said that?” Cameron asked, eyes suddenly wide and vigilant, turning in her seat.
Mary Anne’s cell phone rang. Knowing that up in Myrtle Hollow she might not have reception, she pulled over near the historic Henlawson Bridge and answered.
“Mary Anne Drew.”
“Hi, Mary Anne, this is Jonathan.”
“Jonathan.” Why was he calling? She wouldn’t be recording her next essay until the following Tuesday. This was Thursday.
“Hey, Angie and I are engaged, and we’re having a little party upstairs at the station Saturday night. I wanted to make sure you’re there. Angie wants to meet you.”
His words jolted her. Thinking she might throw up from the emotional impact of hearing him say he was engaged, Mary Anne managed to answer, “Thanks, Jona than. I’ll be there.”
“Great. See you then.”
She shut the phone, closing her eyes and trying to imagine Jonathan Hale telling her that she was always beautiful to him.
Cameron lifted her eyebrows.
Mary Anne repeated what he said.
“A party?” Cameron echoed. “People drink things at parties.”
Mary Anne followed her thought and her mischievous tone to its obvious conclusion. Grimly she put the car in gear, heading for her last hope, for the thing that couldn’t possibly work.
Myrtle Hollow
THE HOUSE WAS in fact a cabin. When Mary Anne parked her RAV4 outside, a bearded white-haired man was loading heavy cardboard boxes into a pickup truck. He glanced at the women in the vehicle and she saw a flash of turquoise-blue eyes.
“That’s Paul’s dad,” Cameron said. “He used to be an obstetrician. He lives in your neighborhood.”
“David Cureux,” Mary Anne replied, thinking with annoyance of the man she knew to be David Cureux’s next-door neighbor—Graham Corbett. “City councilman, possibly implicated in the misuse of city funds.”
“He absolutely wasn’t,” Cameron said. “Anyhow, he and Clare are divorced, but they’re still good friends. Well—at least he’s always helping her with projects. Paul,” she pronounced, “has mother issues. He needs therapy.”
“Of course, he does,” Mary Anne retorted. “His mother brews love potions in her spare time.”
The woman who came out onto the porch wore her still dark but white-threaded hair in a long braid. The years had etched a map of grooves on her olive-toned skin. The dark eyes seemed only briefly interested in Mary Anne and turned fiercely on the white-haired man, as though supervising him at his task. She wore a flannel shirt and blue jeans, and her feet were bare.
Cameron said, “She never wears shoes unless she’s forced to go somewhere they’re required. Paul finds that mortifying, too. Myself, I like her.”
“Does she know we’re coming?”
“Possibly, but I didn’t call her to ask, if that’s what you mean.”
Uneasily, Mary Anne touched the driver’s door handle as Cameron got out of the passenger seat. What in hell am I doing?
“David,” said the gray-haired woman, “why don’t you see if the library can use some of them?”
“The library has no use for thirty-year-old phone books. You could have used them for kindling.”
Clare seemed to think this over.
He hurried to get behind the wheel, as if afraid she was going to ask him to unload the cardboard boxes he’d just loaded into the truck bed. He shut the door and drove off.
The maker of love potions scowled.
“Waste,” she said to Cameron. “People are going to regret all the things they throw out when it all falls apart.”
Cameron said, “Hi, Clare. This is Mary Anne Drew. We’ve come to ask you about—”
“A love potion,” Clare answered. “Let’s go inside.”
Cameron cast Mary Anne a sidelong look, inviting her to be impressed by the woman’s powers. Mary Anne wished she was back at the newspaper office, accepting defeat with dignity.
The walls of the cabin’s kitchen were lined with shelves full of canning jars containing leaves, roots and other unidentifiable things. Clare asked, “Would either of you like a cup of tea?”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.” Mary Anne was a little bit uneasy about accepting a cup of tea from someone who brewed love potions. Whatever this woman made, would it be safe to give Jonathan? What if it poisoned him?
“Thank you,” Cameron said. “Do you have nettles?”
“Yes.” Clare gave her an approving nod. Mary Anne wondered again why Cameron didn’t simply marry Paul, who was handsome, intelligent and employed—a keeper and interpreter at the state park zoo by day and a musician by night. Except that Cameron didn’t especially want to be married, and she had said Paul definitely didn’t want to be and she didn’t like him that way anyhow. But Cameron seemed so at home in this atmosphere.
In contrast, Mary Anne felt out-of-place, felt exactly what she was. A woman who liked highlights and pedicures and bikini waxes and shopping and New York, who wouldn’t reject the idea of Botox or tooth bleaching, who could lie around watching entire seasons of Sex and the City on DVD over and over again.
They sat at a beautiful handmade wooden table on mismatched chairs.
Mary Anne said, “Cameron, this is unnecessary.”
Cameron gave her a fierce look.
“Good,” said Clare.
Mary Anne blinked. Wasn’t this woman peddling snake oil? But she seemed to be encouraging Mary Anne not to buy a love potion.
“Mary Anne,” Cameron said, “I think they work.”
“They work,” Clare agreed. “But usually not in the way people intend.”
Despite herself, Mary Anne found her curiosity piqued. But surely Cameron didn’t believe—
“What do you mean?” Mary Anne asked Clare.
The woman’s gaze was penetrating—a basilisk stare.
“I tell people everything. I give them their instructions for activating the potions. They follow the instructions. Then, unexpected things happen. For instance, you are thinking of giving a love potion to a man who has a girlfriend.”
“Actually, they’re engaged.” The journalist side of Mary Anne was scrupulously truthful. “How did you know that?”
Clare ignored the question. “Yes, well, if he drinks my potion and falls in love with you, things
