Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Iris
Sarcastic magic. Lovely.
I can’t get the fun, wrinkle-your-nose-and-a-pile-of-money-appears magic, no. I get the kind that makes you look like a buffoon.
It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.
A part of me is freaking out—but it’s offset by the other part of me, which is genuinely intrigued.
If my rude neighbor has the answers, he’s not sharing them. Which is why I’m back in my apartment, pacing and staring. Back and forth, wearing out the boho rug I’d been so happy to purchase for my new apartment.
With hands on hips and a scrunched-up face plastered with determination, I blow out a breath and stare at the newspapers. “Okay, I just need to get rid of you. How hard can that be?”
I pick up the stack, shove them in a garbage bag, and take them outside to the dumpster. When I get back to my apartment, there is a new stack on the counter, only this time, they seem to have doubled in number, spilling onto the floor .
I can’t have another newspaper tsunami. Maybe hiding them will stop them from multiplying. I pick them up and stuff them in the front closet. One falls out, but I kick it in and slam the door shut.
“There.”
I turn around to find three new stacks surrounding my Dr Pepper.
With one solitary rolled-up newspaper on the end of the counter, pointing at me.
What is happening ?
“I tried delivering these to the guy they’re addressed to,” I shout to my empty apartment. “It didn’t work!”
I look down at the one newspaper on the end of the counter, and it moves, ever so slightly, toward me.
And then it gives a little wiggle.
Like “ Hey. Hey, buddy. Pick me up. ”
I’m stuck inside a cartoon. I’m Aladdin, trying to figure out how a rug can have a personality. Finally, I give in and start talking to the newspaper like it’s a person. “No. I’m not picking you up.”
It wiggles again.
“ I said NO. ” I fold my arms. “Go bother someone else.”
Then, moved by some unseen force, the paper launches at me and smacks me in the forehead.
“Ow! Hey!”
It flips back down onto the counter and wiggles again, and I get the distinct impression it’s laughing at me.
“Okay, fine. Good grief, you didn’t have to hit me,” I say, rubbing my forehead.
The paper turns slightly away, like it’s ashamed.
I frown. “You want me to read you?”
The paper spins around quickly, pointing at me and rolling back and forth .
I roll my eyes. “Okay, okay, calm down.”
It raises up, mid-air, and rears back as if to launch at me again, and I quickly hold up my hands in defense.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sure you have, uh . . . a really nice font!”
It slowly lowers to point at me again and—still mid-air—moves at me twice and wiggles.
I heave a sigh, look up and around at the ceiling, certain someone must be watching me—then I pluck it out of the air. Like this is a completely normal occurrence.
As I turn it over, there’s no more movement, like it’s gone back to being just a newspaper. I glance up and see that all the other newspapers have disappeared.
“Guess I only need one, huh?” I sit down on the floor of my living room and open it.
It’s not a thick paper, and it doesn’t even seem to be connected to the town of Serendipity Springs. The banner at the top says Serendipity Hall Ledger.
I frown. Serendipity Hall?
I knew this building used to be a dorm and was converted into apartments in the 1960s. What in the world am I looking at right now?
I start to read the headlines.
Winnifred Waller Marries William St. George in Ceremony by The Springs
Advertising Mogul William St. George Credits Wife Winnifred With Award-Winning Campaign Idea
Weird. These seem to be all about the same person.
Beloved Philanthropist William St. George, Dead at Age 52
Yikes.
Winnifred St. George Will Die of Loneliness if Someone Doesn’t Intervene
My mind trips on that last one.
I re-read it, noticing that unlike the other headlines, which seem to recap what’s happened in the past, this one seems to be written about something that hasn’t happened yet.
I read on:
Winnifred St. George first came to Serendipity Springs as a young girl. She fell in love with the town, its architecture, and what she calls “the magical feeling that’s always in the air.” That magic was certainly at play when she first met William St. George while attending school at Spring Brook College.
While the two married and had a rich and full life, Winnie is now alone, living on the fourth floor of what was once Serendipity Hall, the same building her mother lived in as a student. Winnie’s charitable donations have contributed to bettering several areas of her beloved town, with a special focus on the animal shelter, as Winnie is a devoted cat lover.
For years, Winnie has been very comfortable living on her own, but in more recent months, “alone” has turned to “lonely,” leaving her mourning the many losses she’s experienced in her life. This loneliness has made the once spirited lover of opera, swing dancing, and Italian food quite withdrawn. She no longer feels needed, and the absence of meaningful connections is causing her to give up.
Lately, she’s been especially distraught over the loss of her beloved cat, Lenny, who was black with white paws and a white circle around one eye. Lenny was Winnie’s constant companion, and this loss has felt like the final straw. Winnie hasn’t left her apartment in weeks, and while she’s certainly lived a lot of years, she still has many more to live . . . On Thursday of this week, Winnie should receive assistance.
Before it’s too late.
A chill runs down my spine.
Before I set the newspaper down, I notice that all the other articles have vanished from the pages. I flip through, and the entire newspaper is blank, save for this one article.
This is what the newspaper wanted me to read.
But why ?
I skim the article one more time, piecing together the life of Winnifred Waller St. George, getting a clear picture of not only her past, but—weirdly—also of her future.
I don’t understand how this one story can predict things that haven’t happened yet. And why did it land on my doorstep?
Wait. This had the brooding chef’s name on it. Was it meant for him? If it was, it’s not like he’s going to do anything about an elderly widow who happens to live in the same building.
A thought hits me.
That’s why the newspaper came to me.
Because it knows that unlike a cold-hearted man who can’t even be bothered to say hello in the hallway, there’s no way I can ignore this.
Magic .
I find I’m starting to settle down with that word, to not dismiss it out of hand.
As I cut out the article, the leftover pieces shimmer and dissipate, sparkling into tiny fragments of golden light until they disappear.
“Okay, that was kind of cool,” I admit out loud, and the cut-out article flutters in my hand, as if it agrees.
I take the clipping and stick it to my refrigerator, my gaze lingering on the image of a lonely old widow who may or may not need help.
My eyes snag on the words “before it’s too late.”
I frown, again trying to apply logic to what is most definitely not a logical situation.
A magical disappearing newspaper addressed to someone else bullied me into reading an article about saving some old woman’s life.
Am I doing this? Like, really doing it ?
The question is rhetorical, of course, because unlike the chef, I actually like people. No way I’m not going to help.
The problem is, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to help Winnie.
And that is the thought that keeps me from falling asleep until very, very late.