“Uh-huh. We’ll see. Until then, why don’t get back to picking weeds.” She snickers as she pushes off her chair and strides into the house, slamming the screen door.
Ignoring her, I walk back down the path to join Miss Delia. She’s staring at the trimmed bearberry bush from under the wide brim of her straw hat. “You cut an awful lot of that plant. Too much in my estimation.”
Biting my lip, I glance at what’s left of the evergreen dotted with tiny pink, pear-shaped flowers that smell like green tea. “You think?”
She levels her gaze at me. “I wouldn’t have said anything if I didn’t.”
“It was overgrown, so I cut it back. Was that okay?”
She narrows her lid over her good eye. “I suppose so. Though I don’t generally like taking more than I need at any one time.”
Which explains why the garden is so, shall we say, abundant. But she needn’t worry, because after I grind some of the bearberry into a powder for her, I’ll be using every last leaf for a special tea I’m planning to brew to help boost my energy and make conjuring a lot easier.
I just can’t let Miss Delia know. At least not yet.
She hates shortcuts. Knowing her, this tea of mine will definitely qualify as one, but after the simple Protective Shield left me as drained as an empty bathtub, I can’t imagine what’ll happen when I conjure something really big. Say for instance, a spell to save Cooper’s soul.
So rather than wait to be sucked dry the next time, I’m taking matters into my own hands, using her spell book and ingredient list to concoct my own formula to build up my reserves. Which, I think is pretty darn brilliant. The magic gets the energy it needs to work, and I get to stay conscious. Win-win.
Miss Delia stiffens in her chair. Her jaw tenses as her eyes search the yard, gazing past the bottle tree to the road beyond. “Something’s coming, Emma. Best watch yourself.”
A split second later, thick gray clouds roll in, darkening the sky. A cool breeze whips through the clearing, rushing over the bottles dangling from the live oak, creating a low moan. Dread creeps over my skin like a colony of ants. I’m not sure whether to freeze in place or run and hide.
A car engine roars in the distance. The sound grows louder as it nears. Moments later, a shiny black sedan rumbles around the curve in the road. The extra-wide tires chew up the vegetation on the lane leading to Miss Delia’s house. Pulling up past the bottle tree, it stops at the foot of the path. I squint hard at the vintage Lincoln. Could it be the same one Taneea climbed into last week? It’s similar, but I honestly can’t tell because I didn’t look at the other one all that closely.
The engine continues to rattle so loud it vibrates my chest. I’m not the only one affected by the sound. A flock of tiny birds cheep amid the branches of the live oak, then scatter into the wind. Peering into the darkened glass, I try to make out who’s driving, but it’s impossible to see. After a long few moments, the motor finally cuts off.
The driver’s side door opens. One black boot emerges, followed by the other. A second later, a short, rail-thin man with chocolate-brown skin exits the car wearing a pitch-black suit and blue-framed sunglasses. He’s not old but he’s not young either, though I’d guess he’s probably about my dad’s age. Grasping a dark leather briefcase, he shuts the door with a thud, then smiles, revealing two rows of arctic-white teeth.
My stomach twists. Breathing deep through my nose, I work to compose myself, not knowing what’s going on, but somehow realizing I’ve got to keep my cool.
“Show no fear,” Miss Delia mutters under her breath. Clutching the armrests on her chair, she gazes at her visitor.
He nods. “Good day, ma’am. I’m looking for Mrs. Whittaker.” His accent is southern, but he’s not from South Carolina. Maybe from somewhere in the Deep South, though it’s hard to pinpoint where.
“You found her. Though it’s Miss. Hasn’t been Mrs. for a long time.” Her voice is low and gravelly.
His narrow chest expands. “I’m Claude Corbeau. Might I come up your walk?” There’s a hint of the bayou in his speech, though it’s gone almost as quick as I hear it. But there’s no mistaking the strained formality of his words, as if he’s trying to hide his true roots and come off as something he’s not.
“Depends. What are you selling?”
“Oh nothing, I assure you. I’m merely here on a social call.” He turns his eyes toward me. “And who might you be?”
My mouth opens to answer but my throat is suddenly as dry as a cotton boll and my tongue as heavy as lead.
“She helps tend my garden. And she’s none of your concern.” Miss Delia yawns, patting her open mouth with her wrinkled hand. “I’m afraid I’m not up for a visit this afternoon. You know how us old folk need our naps. Perhaps you ought to come back another day.”
His smile slips just for a second, but he quickly recovers. “I promise this won’t take long.”
Taneea opens the screen door and saunters out onto the porch. She’s changed into a black corset top and a black miniskirt. “Whew, thank goodness the sun’s gone away. Though knowing my luck, it’ll probably only last a few minutes.” She brushes her bangs off her face. “Well, hello, sir.” Her voice is high and flirty.
Miss Delia’s face hardens. “Taneea, could you fetch me a glass of sweet tea? I’m mighty thirsty.” Her eyes stay trained on Mr. Corbeau. I glance at the table next to her wheelchair. Her glass is still full.
“You’ve got plenty of tea, Great-gran.” Taneea steps off the porch in a pair of black peep-toe sandals.
“I suppose I do,” Miss Delia answers without taking her eyes off her visitor.
“You going to introduce me to our guest?” Taneea asks.
Mr. Corbeau beams. “Well hello—Taneea, was it? You can call me Claude. Clearly, you’re a young Ms. Whittaker. I can see the obvious resemblance.”
Is he blind? They might be related but they look nothing alike.
Claude turns his attention to Miss Delia. “Lord, you must have been a gorgeous woman in your prime.” He whistles.
Mrs. Delia crosses her arms. “Sweetmouthing me won’t get you very far, Mr. Corbeau. How about you tell me the reason you’ve come to call?” Her lips mash into a thin line.
He stands on the edge of the garden. “Is that an invitation? It’s so much easier to speak face-to-face than shout across your lustrous garden.”
“Sure, come on up,” Taneea answers before her great-grandmother has a chance to say a word.
Quick as lightning, Claude opens the gate on the picket fence then bounds up the walkway, almost a skip in his step.
Miss Delia’s gnarled hands tighten into liver-spotted balls. She shoots me a cautionary glance. This is where I’m supposed to use that strength she warned me about. Against what I’m not sure, but I breathe deep and brace myself just the same.
Approaching the chair, Claude extends his arm toward Miss Delia, a stiff, ivory-colored business card wedged between his first two fingers. “I appreciate you agreeing to my visit on such short notice.”
“You mean no notice.” Miss Delia doesn’t reach for his card.
He pauses, taking her in. “Yes, coming unannounced is unforgivably rude. But given your reputation for generosity, I thought you’d find in your heart to be hospitable.” He shoves the card in my direction.
Huh? What the heck is he talking about? I glance at the embossed print on the thick card stock. A surge of electricity zips up my limbs. “You’re from the King Center?” The words blurt from my suddenly unfrozen mouth.
He turns his head in my direction. “I just started actually. Are you familiar with the organization?”
I nod. “Y-yes.” Only too well.