "You... what?"
"Don't make me repeat myself. It's unseemly. I said I'll pay off the bastard. This needs to go away before my next book drops. Can't have your sordid little scandal overshadowing my magnum opus."
A mix of gratitude and resentment swirled in my chest. "Mom, that's... thank you. But you don't have to—"
"Of course I don't have to. I want to. On one condition."
I held my breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
"You finish your bloody book. How long can it possibly take to crank out one of those tawdry little romances? For fuck's sake, Josephine, writers write. So write!"
I clenched my jaw, biting back a retort. "Yes. Of course. I'm working on it."
"Are you? Because from where I'm standing—well, lounging on a yacht, actually—it seems like you're just hiding out in Hicksville, USA."
"It's not Hicksville," I murmured. "And I'm not hiding. I'm... regrouping."
"Well, regroup faster. Your deadline's approaching, and Mummy can't bail you out of everything."
I closed my eyes, counting to ten. "You're right. Thanks for the, um, encouragement."
"That's what mothers are for, darling. Now, I must dash. There's a positively scrumptious cabana boy waiting to oil my back."
"Mom," I chided, but she'd already hung up.
I sat there for a long moment, staring at my phone. The offer of money was a relief, but it came with strings—as everything from my mother did. And her dismissive attitude towards my work stung, even after all these years.
But maybe she had a point. I had come here to write, after all. Instead, I'd gotten tangled up in small-town drama and literal witchcraft.
"Alright, Josephine," I muttered to myself. "Time to earn your keep."
I stood up, stretching, and headed inside to my neglected laptop. The cursor blinked accusingly on the blank screen, but for once, I didn't feel daunted. Maybe it was the lingering effects of Kelly's brownies, or the kick in the pants from my mother, but suddenly the words were there, waiting to be written.
As I settled in to type, a part of me wondered if I should call Tilda, tell her to call off the strengthened curse. After all, if Mom was going to pay Curtis off, did I really need magical intervention?
But another part of me, a darker part I was only just beginning to acknowledge, whispered, Why not both?
I pushed the thought aside, focusing on my novel. One problem at a time. First, I'd write. Then I'd deal with curses and con men and complicated feelings for handsome stonemasons.