Little Gale Gumbo (10 page)

No, he wasn't like the innkeeper. His sensitivity was real.

“How much is it?” she asked.

Dahlia and Josie disappeared into the bedroom, their high voices blending with excitement at the view of the ocean from their very own turret window.

 

The sisters met Matthew that afternoon when he came home from school. It was Dahlia who encountered him first, having discovered his failing orchid in the living room window and deciding it had to be moved at once.

“Hey!” Matthew dropped his books into the wing chair and charged across the room, grabbing the shiny pot from Dahlia's hands. “What do you think you're doing?” he demanded, setting the orchid gently back on the sill.

“It's getting too much light,” Dahlia said flatly, and without even a hint of apology in her voice. “Orchids like filtered light.”

“How would you know?”

“And I can tell you aren't misting it, either.” She bent down for a closer look. “The roots are soaking wet and the leaves are like cardboard. You only wet the roots when they're bone-dry. Otherwise, you should just be misting it regularly.”

“Who are you?”

“I live here.”

Matthew snorted, the idea preposterous. “Since when?”

“Since an hour ago. My mother just rented the apartment for me and my sister.”

Matthew swallowed, having calmed down enough now to study her at last, and deciding she was awfully interesting-looking, and tall. Maybe too tall. She was actually as tall as he was, and worse, she wasn't even wearing shoes, he realized, glimpsing her long, wiggling toes.

“You should let me keep this in my room for a while,” Dahlia said. “I know a ton about plants. I could bring it back for you.”

“Bring it back?” Matthew crossed his arms. “What are you talking about? It's fine.”

“It's not fine. It won't survive the winter, let alone the week.”

“Where's my dad?”

“How the hell should I know?”

“Dahl?”

Matthew turned to see a slight, red-haired girl in the doorway, her pale skin sprinkled with freckles.

“Dahl, Momma's been looking for you,” Josie said softly, her eyes darting back and forth between the two of them, her lips lifting each time her gaze landed on Matthew. “Hello.”

“That's Josie,” Dahlia said. “My younger sister.”

Matthew frowned at them. Sisters? They didn't look a thing alike.

“It's Jose
phine
,” Josie corrected proudly, blushing as she did. “And I'm barely younger. Only by fourteen months.”

Matthew turned back to Dahlia. “What kind of name is Dahl?”

“It's short for Dahlia,” Josie said, walking toward them.

“Dahlia.” Matthew frowned, hardly satisfied. “What kind of name is that?”

Ben appeared in the doorway then, a woman at his side.

“Matthew, this is Mrs. Camille Bergeron. I was just giving her a tour of the house. She and her daughters will be living with us now.”

Matthew glanced to Dahlia, her smug smile unbearable.

Beside her, Josie beamed.

 

“What are they doing here, anyway?” Matthew demanded later that night, keeping his father company on the kitchen floor while Ben finished the repair he'd been pulled away from that morning. “And where's their father? Why isn't he here too?”

“I have no idea,” Ben said, crawling deeper under the sink, “but it's none of our business. Hand me the wrench.”

Matthew picked the wrench out of the toolbox beside him and pressed it into his father's outstretched fingers. “The older one thinks she's smarter than everyone else.”

Ben grinned as he widened the mouth of the wrench. “Maybe she is.”

“I suppose they're going to want to go to school, huh?”

“Well, of course. Raise the light a little bit, will you?”

Matthew repointed the flashlight into the cabinet, frowning at his father's outstretched legs, the scuffed bottoms of his shoes.

“They're really different, aren't they, Pop?”

“Maybe so,” Ben said quietly, smiling as he twisted the wrench around the stubborn joint. “Maybe so.”

 

Camille dropped the rag into the bucket and looked out onto the gleaming floors of her new living room. She smiled, pleased. It was a good start, but if she intended to work spells in their new home, she'd need more than just the protection of a salt-and-pepper floor wash. The space would need to be cleared out and made sacred. There was no telling what sort of negative energy might still live in these walls.

She turned to the bedroom door. It was as good a time as any, she decided, as she collected the last of her tools from the kitchen and lit a pair of white candles. For years Josie had been begging to learn the spells, and for years Camille had gently deferred her daughter's fervent requests, knowing how much Charles detested Voodoo, and knowing the wrath she'd face for sharing her beliefs. But no more. From now on she would do as she pleased. From now on her daughter would learn to protect herself as Camille had learned from
her
mother.

She came into the bedroom and gently woke Josie. Her younger daughter stirred, blinking in a confused panic, her cheeks rosy from sleep.

“What's wrong, Momma?”

“Nothing's wrong, baby girl,” Camille whispered, smoothing the tangled hair out of Josie's face and taking her small hand. “I just need your help, that's all. Careful walking; the floor's slick.”

Josie squinted through the candlelight as she followed her mother into the living room, but as soon as she saw the sage bundle and the bottle of Florida water on the table, Josie's bleary eyes widened, suddenly alert.

Camille picked up a book of matches. “Since it's our first night in our new house, I thought it was the perfect time for a cleansing.”

Josie looked back to the bedroom. “What about Dahlia?” she asked.

Camille smiled. “Don't worry about your sister. She'll have her chance.”

Josie nodded, but they both knew that day wasn't likely; Dahlia had no patience for Voodoo.

“Now, first we light the sage.”

Josie watched, enthralled, as her mother held up the herb bundle and lit it, the leaves crackling as they burned. After a moment, Camille blew out the flame. The tip smoked, a luxurious silver ribbon.

She carried the bundle into the kitchen doorway, making circles with the smoke.

“The first thing we do is offer the smoke to the spirits, Josephine. We ask them to empty the space of all negative energy.” Josie trailed her mother across the room. Camille continued. “You must always visualize your desire, baby girl. No matter what it is you are wishing for, see it in your mind. Use the candle flames to help you find and keep your focus. Your spell is only as strong as your desire. Understand?”

Josie nodded quickly, urgently, fixing her gaze on the pair of candles that burned on the table. Camille turned the bundle to Josie, just enough so that her daughter would move through the smoke. “This is called smudging,” she said. “It seals your wish. And you must always draw your circles clockwise, toward the future.”

Josie nodded again, her lips moving as she repeated her mother's instructions to herself. Clockwise. Always clockwise.

When the bundle had ceased to smoke, Camille set it in a saucer, picked up the bottle of Florida water, and sprinkled it liberally throughout the room. Josie followed her mother from one corner to another, inhaling deeply, remembering when she'd first asked why they called it Florida water. Camille had explained that it was once a popular cologne before becoming the Voodoo holy water, and that the original bottles had a picture of the Fountain of Youth on their label, which was believed to be in Florida. Josie had always loved the water's sweet, citrusy smell, even before she'd known what it was. It was her mother's scent: lemon and clove, a touch of cinnamon, and a hint of rose. Josie had sworn she could recall the smell of it even before she could walk, but Dahlia had told her that was impossible.

“Almost done.” Camille set the bottle of Florida water back on the table and lit incense; then she took Josie's hands in hers and looked out at the room. The room seemed different somehow, Josie thought. Bigger. Brighter. Warmer.

Camille smiled. “Now there's only one thing left to say, Josephine. Do you know what that is?”

Josie knew. She had heard her mother utter the words so many times, sometimes under her breath, other times, when their father wasn't around, shockingly clear.

Josie smiled proudly and lifted her face to the ceiling.

“Blessed be,” she said, then again, louder, “Blessed be.”

Nine

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ben was behind the house splitting wood when Camille found him the next morning. She waited until he was at the end of his swing before she called out into the chilled air, waving with her free hand, the other hand growing numb as she clenched the collar of her coat around her throat.

“Good morning!”

Startled, Ben lowered his ax, wondering how long she had been standing there.

He nodded. “Morning.”

“I was hoping you could tell me where the market is,” she said.

Ben laid his ax over the flat top of his chopping log, flexing his stiff fingers inside his thick gloves. He couldn't imagine she planned to go into town dressed that way, but then, she and the girls had only just come from New Orleans. He thought at once of the swollen boxes of Matthew's old coats and sweaters collecting dust in the attic.

“It's not too far,” he said, pointing her to the front of the house. “Just follow this street to Pine. Take a left and you'll hit Main. Larson's Grocery is just a few blocks down.”

“Wonderful,” she said, then laughed. “If I go too long without cooking, I get the most awful headaches!”

Ben had to wonder how she could be so bright and cheery when she must have been freezing, her breath swirling into thin ribbons around her face, his own pouring out like chimney smoke.

“Can I get you anything while I'm there, Mr. Haskell?” she asked.

“No. Thank you.”

Ben reached down to the pile for a fresh log and stood it on the chopping block, glancing up as Camille returned to the path, her peasant skirt held high as she took her first careful steps down the slick, frost-covered gravel. He could already imagine the bewildered looks on the islanders' chapped faces when she walked into Larson's musty little store. Not to mention the gossip that would surely follow.

He drew up his ax, not even sure she was still within earshot when he said, “You can call me Ben, if you want.”

Camille turned and smiled. “I think I'd rather call you Benjamin.”

 

“What the hell do people eat here?” Dahlia asked, following Camille and Josie as they wandered down narrow rows of canned goods, paper products, and frozen foods.

“Dahlia Rose, please lower your voice,” Camille instructed coolly, her bracelets jingling against the cart as she pushed. “I'm sure there are plenty of delicious things to eat here.”

“You mean like
this
?” Dahlia held up a can labeled HASH and laughed. “It looks like dog food.”

“That's enough, young lady. Put it back and keep your opinions to yourself.”

“That'll be the day,” whispered Josie. “So do you suppose lobsters taste just like crawfish?”

“I don't know,” Dahlia said. “Why don't you go find one and ask it?”

“So long as I'm cooking, we'll eat what we always eat,” Camille assured them, looking up to meet the narrowed gaze of a bearded man across the aisle, his eyes dropping quickly. She took a bag of rice and moved them forward.

“Well, I don't care what they eat,” Josie said. “I like it here. And I like Mr. Haskell and Matthew too. I think Matthew has the most beautiful eyes.”

“They're both lovely people,” Camille said, drawing down three bags of dried beans and tossing them into their cart. “In fact, I was just thinking we should invite them to dinner tonight.”

“Oh, can we please?” Josie pulled at her mother's sleeve, her voice breathless with excitement. “You could make jambalaya!”

“I could,” Camille said.

Dahlia frowned. “Tonight? But we just got here.”

“Exactly,” said Camille. “It's never too early to get off on the right foot with new friends.” She stopped at the end of the aisle and squinted down the length of the store. “Now, where do you suppose these poor cold people keep their hot sauce?”