At the Corner of King Street (27 page)

I dropped the key in the small bottle and sprinkled more rose petals on top of it. When the bottle was filled, I sealed it and lowered it into the larger jar.

“What do you wish for, Daisy?” Margaret asked as she sealed her small bottle.

“I wish to hold on to what I have.” She circled the top of the unsealed bottle, summoning her wish. “And I would like to be friends with my birth mother.”

“That's important to you?” I asked. “I kinda remember Mrs. McCrae as being really great.”

“She's a great mom. She
is
Mom. But Terry is a part of me, and I feel . . . I don't know . . . whole, when we talk or communicate.”

Whatever happened with Carrie, I knew that I'd somehow be in her life. She needed a solid connection to the Morgans and Shires. We would communicate, so if the time came when she needed my help, I could give it. “Does she want to be close to you?”

“Sort of. She answers my questions without me pestering her. But we aren't really close.” She shuddered out a breath. “Someone else answer the question before I get emotional.”

Rachel glanced into her bottle filled with rose petals, a ring, herbs, and pieces of paper filled with rolled-up wishes. “I want a life filled with love.”

“I love you, Mommy,” Anna said.

Rachel smiled. “And I love you, too, baby. I'm talking about a grown-up kind of love.”

Ellie grimaced. “Like kissing boys.”

She laughed. “Yes.”

“I want to be tall,” Anna said. Her voice carried a weight and power that belied her petite frame. Judging by her mother's size, she'd be lucky to top five foot one.

Ellie sprinkled glitter in her jar. “I want to fly like a butterfly.”

Margaret sipped her beer. “I want a really fast metabolism and to have long legs.”

We all laughed as I stared into my bottle.

“Addie, spill. What do you want?” Margaret asked.

As much as I hated Mom's and Janet's mood swings and their disease, they shared a connection. But I was the odd man out. The one who ruined the party. Even with Scott, there were brief moments when I sensed we were running alongside each other. Very, very close, to be sure, but not quite touching. Not quite connected enough for me to tell the whole truth.

I held up my bottle. “I want a normal life.”

“Is that it?” Margaret asked.

A smile tweaked the edges of my lips. “That's a lot for me.”

Margaret looked ready to argue but instead held up a bottle of wine. “You can also fill your bottle with wine. You being on a vineyard and all that kinda makes sense. However, I'm refilling my glass with wine.”

I glanced toward the bottle, half full with wine. Margaret and Rachel filled their larger bottles with water and though it made sense for me to use the wine, I realized I was making this bottle not just for me, but also for Carrie. I wanted to feel connected. And I wanted her to feel a connection as well.

She would never be a part of the vineyard. This, I knew. And so I reached for the water that reminded me of the Potomac River. The Chesapeake Bay. The ocean. All would carry her to a great future. To happiness. To a life far and free of the curse.

The waters crested the top of the second bottle. I sprinkled in glitter and sealed the top. I would bury this at the warehouse, Carrie's first home.

By the time we cleaned up the table and readied to say our good nights, it was after nine. The girls were tired and fussing that they didn't need to go to sleep as Rachel led them up the back staircase to their second-floor apartment. Walker had fallen asleep on Daisy's
shoulder and Carrie was again in the front pack, cradled close to my body and sleeping.

“Thanks again,” I said to Margaret and Daisy. “It was fun.”

“We'll do it again,” Daisy said. “Don't be a stranger.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I said. Who knew if we would keep to our promises, but it made sense in the moment to pretend.

As I walked the street with Carrie, I held the witch bottle in my hand. In the moonlight, I walked to the alley behind the warehouse and found a patch of dirt not covered with asphalt. The day's heat cooled and the evening breeze smelled of sweet grass promises. Carefully, I squatted, and keeping a supporting hand on Carrie's bottom, I found a stick and dug a small hole next to the warehouse foundation. The ground was hard, brittle, and resistant to my digging. But I was suddenly determined to see this through and kept chipping away at the soil. Finally, when the hole was deep enough, I set the bottle into it.

“To be normal,” I whispered.

Carefully, I covered the bottle with the cracked, dried dirt and then patted the earth with my hand. “To feel connected.”

Rising, I tamped the dirt mound with my foot and then moved out of the alley and around the corner to the front door.

A dog's loud, deep bark cut through the darkness and I turned to see Zeb step from the shadows, holding a leash and restraining Shep, the golden retriever. “Addie?”

His face cast in shadows, he looked different. Darker. More intense. “What are you doing?”

The beer had left me a bit light-headed, enough to explain the witch bottle, but somehow I couldn't bring myself to share something so silly. “Carrie and I were up at the Union Street Bakery. Kinda a girls night out. Now we're just enjoying the evening breeze. I forgot how pretty it is here at night.”

“It's beautiful.” His voice sounded rough as his gaze held mine. “The baby's all right?”

I rubbed the top of Carrie's head. “Yes. She's fine. Sleeping. Where's Eric?”

“At my mom's. Sleepover.”

The dog barked and tugged on the leash.

“I'm glad to see Shep again. Why did you get a dog?”

Zeb gently tugged on the dog's collar until he heeled. “Eric wanted a dog. In a moment of weakness, I said yes.”

Shep glanced up at Zeb, sensing he was the topic of conversation. He barked and wagged his tail.

“He's cute,” I said.

“He's a good dog.” No missing the affection in Zeb's voice.

Relaxed and oddly at peace, I enjoyed the play of moonlight adding depth to the creases and edges of Zeb's face. “That must be nice for Eric to spend time with his grandmother.”

“She's been great. A rock.”

“I remember your mom from the wedding.” The woman Addie remembered was tall with thick gray hair she wore in soft curls around her face. Mrs. Talbot's expression was one of worry at the wedding, clearly sensing the trouble looming around the corner. Days after Eric was born, Zeb argued with his mother about Janet. Janet always found a way to toss a grenade into the middle of everyone's lives. “What brings you here?”

“I found a stroller in the attic that was Eric's. Thought you might be able to use it. Grace let me inside, and I left the stroller in the warehouse.”

“My shoulders and my back thank you.” Fiddling with my keys, I opened the front door to the warehouse. As I held the keys in hand, the old key found years ago warmed with energy in my hand. Smiling, I tucked the key in my pocket. We walked over to the stroller.

“It's not fancy, and it's older, but it will help.”

I touched the well-worn handle and imagined Zeb pushing it alone. “How did you do it? How did you manage your business and take care of Eric?”

A faint smile twitched the edges of his lips. “There are days that I wonder that myself. I don't know how I did it. I'm sure I made lots of mistakes.”

“Eric seems to be doing really well.”

“Thanks.”

Absently, I patted Carrie's backside, which was sagging into the folds of the front pack. “You never heard from Janet again after she left you two, did you?”

“A few postcards but never a phone number or a permanent address. It took three years for me to track her down so that she could sign the divorce papers. I hate to think of the money that private detective cost me.”

“Where did you find her?”

“Portland.” He glanced at his palm and traced a callous at the base of his index finger. “I flew out there and found her at a diner where she was waitressing.”

“I never realized she lived in Portland.”

“She wasn't there for long. She looked thin and drawn, and I could see she wasn't taking good care of herself.”

“Never has.”

I thought about adoption papers and custody agreements. “Did she give you any trouble signing the papers?”

“No. She signed the divorce papers easy enough. It was the custody agreement that made her hesitate.”

“She had not seen Eric for three years at that point.”

“I know. I know. And it took all that I had not to explode. She kept asking what kind of woman walks away from her kid.”

“Do you think she'd sign adoption papers and release Carrie?”

He frowned. “I don't know.”

Adoption still made perfect sense. It did. But I no longer imagined a loving couple taking Carrie. I imagined me holding her in my arms and calling her daughter. “What did you say when she made that comment?”

“I invited her to move back to Alexandria and be a mother, if that's what she wanted. Eric was already asking questions at that point. His friends talked about their mothers, but there wasn't much for him to tell.”

“But she said no.”

“She didn't articulate the words, but she signed the papers. When she did that, my remaining hopes for us died.” He shook his head. “I actually went to Portland thinking I could still save us.”

“She isn't a bad person, Zeb. She's very sick. She's always been sick.”

Absently, he rubbed the top of Shep's head. “In the clear light of day I get that, but when push comes to shove, it doesn't matter why she can't function. It only matters to Eric and Carrie that she can't.”

The baby yawned, sensing we were talking about her. I rubbed her backside until she settled back. “Do you think it'll be different with Carrie? Do you think now that she has two children, she'll try?”

“She might try, Addie.”

But would she succeed, and for how long? Would she try only to be able to give the baby the life we had with our mother? I survived. Janet survived. But it didn't take a shrink to know neither of us thrived. We both found ways to run away from home.

“What are you going to do about the baby, Addie?”

“Janet's in no shape now to make a decision, but I still believe the baby needs real parents.”

“She'll listen to you.”

“She never has before.”

Absently, he rolled the stroller back and forth. “Kids have a way of getting under the skin. They have a way of taking over.”

Sadness curled around my heart and squeezed.

“You're good with her. And she's quiet when you're around.”

“Quiet.” That startled a laugh. “That's debatable.”

“Wait until she starts laughing and crawling and making talking sounds. It's hard to resist.”

I watched as she pursed her little lips and then relaxed them. Was she dreaming? “I can't keep both Carrie and Scott. He doesn't want a baby now.”

Zeb tensed his jaw, grinding words he wasn't sure should be spoken. “Is there anyone else that would be better suited for her than you?”

“I can handle the illness better than most. I spent my childhood taking care of Mom and Janet. But adopting her means losing any chance I have of a real life with Scott.”

He shoved his hands into his pocket, rattled bits of loose change. “All I know is that, sometimes, good luck comes disguised as disaster.”

A humorless laugh lurched free. “There must be one hell of a pot of good luck waiting around here somewhere.”

He laughed, his white teeth catching in the moonlight. “I've faith you'll find it. Good night, Addie.” With a tug of the leash, he and Shep vanished out the front door of the warehouse into the night.

Dr. Goodwin, under the advisement of Mistress Smyth, brought a complaint against Faith in court. He suggested she must have used sorcery when delivering a babe of a tavern maid and when she broke the fever of an ailing farmer. No doctor can or should relieve women of labor pains or squash a fever as she does. Ben Talbot spoke on behalf of his wife, Faith. The charges were put aside.

T
he witch bottle forgotten, I'm not sure how the next few weeks vanished into thin air. Zeb and Eric stopped by several times a week. Grace kept doing her disappearing act and Carrie and I fell into an odd routine that felt natural. I wasn't willing to risk bringing a baby into the world, but I was making a point to be there for Carrie, one way or another.

Scott and I spoke daily, though our conversations grew more and more businesslike. It was easy for him to focus on the vineyard. With the harvest just days away, his mind was filled with a million details that, if ignored, would come back to bite.

Several times I brought up the baby, but he found a way to change the subject in a few sentences, sensing what I wanted to say.
Let's raise her together.
I would listen to him run away from the conversation, unable to justify my right to give chase. As we danced around hard truths, I knew the time to decide loomed like a summer storm darkening the horizon.

Margaret and I took on a couple more salvage jobs. They were small. An old schoolhouse needed desks and chalkboards hauled away. A diner getting renovated sold us a neon sign, barstools, and booths.

All the items, when cleaned up, could be turned over for a nice profit. With the warehouse space filling, I was soon searching upcoming flea markets to showcase some of our items. Some walk-in traffic found us, but the big designers and builders didn't have us on their radar yet. We would have to attend more flea market events to spread the word that we were, once again, acquiring.

Alexandria's grip was tighter than ever, and I really didn't mind.

I was cleaning baby bottles at the sink when I heard the faint closing of a car door. The sound barely registered as I glanced toward the baby seat where Carrie lay. Daisy had dug through her storage room and brought over the baby seat, as well as a bassinet, and more clothes than the baby could ever wear. I could admit, the extra equipment made this temporary motherhood job a lot easier, and I was grateful.

The front doorbell buzzed, and I shut off the tap and dried my hands. I picked Carrie up and moved her to the bassinet before heading down the stairs.

I stopped midstep, one hand on the railing. My grip tightened. Janet stared up at me.

“Addie.” She looked pale and drawn, but her hands were steady and her gaze clear.

“Janet.”

“Blindsided” could easily have described the moment. “I didn't know you were being released.”

She twisted the hem of her shirt around her index finger. “I found out this morning.”

“Why didn't you call?”

Would I have taken the call? I certainly didn't have a good track
record for that kind of thing. A faint smile touched her gaze. “Where's the fun in that?”

Scrambling for words and anything that made sense of this moment, I blurted, “I'm sorry I haven't been back to see you. I don't know where the time has gone.”

“It's fine. I don't like those places either.”

My gaze skimmed her skinny jeans and fresh white blouse. She'd washed her hair and wore a little mascara and rouge. “You look good.”

“Grace brought me the clothes.”

“Grace?”

“She came by almost daily.”

And so that explained the missing hours. Why hadn't she told me? “The doctors cleared you?”

She pulled a crumpled paper bag from her purse. “He gave me my medicines.”

I resisted the urge to inventory the pills and ask her for a detailed description of her med schedule. If I pushed too hard, she'd balk. “Good. You have to take them.”

She lifted her chin. “I will. I will this time.” She glanced past me. “Can I come in?”

“Sure. Yes. I'm sorry.”

She glanced around the warehouse that was quickly refilling with items Margaret and I had collected. “Where's the baby?”

“Carrie's upstairs sleeping.”

“Carrie. I remember you said you'd given her a name.”

I felt as if I danced on eggshells. “Eric named her. I'm sure if you want to change it, you can.”

“No. No. I like the name. It's pretty.”

As I moved up the stairs, her footsteps followed steadily behind me. We moved into the living room toward the bassinet trimmed in
white lace. I glanced in to make sure Carrie was still asleep. Janet held back.

“This place hasn't changed since we were kids. Even still has the same musty smell.”

“Grace didn't change a thing.” Janet was hesitant, afraid, and waiting for me to take the lead. I could feel her need to see the baby. Her need to hold the baby. Her need for my approval. As her needs rolled over me, my grip on Alexandria tightened as if I was suddenly on the verge of losing everything.

“Come look at her. She's pretty.”

Janet moved across the room, her purse clutched in her hands. She peeked into the crib and, for a long moment, stared. “She's pretty. Real pretty.”

“She looks like you,” I said. “Your coloring. Your long, lean body.”

She shook her head. “I was hoping she'd be more like you.”

“Me?”

“Strong. Stable. That's what I want for her.”

“I don't know how strong I am, Janet. I've been muddling through the last few weeks. It's not been a pretty picture.”

She traced her fingertips along the cradle's smooth wood, as if remembering it belonged to Eric. “When Eric was born, I remember how hard those first few weeks were. If not for Zeb . . .”

“You'd have run away sooner.” Bitterness shadowed the words.

“Yeah. And even with Zeb I couldn't cut it.” A faint smile returned. “The doctors at the hospital said that we needed to be honest. To face our mistakes. I'm trying to do that.”

Janet had been running from her disasters for so long I couldn't imagine her standing still. And the simple fact that she could admit there was a problem gave me a little hope.

“Do you want to hold her?” I asked.

She flexed her fingers before curling them into fists. “She's sleeping right now. I really don't want to wake her.”

“She might fuss, but that won't be the end of the world.” Pull out a recorder so that I could play my own words over and over again when Carrie woke up tonight at two
A.M.

Janet pulled away from the cradle. “I don't want to hear the crying. Not now.”

“Okay.”

“Can I get you coffee?”

She turned from the baby, her expression relaxing. “That would be great.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Yeah.”

I set up a cup of coffee to brew before digging a loaf of bread from the red breadbox and pulling peanut butter and jelly from the cabinet.

Janet sat at the kitchen table, smoothing her hand over the surface. “I remember feeling really happy at this table when I was a kid. Grace can't cook worth a damn, but it was nice sitting here. She was steady. Calm. I liked that.”

I held up the jar of peanut butter. “As you can see, I'm making the house specialty.”

Janet's eyes glistened and for a moment a distant memory connected us. “She liked grape jelly, but I always wanted strawberry.”

I pointed to the opened strawberry jam jar. “That was my first act of defiance when I moved in weeks ago. And I bought good coffee. She doesn't drink good coffee.”

Janet shook her head. “How does she live?”

“I don't know.” The coffeemaker gurgled and spit out the last drops into the mug. “Still take it black?”

“Yes. Thanks.”

I set the mug in front of her and just like that we fell into old roles: her being vulnerable and me taking care of her. We were re-creating a scenario that had played over and over a thousand times before.

She cupped her long hands around the warm mug, absorbing the heat before she raised it to her lips and sipped. “You still make great coffee.”

“My peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are pretty good, too.” I set one in front of her.

She stared at the sandwich and tore off the crust. She lifted the crust to her lips and then hesitated. “It's all backward. I should have been taking care of you. When Mom was sick, I should have been the one to run the house.”

“Neither one of us should have been the one to run the house. We were just kids.”

She nibbled the crust first, just as she did as a child. I asked her once why she did that. Saving the best for last. An odd comment from someone who always rushed toward the fun as fast as she could. “She hated being sick. She hated not being able to be a mom.”

“I know.” As an adult I should have understood this and found a way to forgive all the past mistakes. But the child in me still huddled in the shadows and clung to anger and a deep sense of betrayal.

“You're still mad at her.”

“Yes.”

“I used to be. Not anymore.” Her hands trembled as she set the crust aside and chose a piece that was oozing peanut butter and jelly. She ate in silence as I filled a mug full of coffee for myself and sipped, content to let her eat. When only crumbs remained, she sipped more coffee. “You're mad at me, too.”

A sigh shuddered through me. “I'm trying not to be angry, Janet. I am trying.”

“But you are. You might keep it all together for me and the baby, but you're angry, and have every right to be.”

“Janet, you've made some very serious mistakes. You've walked away from one son, nearly killed me in a car accident, and now you left your daughter with me.”

“I'm sick.”

“I understand that. And as long as you take your medicines and try, I can roll with the punches. But when you toss away the meds and pick up a bottle of vodka, I get angry.”

She met my gaze and held it. “I didn't drink at all while I was pregnant with Carrie.”

“What about pot?”

Her brow wrinkled. “Some, but none of the hard drugs.”

“You didn't take your meds either, did you?”

“No. I stopped about a year ago. I felt so good. And I thought I finally tackled it.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose, struggling to hold on to patience. “You can't
tackle
this. You can't will yourself out of this. It's forever.”

Her blue gaze cooled to ice. “I didn't ask for this, Addie.”

“No one asked for it, Janet. I sure didn't ask for it. And yet here we are.” Carrie began to fuss and automatically I pushed away from the counter and went to her. She called. I went. That was our pattern.

I lifted her up, unable to hide a smile as she opened her eyes and looked at me. A sloppy grin curled the edges of her round, full mouth. Might be just a reflex and not a real smile but to me it said she knew she was safe. Knew a bottle was coming soon. Knew Addie would fix it all. I glanced into the kitchen. Janet stared at her mug, tracing the rim with a finger.

I moved into the kitchen. “Do you want to hold her while I make a bottle?”

She flexed long fingers. “It's been so long since I held a baby.”

“It's not hard. I got the hang of it pretty quickly.”

She rubbed her hands on her jeans. “I should wash my hands. The cab.”

“Sure. Wash your hands in the sink. That's a good idea.”

With Carrie on my shoulder, I moved to the fridge and pulled out a bottle. With one hand I unscrewed the top and put the bottle in the microwave. I pressed twenty-three seconds to accommodate the extra milk a growing Carrie now required. The doctor said no baby food until she was about three months. Three months. I thought Carrie and I would have parted ways by then, but seeing Janet now, and faced with the thought of giving Carrie away, I knew,
knew
, giving her up would be the hardest thing I'd ever do in my life.

Janet dried her hands with a paper towel and moved to the chair and sat, just as Eric did when he held the baby. I cradled Carrie in Janet's arms. “She likes it when you hold her head up a little. She likes to be able to see what's going on.”

Janet's posture was as stiff and rigid as mine was the first time I held the baby. “Eric was a bigger baby.”

I fought the urge to nudge the crook of Janet's arm up a few inches. “She was six pounds six ounces when she was born. How much did Eric weigh when he was born?”

She tugged the edge of Carrie's onesie so it rested flat on her chest. “I don't remember the numbers. I should remember the numbers.”

“It's okay. I kinda remember he was close to nine pounds. Zeb will know.”

Her gaze rose. “How is Zeb?”

“He seems to be doing real well. He lent me Eric's crib and a stroller. And he's done well for himself in his business. Eric is doing great. Zeb's done a good job with him.”

“Zeb is as steady as a rock.” Faint hints of resentment hummed under the words. “He really tried to keep us together.”

I went to the microwave and removed the bottle. The top screwed back on, I shook it and did a quick test on my wrist. “Would you like to feed her?”