Husband Rehab (14 page)

Josie pays little attention as she leaves, thinking the that it is finally going to happen. But outside?

She wants to rush to the library and poke through the craft books, but Christine corners her on the way down the landing and leads her into the den. Josie can’t concentrate on Christine’s ramble about Lady Dooley and the shock she’s had. Jose wants to ask Christine what ‘joining’ is. She doesn’t, of course. Instead, she feigns being tired. She hurries back to her room and digs through a box of her grandmother’s old letters, many of which encourage Josie in pursuing her gifts.
 

When her grandmother was still alive, the craft (or devilry by those who had once opposed its) was already accepted, but Josie’s skills in brewing always made her self-conscious—because of other witches. Her grandmother never denigrated her for being a “blue-collar witch,” a phrase she later heard applied to makers of potions and charming spells, because she was exactly the same: a brewer. Images of ugly witches with wrens on their noses and pointy hats on their heads always made Josie uncomfortable. The more difficult and powerful forms of the craft were unavailable to her, no matter how hard she tried. Her grandmother convinced her that her gifts, as mundane as they are, form the backbone of the craft.
 

She finds nothing in the letters about male witches joining themselves to female witches. The old religion is about as interesting to her as is wearing a formal gown. Some witches still take it seriously: all that talk of the Earth Goddess and the importance of reproduction, cycles within cycles, the moon, the blood. “We are the Earth,” she has heard on more than one occasion. Women are its stewards. Men, of course, have always been needed, but with the age of modern biomedicine and technology their role has diminished.

At the quarter hour before midnight, Josie frantically gets ready. She’s an expert at this. She perfected the art on tour vans or buses, or in narrow backstage corridors. She douses herself in the bathroom down the hall, tassels her hair, and puts on low-cut jeans and a tight open-necked blouse she ties at her bellybutton. Her cowboy boots are died ruby-red, with gold tips. She even lines her lips in a lurid fuchsia.

 
She takes a back stairwell to a side entrance that’s locked and finds a key that’s always hidden in a crack in the floor. She’s happy Roxy’s spell to keep the house secure has worn off, at least she hopes it has so that Lennox can get out.

The southern portion of the property is dominated by the horse barn and corral and beyond that the grazing pastures. She steps onto a mulch path more dirt than anything else. Hickory and oak trees run alongside, their branches forming a canopy. A gibbous moon means the night is less than perfect for any strong magic, not that Josie ever does that. Striated clouds glow as they scud in front of the crescent in the sky. Everything is painted in the familiar quicksilver that all witches adore. Nothing about the dark scares her because she was made to appreciate this time of the cycle. At night, the Earth sheds its pretensions. Anything is possible.

She finds Lennox standing by a dilapidated split-rail fence. He appears to be listening to the wind whistling through the trees. It’s still warm out, even this late, and humid. He’s dressed in shorts and tee, as if he might go dig a ditch. What looks like a rolled-up yoga mat is hanging from his back by a strap.

That doesn’t look like a guy trying to impress anyone. Although, he doesn’t have to do much to be impressive.
 

She eyes the mat and thinks, I refuse to do yoga in the woods. And with only one mat …

He takes her by the hand. They lightly run along the edge of the corral. Tall, wild grass wets the top of her calves. He finds a copse of pines, a finger of which reaches into a dense tangle of brush. He threads his way deeper, somehow avoiding anything that scratches. A break in the foliage provides enough space to breathe. It’s sandy here, with all sorts of detritus. She can’t imagine he’ll take her to the ground …

“So?” she asks.

“You’re okay with this?”

“Yeah …”

He pulls her close so that they’re nose-to-nose. “This is fun.”

He places the mat on the ground and unrolls it. He kneels on one end and sits Indian style. He signals for her to do the same.
 

“So …” he manages. The whites of his eyes glow; moonlight glints off his teeth. The rest of him is an inky smear.
 

“So …” she echoes.

“I guess you can start.”

What
?

“The ritual?” she asks.

“I read about it in that book. I’m up for it.” He tilts his head. “Hey, you didn’t bring anything.”

“Was I supposed to?”

“Well … uh … it said something about a goblet and wine. We drink from the cup, mumble some words. I thought … you knew about this.”

Josie breathes a sigh of relief tinged with an ache of regret. This was to be nothing more than a simple ritual, after all. “Sorry, I lied. I have no idea what joining is. My bet is it has to do with some silly reproductive rite symbolized in some way.”

Lennox chuckles. “So … you thought we were coming out here to …?”

“A girl can dream,” she says with enough sarcasm to put him in his place

She hopes he buys it, but can’t tell.

“Oh, well,” he says. He pulls something from his shorts pocket. She sees a flame from a lighter. He puts it to his face and lights a joint, the red tip glowing amber in the darkness. “Want some?”

She takes a hit, holds it in her lungs, and slowly exhales. She’s not much of a pot smoker. Never buys the stuff. She won’t turn down a few hits here-and-there, though. Something about the calming effect of the plant switches off the overly analytical part of her mind. That’s a good thing because right now she’s oscillating between mentally kicking herself and running away in embarrassment. Hiding her crush has been a drag. Besides, he’s always known. Heck, most women who meet him have a crush on him. The way he’s handling her means he’s cool with it.
 

“We can research the ritual later, try again, or just say we’re joined,” he says. “Two witches against the world.”

“You’re still married, Lennox.”

“I’ll do something about that eventually. She’s got me good, though.”

“Nothing you can do now?”

“I have a client base in California that’s a who’s who of the entertainment industry. I can’t mention names but I’ve healed actors who’ve blown their knees in the middle of production, sports stars injured before big events, even a director with kidney stones so bad he was going to be out for two weeks. It’s always mechanical issues. Something I can do without too much down time.”

“You suffer?”

He takes another hit and offers it to her. “Can’t get out of bed sometimes.”

“You’re dedicated.”

“They pay.”

“Looks like we’re both trying to make use of our skills.”

“My wife’s lifestyle is the beneficiary. You’re trying to do something for this place. I think that’s great.”

“Thanks.”

“I think you’re great.”

Josie accepts the joint and takes a long toke to delay a hurried response that may embarrass her. Like, I love you, I love you, I love you. Take me away with you. I’ll have your babies, as many as you want.
 

“Yeah, well, you’re swell too.”

“When this gets settled,” he says. “I hope you and I can … still be friends.”

Lennox douses the joint with his fingers, then helps her to her feet. He leads her out of the woods and back to the mansion, not saying a word. They sneak back in, undetected. He hugs her once before he heads to his room. He leaves her in a narrow corridor more confused than before. Josie lets a small squeal of frustration escape her lips. She holds back the tears as she walks to her room. She had thought that the night would end differently.

PART THREE

JOSIE AWAKES TO MORNING SUNSHINE pouring into her room … and Christine banging on her door, telling her to wake up and to get downstairs.

“ … Stella’s here and she wants to see you.”

Josie lingers as she brushes her teeth. She ties her hair up with a few clips before sauntering down. She prepares herself for more drama—not that she’s done anything wrong except hope Lennox might choose her. Well, that, and the pretend spell.

Josie finds Stella in the den. She’s crying. Her hair is in a tangle. Her face is bare of makeup. Her eyes are puffy, and so are her cheeks. She’s also wearing what looks like a twenty-year-old, high-school sweat shirt and mismatching sweat pants.

“You two need to talk,” Christine says. She’s dressed for work in a pressed skirt suit. She gives Josie a wink, then hurries for the door. “The men should be down soon. Roxy will have cards on them later today. Until then, improvise. Oh, and see what you can you do about Mr. Dooley. He’s not working out now, is he?”

Christine shuts the front door behind her.

Josie wants to sneak away to the kitchen for coffee and maybe some eggs and bacon. But Stella’s breakdown means something has obviously happened.

“Are you okay?” Josie asks.

“He doesn’t love me.” Stella sobs, wiping her nose with her sleeve. “He doesn’t.” Her chest heaves a few times. “He hates me.”

“Sometimes—”

“He told me he wants a divorce.” Stella looks up, as if she might cling to Josie for her life. “Can you help? Please, something … stronger than whatever he’s on.” She looks around to make sure no one is listening. “I need a love potion. Please, a real one. Roxy said you have one.”

“I don’t do that,” Josie says matter-of-factly. “Roxy …!”
 

The imagined love potion always comes up when people learn what she does. She explains that she has her principles about enslaving men—unlike Roxy, who would misuse such a tool. Josie hasn’t quite worked out her philosophy like her grandmother. Love is a difficult thing. In the easiest of cases, she can point a waning lover in the right direction. The strongest magics, though, that promise true love with a look in a mirror, or a kiss, or a glance, those are dangerous, as grandmother liked to say, because they destroy a person’s autonomy. Josie was taught to be careful crossing those boundaries. Giving someone a gentle push or providing a lasting reminder is one thing. Turning them into human clockwork, quite another.

“Please,” Stella says. “I’ve made a sizable donation to the Birchall Foundation. I need him … to love me.”

Josie is confused to see genuine concern in Stella’s face. This doesn’t look like someone who wants Lennox for his money or the lifestyle he provides. Somewhere behind the shallow facade of Stella Spivey is the pain of an unloved woman.

“I can’t make him love you …”

Lady Dooley appears in the vestibule. The high priestess is dressed in a summer bonnet tied under her chin. She’s wearing a happy multicolored shirt and pastel trousers cut at the calves, probably bought at Talbots by a servant and rushed here. She looks like she’ll be taking a walk at some point.

“I have my ways, Mrs. Bran, so don’t ask, but I know what you were up to last night.” Josie watches the older witch walk into the den. “I’ve explained to Stella what your husband wanted to do with you. It’s in that book he left in his bedroom. I have an idea what she’s doing with him, so don’t try to use that against me. My god daughter is careless.”
 

Stella moves away from Josie, finally recovering some composure.
 

Lady Dooley stands over Josie. “You, sweet sunshine, will make him pliable, make that upstart male witch, a bending reed to be used as Stella wishes, or I’ll shut you down.” She scans the room, as if she approves of modern items like the TV and the home theater system. “I can imagine what Birchall might be if you’re successful.” She straightens, lifts her chin, and puckers her lips, a fourth-grade teacher about to lay down the law. “My husband, of course, can stay here as long as he likes. Don’t return him to me unless he’s as sweet as a lamb.”

She eyes Josie once as if that alone might whip her into shape.
 

The veteran grand dame pivots on her heel as if nothing troubles her and exits through the front door.

Stella wipes the last of her tears. “You better help me. I imagine you know what he is.” Stella edges across the couch, sliding like a wounded predator ready for a last strike. “If I can’t have him, no one will. Please understand that’s not a threat.” Josie can see it very much is a threat. “It’s … an example of my devotion.” The psychosis hiding behind the woman’s eyes becomes clear, like a thing with razor teeth and crooked claws. Stella is straight-out, bat-split crazy, and she’s admitting it with this faux I-love-him-so-much-I’ll-kill-him-but-I-won’t-really routine. “Make him love me, Josie Bran. Really love me.”
 

* * *

Josie spends the rest of the day in meetings with Mr. Dooley’s buddies in crime. All divorcés, each one an interesting case demonstrating that Husband Rehab might be more difficult than she thought.
 

There’s big Buckston Polk and his inability to keep a wife. Wife three, the one he wants back, tired of his workaholic ways a few years after they married. He still appears to think that work is where the heart should be. It’s a complex problem but probably solvable. Hank LaFayette is a sweet man who must have started losing his marbles years ago. His wife of twenty years moved out when his hoarding meant she couldn’t stroll through her own house without stepping on something. That one may be a case for Christine. And there’s Cory Pepper, a high-school science teacher, elder in his church, married for thirty years until the kids went to college and his devoted wife left him for a female Thai yoga instructor. That one might be difficult, if not impossible. Mr. Pepper said he doesn’t think there’s any hope. He’s just happy to be spending time with Mr. Dooley.

Josie thinks she can brew something for each of them, even before seeing their cards, to make some improvement. The fact that Lennox is on her mind the entire time means she spends most of the afternoon in her workroom fiddling, instead of brewing. She should wait until she peers into the magic cards to see the men in action. She also has Mr. Dooley’s miscast spell to consider, although that can wait.