Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
FRIENDS?
T urns out finding a witch isn’t that difficult. With one quick Google search, Hope finds three witchcraft shops. Three clicks later, we set up an appointment to meet with a witchy consultant at Four Corners Spiritual Healing and Witchcraft Center.
Several online articles and a lively Reddit thread regarding wishes suggest an undoing spell. It’s the magical equivalent of “backsies” for a wish granted or still in progress. Outside of playing light as a feather, stiff as a board as a teenager, I’m ill-qualified to attempt spell casting.
Unable to get an appointment until Sunday, I’ll balance my efforts between locating the coin and my upcoming dates to figure out which of the two will be least impacted if they have to remain. Approaching SPN’s front desk, my stomach twists with the hope that I’ll not have to go on either date.
“Hey, Kerry.” I smile, leaning on the front of the reception desk.
“Georgia.” She peers up from her paperback.
The knot in my stomach spools tighter when I spy the green-eyed, bearded man on the cover of her copy of The Duke’s Darling .
This morning’s interaction with James still grates.
In mere minutes, he flipped from seductive to indignant to apologetic and then to something else entirely with his insinuation that I thought this was all a game.
The entire exchange pulls me in different directions.
Empathy for how this must all be for him.
Annoyance with his persistence. Above all, I’m resolved to get him back where he belongs.
“I’m happy to see Lord James survives the duel, but did Lady Cecily really agree to marry the marquis?” She tosses her head back in a dramatic whine, her fat blonde curls bouncing. “God, if a man said the things he says to Lady Cecily, I’d swoon.”
“You’d be surprised,” I mutter, remembering that very man saying those words to me this morning.
Both he and Davis had used my own words on me in their seduction, with vastly different effects.
With James, it churned revulsion in me, but with Davis, just a desire for his own words.
Words he spoke freely and the truth of them were more enticing than anything in my books.
Because they’re from a man with real feelings for me.
Feelings I took advantage of. An acidic burn crawls up my throat, and I push it back down with the rest of my boondoggle of emotions. Guilt. Anger. Fear. All the perfect ingredients for the self-loathing stew blending inside me.
I smooth down my blazer, hoping the action soothes the torrent of emotions. “I was wondering if you could help me. You’re in the know with just about everything here.”
“That I am.” She waggles her sculpted eyebrows. “Is this about the new speech therapist? I hear he’s single and ready to mingle.”
Laughing, I roll my eyes. “I’ll let you do the mingling.”
Kerry is as single as me, but gets less romantic intervention from fellow staff or Doc.
It may be because she radiates “the mingle” vibe, where I give off sad, lonely romance author.
Kerry revels in her singlehood. Maybe if I had a little more Kerry in me, I wouldn’t have gotten myself into this situation.
“Do you know what happens to the coins in the fountain? I asked the head of maintenance, and they had no idea, but I know they are gone.”
“Uh…” Crimson shades her complexion.
“You won’t be in trouble. I just need to know what happens to them,” I say, keeping my voice low and quiet.
Kerry shifts in her seat, her fingers curling tightly around the book. “I collect them early Sunday mornings.”
“What do you do with them?”
She looks behind her and then whispers, “They’re wishes, so I use them to help wishes come true. Each week, I collect the change, and then monthly, I add them to my own personal donation to the Make-A-Wish Foundation.”
“You what?” My eyes widen.
Her mouth slides into a deep frown. “I didn’t think it would be an issue since the coins were just there and nobody did anything with them. Doesn’t it make more sense for the money to be doing good rather than just sitting there?”
I can’t fault her logic. It is a waste to just leave the money where it does nothing for anyone.
Even if those are someone’s wishes, wouldn’t whoever grants them want the money to be used for good?
Unless it breaks some sort of wishing rule.
Note to self, ask my witchcraft consultant.
Though I’m sure Kerry’s collection of the coins, even if for a good cause, breaks some SPN regulation.
“Nobody knows you’re doing this?” I ask the question we both already know the answer to.
“I mentioned it to Velma three years ago, and she went on and on about paperwork and that it would need to align with our annual charitable gifts campaign or be approved by the board.” Her fingers twitch while dog-earing and un-dog-earing a page in the book.
“It’s okay, Kerry,” I assure her, grabbing the book from her.
It’s partly to help calm her and mostly to stop her from ruining the pages. I’m not anti-dog-earing one’s pages, but a sour sensation burns my throat at it happening to one of my books. I may be annoyed with James, but I don’t want his story’s pages treated with a lack of care.
“Are you going to tell her? Am I in trouble?” She gnaws on her lip, her big brown eyes a little glossy.
The fear about Velma Hendersen, SPN’s Director, is no joke.
She’s formidable. Even Doc sometimes avoids her.
Despite her pixie-size and youth—she’s only two years older than me—the ‘rules first, questions later’ head administrator is a little tough at times.
In any rom-com, she’s the villain ready to close the small-town bookshop and turn it into a high-end office supply store that outlaws rainbow-colored sticky note packets and gel pens.
“No. This stays between us. It’s sweet what you’re doing.” I squeeze her hand, a small smile tugs at her lips.
It is sweet. Even if it means plan A—the long shot—is completely demolished. Unless…
“Kerry, have you donated the money you collected on Sunday already?”
She nods.
Demolished. I sigh. Guess, it’s witch or bust.
Giftbag in hand, I stride down the long hospital corridor toward Doc’s room, my kitten heels click against the vinyl floor.
Tomorrow, Doc will transfer to SPN for a few days of inpatient rehab before he heads home to complete the remainder of his recovery via outpatient services.
Even if I get to see him tomorrow after he’s admitted, Estelle gave the all-clear for visitors, and I jumped at the chance.
Despite the updates from both Davis and Estelle, the prick of anxiety about Doc won’t be subdued until I see him.
Of course, no text came from Davis today about his grandfather.
I wouldn’t expect one, or any other future messages from Davis, after last night.
Seeing Doc today may smooth down my guilt about his accident, but my actions over the last six days ensure an ample supply to go around.
“Hey.” Smiling, I enter Doc’s room.
Late afternoon sunshine streams in from the open blinds, bathing the room in a soft glow. In a not hospital-issued blue checkered robe, Doc sits bolstered up in the bed by several pillows, his face crinkled in annoyance.
“Peach!” His big smile smooths down his features. “Thank god, you’re here. Estelle left on some terrible reality show, and I can’t get this remote to work to turn it off.”
Placing the gift bag on the bedside table, I grab the remote from him. I click the little TV button. “Should work now. It’s a universal remote and somehow it was on satellite,” I explain and hand him the remote.
“A decorated doctor for over forty years, and I’m nearly bested by a remote.” Taking the controller, he almost scowls at it.
“Where’s Estelle?”
“She’s grabbing dinner for us.”
“They don’t feed you in this joint?” I tease
“Hospital food will kill you, and as I told her, I have no plans to meet my maker anytime soon.” He chuckles.
“Not to mention, she’d kill you if you did.” I wink.
“Yes, she would.”
Laughter curls my lips. Just five days ago, Estelle made that same joke in this very hospital, while waiting for news about Doc. So much has happened between then and now that it almost seems a lifetime ago.
I take in the sparkle in his eyes and the upward curve of his mouth. The stiffness of his movement and small wince as he places the remote down on the bedside table is the only indication that he’s not one hundred percent.
“Is that for me?” He points at the gift bag.
“It’s just a little something to keep you busy until you come back to SPN.”
“You mean as a volunteer and not a patient?” he teases, picking up the bag and pulling out the orange tissue paper.
“Yeah—” I swallow hard “—I am so sorry, Doc.”
“Just as we thought…” he says, his face twinkling.
“Thought what?”
“That you’d be Peach about this.” He motions at me.
“We knew you’d blame yourself. It’s why Estelle didn’t clear you to visit for a few days in hopes your guilt would deplete just a bit.
She mentioned that you stayed by her side the entire time I was in surgery, and how you apologized throughout.
Your capacity for empathy makes you one of the best social workers I’ve ever worked with, and an even better writer, but it’s also a curse. ”
“I’m sorry.” I wince. “Sorry for saying sorry, I mean.”
Shaking his head, he reaches over and squeezes my hand. “Take it from someone that’s been in the caring profession for a long time, sometimes it’s not ours to take on or fix.”
“What does that mean?”
“Things happen. Accidents—” he waves at himself. “Illnesses. Breakups. Disappointed people. Life. We can’t always control what happens, and we don’t need to take responsibility for the things that we didn’t actually do.”
“We can still be sorry they happen.”
“If t hat sorry serves you, rather than you serving it.” His warm gaze meets mine.