Jessica
Grow basil in a pot inside thy home to promote prosperity and keep thy lover true. Use its leaves to thicken pottage stew.
Goody Fletcher, Book of Useful Household Tips
I did, in fact, go home and bone Derrick’s brains out. Or at least I tried to. When I woke up the next morning, his side of my bed was empty.
If he was able to put his clothes back on and leave, he probably still had some brain cells left.
Plus I saw that the clothes he’d put on were his running gear. If he was out exercising, I definitely hadn’t fulfilled my duties.
But that was the least of my problems, it turned out. The reason I woke up was the insistent beep beep beep of a truck reversing in front of my house.
I live on a small street, so it’s not like we get that much traffic.
And having lived there most of my life, I of course knew everything about my neighbors. So I knew it was highly unusual for any of them to get a delivery they hadn’t told me about in advance.
So of course I leaped from the bed—disturbing Pye, who was curled at the end of it—and ran to the window.
I don’t think I could describe my shock at seeing a bright blue Mini Cooper Electric Hardtop being unloaded from an open car hauler that had the Hopkins Motors logo written across the side. There was a large white bow on the roof of the car.
“What the—”
Billy had promised me a loaner. But he’d never said he was delivering it. He’d said I should stop by to pick it up.
Flinging on a robe and a pair of boots, I hurried downstairs and threw open the front door just as a man with a clipboard in his hand was about to knock on it.
“Oh, hey, there,” he said, affably. “You Jessica Gold?”
“Yes.”
I could see that behind him, my neighbors were already gathering at the edge of their yards, some brandishing rakes to make it look as if they had a reason to be outside at such an early hour on such a chilly October morning. But most hadn’t bothered, and were simply holding mugs of steaming coffee in their hands, enjoying the show.
“Car for you.” The man handed me the clipboard and a pen. “You need to sign for it.”
“I think there’s been a mistake.” But there it was: a bill of sale signed by William Walker, CFO of Hopkins Motors, listing the car as having been paid in full. “I was supposed to come to the lot and borrow a car—”
“This ain’t a loaner,” the man said with a chuckle. “It’s for you to keep, soon as you sign for it.” He indicated where my signature was needed, down at the bottom, beneath Billy’s. Like someone in a dream, I signed. “That’s good. And on the next page, too.”
“That’s why I think there’s been a mistake,” I prattled on. “I haven’t bought a new car. Billy Walker said that Hopkins Motors was going to fix my old car.”
“Well, I guess it couldn’t be fixed.” The tag on the man’s coveralls said that his name was Earl. Pye seemed to like him—though Pye liked almost everyone—since he was rubbing his head against Earl’s legs. “’Cause he got you a whole new car instead. Even the taxes been paid. Mr. Walker told me to tell you that all you need to do is have a charging station installed, and call your insurance company to add this car to your policy. Oh, and I’m supposed to give you these.”
Earl reached into the pocket of his coveralls, then withdrew an envelope and set of keys, both of which he dropped into my hand.
“But . . .” I stared down at the items in my hand. “Sir . . . I don’t—”
It was too late. Earl waved away my protests. He ambled back to his truck, climbed in, and drove away, leaving the Mini gleaming in my driveway beside Derrick’s beat-up rental car, and Pye meowing after him in farewell.
“Uh,” I said, looking down at the keys. What was happening?
I assumed that as owner—co-owner—of Hopkins Motors, Billy got a significant discount on the cars he sold.
But even so. This was ridiculous.
“Isn’t your birthday in February?” my neighbor Annalise asked, as she sipped her coffee. Annalise and her husband, Ronnie, had lived next door since before I was born. They knew everything about me, except of course the most important thing, that I was a witch.
“It is,” I said.
“So why is Billy Walker giving you a new car when it’s not even your birthday?”
“That’s a good question.” I tore open the envelope Earl had left me.
Inside was a card with a gold rose on the front. When I opened it, I was flabbergasted to see only two words, scrawled in bubbly cursive, followed by a single letter.
I’m sorry.
R.
Rosalie. It was the same card that had been inside the basket of muffins she’d given me (and that I’d thrown into a dumpster behind Office Depot yesterday on my way into work, even before I’d known they were love muffins. No animals or freegans were likely to find and ingest them there).
But why would Rosalie be apologizing to me? And why would she give me a car—or rather, force her husband to?
“It sure is pretty,” remarked Val, who was retired from the post office.
“Yes,” I said. It was a pretty car. Prettier than Bluebell by a mile. And much more energy efficient. “But I can’t possibly keep it.”
“Why not?” Val shrugged. “Take that boy for all he’s worth.”
The rest of my neighbors nodded in agreement. Although it had been more than ten years earlier, all of them seemed to remember Billy’s screaming of my name outside my bedroom window late at night when I’d refused to come down.
Awkward that none of them had thought to call the police or even tell my parents about it at the time.
Oh, well.
I heard the steady slap of footsteps, and looked up from the car to see Derrick running down my street. On such a chilly gray October morning, with his long blond hair, silver eyes, and wide shoulders, he looked like a Viking racing through the mist across a battlefield, toward his ladylove.
I won’t lie: it was hot.
My neighbors must have thought the same thing, since when Derrick reached me, panting and sweaty, and bent to kiss my cheek, I saw all of them smile, even grumpy Val.
“Good morning,” Derrick said. “Is everything all right?”
I could see why he’d ask. I was standing outside in my robe. He must have thought his Nordic protection spell had failed, and some kind of supernatural threat had forced me from the house while he’d been out running.
But all of my neighbors only nodded their heads. Everything was all right.
Then Derrick’s gaze fell on the car. “Where did this come from?”
“Where do you think?” I showed him Rosalie’s card.
He raised an eyebrow while reading it, then took a swig from the battered metal water bottle he carried when he ran. “How unexpectedly generous of her.”
“Isn’t it?” I glanced back at my neighbors, all of whom were still watching us with rapt attention.
But when they saw my gaze swing their way, they pretended to be busy doing something else, now that Derrick was around. Val went back to raking, and Annalise suddenly had an important text in her phone that needed her attention.
“Maybe,” I said, “we should talk about this inside.”
“Yeah.” Derrick gave the car an appreciative sweep with his hand, admiring its smooth curves. “Let’s do that.”
“See you later,” I said to my neighbors, who all called cheerful goodbyes back to me and returned to their pretend yard work.
No sooner had I shut the door behind us and spun around to tell Derrick what a duplicitous piece of garbage Rosalie was—because I didn’t for a second believe that her gift hadn’t come with some kind of strings attached, or at least faulty brake lines— than I found that he’d stripped off his shirt and was headed for my washer/dryer, which were located in the mudroom.
“What . . .” It was difficult for me to concentrate on my outrage over Rosalie’s blatant attempt to manipulate me when there was a half-naked man striding through my living room.
“Yes?” He paused to sit on one of my dining room chairs to pull off his running shoes.
“I mean, it’s not like she can just give me a car and think I’m going to forgive her.”
“Of course not.” His socks came off next.
“It’s probably booby-trapped in some way. Like when I go down a hill, the transmission will burst into flames and I’ll crash into the Sound and drown.”
He cocked his head thoughtfully. “I don’t think so. Because number one, that isn’t how transmissions work, and number two, that would reflect badly on Hopkins Motors. And if Rosalie is anything, it’s proud of her family name.”
“Okay, but—I can’t just accept it. With my history with Billy, it wouldn’t be right.”
“After the way Rosalie has treated you,” he said, standing up, “I think it’s more than right. I think you not only can’t turn it down, you deserve it.”
Then he pulled his joggers down. Beneath them he was only wearing a pair of briefs. A very tight pair of briefs, which he casually peeled off as he spoke and tossed into the washer.
“Why don’t we take a shower together,” he suggested, “then get changed and take the car for a test-drive over to Wake Up West Harbor for breakfast? Then you can decide.”
What magic was this? I wondered, as I found myself nodding and then heading toward the stairs with him, as if he were a lighthouse and I was some storm-tossed vessel, allowing him to lead me to the safety of shore?
But of course the witch in me knew it wasn’t magic at all. It was him.
And that might have been more frightening—and yet exciting—than any enchantment.