13
Demi
My sister lives in a lighthouse. Well, technically, she lives in the cottage next ?to the lighthouse, but it’s more charming to think of her as some sort of surly lighthouse keeper.
Blue texted me earlier, saying she wouldn’t make it to the Coven meeting today because she wasn't feeling well.
So, instead of heading to my house after work, I make my way to hers with a canvas tote bag overflowing with groceries and cold medicine, along with a few holistic remedies and a charm from the aunts.
Perched up on a craggy hill with the sea as its backyard, Blue’s cottage is a coastal dream.
It’s a perfectly square, white stucco colonial home with two old chimneys billowing wood smoke into the gray sky.
There’s an old stone staircase just outside her back door that leads down the rocky beach.
The home's facade is accented by large, round windows that frame the beautiful ocean view.
As I pull into her driveway, Noah is walking out her front door and to his truck, shrugging on a sherpa-lined denim jacket and pushing the round-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose.
His dreadlocks are tied in a top knot, with the back and sides of his head closely faded, showing off the tattoos climbing up his neck. He doesn’t look very happy .
Noah gives me a wave as I walk toward him, pulling out an honest-to-god wooden tobacco pipe from his jacket pocket and settling it in the corner of his mouth while he pats himself down looking for a lighter.
He’s a bit of an old soul who loves to lean into his sailor identity as a fisherman.
Very Old Man and the Sea , but unlike Hemingway, Noah Whitcomb is about as green-flag as it gets.
“Your sister is the most stubborn person I’ve ever met,” he says, lighting his pipe and taking a puff.
The scent of pure tobacco, like honey-dipped earth and wood, wafts into my nostrils.
It’s a pleasant smell, unlike that of cigarettes.
Mixed with the ocean air and the coming autumn, it kindles a sense of nostalgia in me.
“What did she do to you this time?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says, the line between his eyebrows deepening. “That’s the problem. Kitty texted me to check in on Blue when I was done on the water today.”
I try not to grin. My aunt is a meddling little shit, and I know ?exactly ?why she told Noah to come see Blue. “Kitty texted you?”
Noah nods. “She knows my dock is close by, and she told me Blue wasn’t feeling well.”
“Let me guess: my sister told you she was fine and didn’t need help?”
“Exactly,” he says, and shakes his head. “She does not look fucking fine.”
There’s pain in his deep brown eyes, a sort of helpless frustration, like it hurts him to be unable to do anything to make my sister feel better.
He had this look about him when Blue’s husband, Felix, died.
Noah watched from the sidelines as Blue went through hell because she refused to let anyone come near her .
Sympathetic, I pat his shoulder and give him a wink. “I’ll take good care of her.”
“Thanks, Demi. See ya later,” he replies, with a modicum of relief.
I give him another pat, then move past him to Blue’s front door, and I let myself in without knocking. Inside, it smells like it always does, like Blue. Sea salt and the same clean perfume she picked up when she studied abroad in Ireland in college and has worn ever since.
“Noah, I told you. You put enough logs on the fire to keep it going for hours. I’m fine,” Blue calls from the living room, her voice wrecked and hoarse with whatever virus she caught.
“It’s me,” I reply simply, and turn the corner.
Noah was right, Blue does not look fine. If it weren’t for her wild scarlet curls, she might blend completely into the foggy, blue-gray tones of her walls and furniture. She looks drained of all color and life, with dark circles under her blue eyes and the pallor of illness on her pale skin.
“Hey, you,” she croaks.
I set my bag on the coffee table and look down at her, curled up on the couch, covered by a light sage-green patchwork quilt, and with a complexion the shade of lukewarm porridge.
Giving her a smile dripping with sarcasm, I say, “You’re, like, really pretty.”
“Eat a dick, Demi.” Blue rolls her eyes, but laughs despite herself, which sends her into a coughing fit so rough that it must be painful. Her giant Irish wolfhound peeks his head up from under the covers where he’s snuggled up with her .
“Hi, buddy,” I say to the dog, who happens to be one of the sweetest creatures on planet earth. I scratch him behind the ear while Blue takes a sip of water and recovers.
“You know he only responds to his government name,” she says weakly.
“Sorry. Hi, Mike.” At that, he licks my palm.
Years ago, when Blue adopted him, I asked why she chose Mike of all names. She told me to look at his face, and when I did. I understood. He really does look like a Mike. There could be no other name.
Blue adjusts her position and sits up, but her face immediately goes a little paler, and she winces. I sit down next to her on the sofa and press my hand to her forehead. It’s hot to the touch; she’s burning up.
“You have a fever. Have you taken any medicine yet?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I’ll be fine.”
“You’re too smart to be acting this stupid,” I reply, bringing the grocery bag into my lap and rummaging through it until I find the cold medicine. Opening the box, I pop out two pills and hand them to my sister, who wordlessly swallows them down with what’s left of her glass of water.
“Do you want anything to drink?” she asks, pulling the blanket off her lap and readying herself to stand. I can tell each movement she makes takes monumental effort.
Blue had to grow up really fast and take on a mothering role for me when she was still a child herself.
Our mom just wasn’t there, and while the aunts stepped in where they could, my sister picked up the rest of the slack.
She’s good at a great many things; in fact, she excels at every single thing she tries.
But Blue has never been good at letting her guard down or letting others take care of her.
It got a little better when she met Felix; he softened her, but when he died, the walls she built up around herself were made of titanium.
I set my hand on her leg and squeeze it. “I’ve been craving soup, so I brought some over. I’ll grab you some more water while I heat it up.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “I know what you’re doing.”
“Yeah, but if I pretend I’m doing it for myself, you won’t tell me no,” I reply, taking the grocery bag and her empty glass to the kitchen.
Like the rest of her home, Blue’s kitchen is what I would describe as fisherman chic.
She has a beautiful, modern baby-blue oven and range, and a set of gleaming copper cookware hanging from a rod along the wall above her counter space.
The walls and hardwood floors are painted white, and the ceiling has exposed maple beams and a candelabra chandelier hanging from its center.
I open up the container of New England clam chowder I ordered from the deli and pour it into a saucepan to heat up on the stove. Then, I fill Blue’s glass with ice water and bring it out to her on the couch.
She’s lying down and curled up with Mike again, looking miserable and exhausted. When I set her water on the table next to her and turn to head back to the kitchen, she reaches up and takes my hand.
“Thank you,” Blue says softly, her eyes full of sincerity .
Bringing her hand to my lips, I press an affectionate kiss to her knuckles. “Don’t turn into a sap on me now, Blue St. James.”
“You probably just contracted the plague from me,” she says, the corner of her mouth curling up in a smirk. “I coughed into that hand.”
“Gross.” I make a show of leaning down and wiping my hand on her quilt before checking on the soup in the kitchen.
After dinner, I palm Blue’s forehead again, and it’s thankfully a bit cooler to the touch. A little food and the cold medicine seem to be helping. ?It’s nice to be able to take care of her, to help her feel better.
I curl up on the couch, with my head on the opposite armrest from Blue and our feet touching under the quilt, Mike sprawling across both our legs.
Hocus Pocus ?is playing on her TV, and a stick of palo santo is burning to purify the air in the cottage.
Blue is wearing the get-well charm from the aunts on a ribbon around her neck.
I’m not sure what they put in that vial, but I have to believe it’s helping, too—she hasn’t had one of those awful coughing fits for a little while.
“Have you seen any ghosts in your house yet?” Blue asks.
“Actually…” I say, leaving it hanging like a tease.
“Wait, what?!” she exclaims, nudging my foot with hers.
“Okay, technically, I haven’t seen one. But I’ve sort of been talking to one.”
Blue bolts upright to look at me across the couch, then groans and lies back down. “Tell me everything.”
“Tristan Beaumont, the guy who died in the fire. It started when he pushed my belongings around and blew out my candles. Turning off my phone when Owen called—”
“Good for the ghost.”
“Then, one night, I had messages open on my phone, and Tristan started texting me.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Nope.”
“What did he text you about?”
“It was like a normal conversation. Then a few nights ago, it happened again. We messaged back and forth in my notes app, and then he watched a scary movie with me.”
“That’s fucking wild. Have you told the aunts?”
“Not yet.”
“You should. Just in case.”
It’s my turn to sit up and look over at her. “Just in case what?”
“In case he’s a malevolent spirit, or something,” Blue responds with a shrug.
I feel strangely defensive of Tristan when she says that. “Malevolent spirit? He literally follows me around, making sure my laptop doesn’t fall off the counter or that I don’t burn down the house.”
And catches me when I’m about to fall off a ladder. And tells me I have no idea how much he wishes he could touch me.
I’m not about to tell my overly protective sister that part.
“Fair enough,” she says. “In that case, is it weird that I’m kind of happy you have a ghost looking after you in that big house?”
“I mean, the whole thing is a little weird. But I’m kind of happy I have a ghost looking after me, too.”