Chapter 15
Barb’s house is a sweet century cottage with a white picket gate and a cobblestone path toward a wall of ivy, in the center of which is a coral-pink door.
I twist the old-fashioned doorbell. A person, Barb, I assume, appears at the door.
I recognize her from rehearsals, a trim, perky woman in her early seventies with a halo of wily white curls.
“I have been summoned,” I say. She looks me up and down, as though reconsidering the summons. I hold out the white bakery box. She takes it and peers inside.
“Well, what’s this, dear?” She holds up a small pink cube covered in sugar sprinkles.
“Fairy bites,” I say, a little proud. Her face breaks open into a smile.
“Oh, well done, girl,” she says.
“I also brought this,” I say, holding up a bottle of floral pink gin. “In case it’s that kind of tea party.” She cackles and grabs it from me.
“It most certainly is.” She waves me inside.
We pass quickly through a hallway filled with a framed collage of vintage photos and art prints into the kitchen, which is pale yellow, bright, and warm.
Flowers and vases of greenery spill off every surface.
She grabs a tray of glasses and hands them to me.
“Bring those out to the garden,” she says. “I’ll fix some punch with your gin.”
I step out the back door, expecting a patio, or at least a backyard.
Instead, I find a wild spray of flowers with a small stone path that leads to an armored gate with climbing vines.
I hear voices, so I step through and am shocked to find myself in a wonderland—long winding paths and sinewy trees, little benches along the way, and here in the middle, under a giant old apple tree, a table full of fairies.
“Is this what I think it is?” I look around, amazed. “This is my secret garden! I came here with Theo when we were kids!” It is. It’s amazing. I had no idea.
“You came!” A tiny woman with pink hair and a Scottish accent bounces up and hugs me. “I’m Glory.” She is five hundred years old, tiny, and wearing an actual tiara. “Sit down.” She pushes me into a chair with surprising force. “Say hello,” she instructs the others, gesturing around.
“I’m Peg,” says a long-haired woman wearing a caftan. She’s smoking—yup, a joint. “Resident witch.”
“Oh!” I try to sound less surprised. “Excellent.”
Peg holds out the joint. “Want some?”
“Oh! No, no thanks.” She instantly withdraws, offended. “Weed just doesn’t agree with me . . . I tend to overreact to it.” Peg sniffs. I have clearly failed somehow.
“I’m Ron,” says a giant man with a very long gray beard.
“We’re lovers,” says Peg. “But it’s casual.”
Ron nods solemnly.
“Wow, okay, good . . . boundaries,” I say. I’ve been here five minutes, and this is the most sex, drugs, and rock and roll I’ve experienced in years. And I work in television.
“They’ve been casual for twelve years,” says Barb, returning with a pitcher of punch, which looks like mostly a lot of ice cubes and flowers.
“We were married for thirty-five years before that, but it wasn’t working out,” says Ron, downing his teacup and holding it out for Barb to fill with punch. She fills all the teacups, clearly forgetting the glasses I just brought out. I take a sip. I choke.
“Whoa, this is . . .” Straight gin.
Barb beams. “My special recipe,” she says. “Gin and ice and flowers for decoration.” Oh, wow. She sits down and passes the plate of the fairy bites around. “The girl brought these. They are for fairies.”
“They are fairy bites,” I clarify. “They’re just from the bakery.” They nod in approval, mouths full. I take another sip of, well, gin. It’s not exactly Will’s cider. I can still taste it. The thought warms me. “So, do you own this garden, Barb?”
“Some of it,” she says. “Glory lives on the other side. We opened our backyards up years ago. There was this big unclaimed green space between them, and over the years it’s become a community project.”
“How lovely,” I say. “It’s amazing to see it again.”
“So, Miranda Belmont,” says Barb, all business. “We have brought you here, into our inner sanctum.”
“Circle!” says Glory.
“Coven,” says Peg.
“We have brought you here under false pretenses.”
“Well, for starters,” I say, “this isn’t tea.” I hold up my cup of gin. They laugh.
“I have to say,” says Barb, “I didn’t think you’d be this friendly. You’re such a cold fish in rehearsal.” That stings, but it’s fair.
“It’s complicated,” I start to say, but they all nod as though this is sufficient explanation.
“As I was saying”—Barb takes the reins back—“we brought you here because we need your help.”
“Okay?” I’m intrigued.
“The play is doomed,” blurts Glory.
“Oh!” I say. “I know there’s been some weird stuff, but . . .”
“No,” says Peg. “That Nick Nolan is nothing but trouble. He’s bringing bad energy.”
I burst out laughing, but looking around the table, I realize that’s not the vibe.
“Um,” I say. “What? Nick is stupid, but he’s, you know, harmless.” Unless you date him.
“There are no signs yet,” admits Glory. “But Ron heard him whistling.”
“So?”
They look at me, stricken. “Backstage,” whispers Glory. “That’s bad luck.”
“And I saw him walk under a ladder yesterday to get around the set painting,” says Barb.
“Bad luck,” says Glory.
“And when someone warned him, he just laughed.” Peg sets down her teacup and sighs. “I . . . We are concerned that he’s a liability.”
“I . . . Listen, Nick’s a TV guy, he doesn’t know all the superstitions. I’m sure he didn’t mean any of that.” Defending Nick hurts my brain, but it seems like the thing to do.
“That’s the problem. He doesn’t know and he doesn’t take it seriously,” says Peg. “What’s next? Unplugging the ghost light? Saying ‘Macbeth’ in the theater?” Even I never say “Macbeth” in the theater.
“And this thing with poor Will, kicking him out like that,” Peg adds. “Taking a role from a loyal, talented member of our community.”
They all start to talk over each other.
“Will is such a good boy.”
“The dearest boy—”
“And so handsome.”
“Mira, do you think he’s handsome?”
“He’s single, you know.”
“Hush, Glory!”
“Well, he is!”
“And what your parents have done—”
“That weasel from the television, he can’t even act!”
“To say nothing of your mother carrying on with—”
“Hush, Glory!”
“It’s disappointing, is what it is.” Ron frowns. They nod in agreement.
“Wait, what about my mother?” I ask.
“Never mind.”
I let it go, for now.
“Naturally we’re very worried,” says Glory earnestly.
I look at their faces. They look serious as death. Again, I need to resist the urge to laugh at them. “And you all believe in this?” I ask.
“Oh, dearie,” Barb chastens me. “You can’t mess around with theater.” The others nod sagely.
“Well, okay. Be that as it may. And I have to be honest, respectfully, I don’t have a ton of experience believing in this stuff.” Though, come to think of it, it would explain the last month of my life. “What exactly are you hoping I can do for you?”
Glory claps her hands. “Yes! Good! We need your help.”
“We just ask that you keep an eye on things for us. You’re friends with Nick, right? Could you talk to him?”
I don’t know how to answer. “We work together, yes,” I say. “We aren’t friends exactly. I can try.” It’s a lie. I can barely talk to Nick about the scenes we’re doing, let alone school him in theater superstitions.
“Just try to keep a lid on him, if you can,” says Peg. “How well, exactly, do you know him?”
I sit back. “Um, well enough,” I demur. “But sure, I can try.”
“Good,” says Peg. Glory claps, and Barb and Ron high-five. Quite the crew indeed. “Thank you. I’m glad that it’s settled.”
“Fairy bite?” offers Barb. I take one. It tastes like cherries and almonds.
“So, Ron,” I say. “Which fairy do you play?”
“Peaseblossom,” says Ron, with zero irony.
“Have some more punch, dearie!” Glory fills my glass without waiting for an answer.
They are lunatics. I think I’m in love.