Chapter Eighteen #2
No, no, and no. I will not be the only person convinced there’s a cure.
Because if my mom has given up on herself…
that means she’s already given up on me.
As her Farewitch. As her daughter. Slimy guilt slithers into my core.
We’ve used all this visiting time together to talk about my problems. Maybe I am a terrible daughter.
Mom releases a ragged breath. “You shouldn’t have to deal with any of this nonsense. I was hoping I could give you another fifteen years before I became a cranky burden.”
“You can’t think like that. And you know me—great at multitasking. Stretching my bandwidth is my other magical talent.”
“I wanted a better life for you, Honey. Less stress. More joy.”
“I’ll take that on a sticker for my thermos,” Silas murmurs.
“But we’re Farewitches!” My pulse thrums with the beginnings of panic. This doesn’t sound like the mom I know at all.
“And now look at me. I tried to be mayor, something new. And it’s nearly killed me.”
“Honey’s right. You can’t think like that,” Silas says. “Fate is funny. You might’ve gotten sick just the same, mayor or not.”
He receives two frosty looks.
“The fact is,” my mom continues, “the entire basis of a Farewitch’s occupation is caretaking at the expense of ourselves. What kind of person bakes all day long and is never allowed a taste of their own work? Their own bite of happiness?”
“People with eating disorders?”
“Lord Almighty, Silas, that was rhetorical.”
The hospital room falls into tense silence.
After a loud slurp of coffee, Silas stands. “Those should be by the window, Marigold. Not hiding on your nightstand. The sun is good for them.”
He moves a vase of flowers to the room’s windowsill. Marigolds. A lot of them. Must’ve come from a big garden. How’ve I not noticed them until now?
“Did you bring those?”
He shakes his head. “Not me this time.”
“The staff were giving some to all the patients,” Mom says. “Someone made an anonymous donation to the hospital this week.”
My neck practically lights on fire. Momaw’s voice rings in my head. Silly, silly girl.
The Warlock has always been honest about one thing: He doesn’t leave the Manor. And what do I do? Fault him for it.
What does he do?
The man sends flowers.
Oh Lord. I’m the worst.
Even as I stew in my chair, a delicate bud of appreciation for the Warlock blooms in my chest. Soon, Mom grows tired enough to nap, and Silas and I leave her in peace.
Outside, sunshine warms my cheeks before a breeze chases it away.
Typical Southern spring. Clear skies for a cookout at noon, a vertical bath by three.
Already brainstorming recipes, I cinch my corduroy barn coat tight, wishing for my favorite wingback in the Manor’s library.
Definitely a chicken-and-dumplings kind of day. A dish good for bouts of sadness.
“See what I mean?” Silas says, buttoning his suit. “She’s like that all the time now.”
“Her morbid pragmatism is normal, but the existential resignation is new. Have her latest tests shown anything new?”
“Nothing definitive. Bloodwork so-so. Her numbers are still off. More off. She tried to sign paperwork for me earlier, but her hand was shaking so badly, she couldn’t grip the pen. She got pissed. Remind me never to play darts against your mother.”
“A temper is a good sign for her.”
For once, Silas doesn’t have anything to say. The phenomenon is a bit nauseating. The man is meant to be chatty.
“Silas.”
“Hmm?” He looks up from his phone.
“What actually changed? Don’t avoid the question.”
“Why do you torture yourself?”
“It’s my favorite recipe.”
“You want to know? Truly? The cookie bake, of all things. It hit her this could be her last Mother’s Day as your mom.”
A renewed, icier chill stabs me in the back. I want to vomit. I wasn’t even thinking about that possibility—probably because I’ve refused to accept it.
“Please tell me this is the silence of thinking and not a panic attack.”
No panicking. At least, not today. Breathe. Ask for help.
“If this was your mom, what would you do next?”
His face slackens with surprise at my question. “My mom is a lawyer-sommelier in Manhattan who still overnights me care packages of bagels, so I’d be buying a one-way flight to LaGuardia and renewing my New York Public Library card right about now.”
“That explains both too much and not enough about you.”
“I’m an enigma.”
“Wait, you get baked goods shipped all the way from New York City? Betrayal.”
“Not important.” He grows serious. “You know what is? The quality time has done wonders for her morale. Today was an improvement, if you can believe it.”
“Message received. I’m staying in town tonight to help Arna Jean plan the summer menu, so I’ll be here tomorrow.
” Which also gives me a chance to check on the shop.
The Bookwitch has a habit of burning sage too close to the paper cupcake liners.
Not that I don’t already get plenty of Apothakery updates from the Bookwitch’s daily posts.
She showcases new items every week with the hashtag #fareforthot.
The latest specialty is a blueberry and yellow corn croissant.
“Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go sit in my truck and be sad. ”
He throws on his Illestevas. Even with the somber mood, he looks like an off-duty model. “Between your magic, Carolina’s healthcare, and my sunny demeanor, we’ll solve what’s going on with your mom. You’ll have dozens of Mother’s Days ahead of you.”
“Don’t sell yourself short.”
He shrugs. “I know when I’m the personality hire.”
“Date?” I ask, nodding at his suit. It’s Friday night, after all.
“Not tonight. I’m going to sit at home, divinely alone, with a bottle of sauvignon blanc.”
“That’s a first.”
“Follow my example. When’s the last time you did something for the first time?” He winks and takes off toward the town square.
As I watch him disappear down the sidewalk, my phone dings with a text before I can think too hard about his question. The screen shows a message from an unknown local number.
Oh no. It can’t be.
Hell is surely freezing over.
Greetings, Ms. Frost.
Postman Claywell helped me purchase a mobile cellular device.
Sincerely,
Mr. Knight
My stomach flips. The Warlock of Foxe Holler bought a cell phone. For me? Ha. Not likely. And the formality with this guy. Phew. But knowing his texts are as on brand as the letter he sent to the Apothakery all those weeks ago is weirdly comforting. At least we’ve upgraded from Regretfully.
So we’re doing this, then, are we?
Congrats sir
your new phone can make calls too
even with no cell service you can use WiFi
ask Ms. Zeen to show you
Pending dots dance across the screen. I hold my breath.
If he went to these lengths to reach me, I hope everything is all right.
This is the longest I’ve stayed in town to visit my mom, and I bet poor Lazlo is eating nothing but tea and biscuits with Governess Zeen.
Or Goldfish. Honestly, the entire Manor is likely to fall apart without my nonnegotiable mealtimes together.
Heavens above, I think I might actually miss the farmhouse.
This is taking way too long. He could have fallen into a ditch in his own garden for all I know. I call the number.
When he picks up, I say, “You don’t have to text. Calling is fine.”
“Thank God. When do you return? The Manor is too quiet and peaceful.”
The sound of his voice does a weird thing to the surface of my skin. “Tomorrow evening. After visiting hours at the hospital—”
“Would you like to have dinner?”
My stomach flips again. Freaking flapjacks in there. Dinner. “Sunday supper?”
“No, Saturday. Keep up, Ms. Frost. Dinner with me. Tomorrow night. Together.”
Oh. Oh.
All my brain can come up with is: “Are you cooking?”
A maniacal cackle slices through the background. Lazlo. “I haven’t thought that far ahead,” the Warlock mutters, shushing someone.
I bite my lip.
When’s the last time you did something for the first time?
“Invitation accepted. If only to experience what will be your audition video for the Food Network’s hottest new show, Recipes for When You Need to Say Sorry to Your Roommate.”
“You and I are not roommates, Ms. Frost.” He says the word with derision.
“Oh?” I cling to the familiar mockery to keep from thinking about my mom in the hospital behind me. “Then what are we?”
He scoffs. “I’m not sure. But it’s not roommates, sweetheart.”
My heart somersaults. Did he just—why am I smiling?
There’s a pause that might be muffled swearing. “I apologize, Ms. Frost. That was…”
“Bold.”
“I didn’t mean—or intend to imply—”
I can hear it in his voice. He’s actually flustered. Now I feel bold. And like messing with him a bit. “Say it again. Sir.”
The silence on the other end of the phone is pure gold. Why do I get such enjoyment from ruffling his careful composure? Whatever the reason, this is a new flavor of something I love the taste of. My rain cloud mood from a minute ago is evaporating.
“Consider your point about my cooking skills well received,” he finally replies, his voice low and simmering.
“Alternative show name: Magical Recipes for the Magic of Friendship.”
“Have your fun, Ms. Frost.”
“Oh! A Knight for One: Solo Recipes for the Reclusive at Heart.”
“Do you hang up this contraption, or do I?”
I stifle a gratified snicker and hang up before he can hear how pleased I am.
The feeling doesn’t last. My grin falls suddenly.
Across the street, so still he nearly quicksands right into the beige concrete of the sidewalk, is Oris Webb, sinking his teeth into a small yellow apple.
Watching me.
I follow his eyes as they skitter to the hospital sliding doors behind me, a question on his pale brow.