When Libby Met the Fairies and her Whole Life Went Fae (19 page)

Ah. So that was why she’d flown back to the mainland. “Gina,” Libby said, “I can’t do that. It doesn’t work like that.”

“Of course, you can.” Her mouth was set. An expression Libby had seen on her face many, many times.

“This isn’t the Oracle of Delphi. Where do people get the idea that I can get answers to all their questions?”

“I’m your sister,” Gina reminded her.

“You don’t seem to understand. I didn’t ask for this. I don’t know why it happened to me. They give me advice on my garden, that’s it. They probably don’t even know what a pineapple is.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gina said. “If they don’t know, they can just contact the energies from Hawaii.”

Libby stared at her for a moment, then stood up. “I need to get to work.” And she went to her office and shut the door.

What she really needed to do was call Susan. And make up some excuse about why she wouldn’t be contributing any produce to her CSA this week . . .

Susan didn’t have a cell. Just a land line. And it was busy.

Libby peered through the slats of her office window blinds . . . and there was Gina. Out there with the tent people. They were standing near the campfire that they cooked on, down by the road, gesturing animatedly.

Damn it.

That was her sister, for you. As if Libby’s life wasn’t complicated enough. She could imagine what Gina was telling those people.

She sat back down at her desk and dropped her head into her hands.

The worst of it was that being trapped in the house that way, she hadn’t been able to do any work on her gardens. She hadn’t even been up there for over a week. For all she knew, a herd of deer had come through and all her work that year had been reduced to a stubble of naked stalks. For all she knew, there was something important that she was supposed to do, to add to the soil or something, and if she didn’t do it now, everything would die. Everything she’d worked on, so far, would be lost . . .

She needed to get up there.

She stood up and looked back out the window. Gina and the campers were still talking. And look, there was Maisey and Tyler about to join them, ambling down toward the group.

This was as good a chance as any.

Libby quickly changed into her work clothes, considering as she did how to best sneak out of the house. The kitchen door was in clear view of the campers. The main door was out of their line of vision, but there was still a risk they might see her—for instance, if any of them happened to walk down the driveway to the road, where they’d parked their cars. She’d be spotted for sure.

That left the dining room window.

She tiptoed down and peered out through the glass.

Coast was clear.

She braced both hands on the sash and pushed.

After numerous coats of paint and years of weather, the old wooden window frame had grown cantankerous. She was able to get the window open, but not very far.

Fortunately, she was not a very large person.

Next she wrestled with the screen. The original wooden storms had been replaced with aluminum triple tracks, so although the screen was a bit curmudgeonly, she was able to slide it up out of the way.

Then she considered how best to go through. Difficult decision. Outside the window she faced a four foot drop to the ground. If she went through head first, and lost her balance, the results might be pretty ugly. Not a particularly appealing option. On the other hand, if she went through feet first and got stuck, unflattering photos might appear in the next issue of the local weekly.

She decided an embarrassing photo was the lesser of the two evils.

Dragged one of her dining room chairs to the window, climbed up on it, faced her backside toward the great outdoors, and hoisted her legs one at a time onto the sill. As she shifted her weight to ease out of the window, the metal frame of the storms dug into her shins, making her wince and grit her teeth against the swear words that really, really wanted to come out. Then the window sash caught her shirt, pulling it up toward her shoulders as she squished the rest of the way out the window. She couldn’t snatch her shirt back down, either, since she was supporting all her weight with her upper body. Her arms had begun to ache—just a little bit further . . .

Head past the sash. One last little push and she dropped to the ground.

There.

The air smelled so fresh and sweet after being cooped up inside with the windows all closed.

She tiptoed to the shed, grabbed the bucket she used to carry her hand tools and gloves, and started up the hill, feeling lighter than she had for days.

She got to her beds and looked around.

No sign of her little man. The campers had been here, though. Their footprints were everywhere. Libby groaned.

“Everywhere” included her beds.

She knelt and touched the broken leaves of one of her carrot plants.

Then something else caught her eye. She walked over and saw what looked to be some kind of little altar. It was built of stones—carried over from the wall in the hedgerow, no doubt. There was a quartz crystal the size of a baseball and a bunch of burnt incense butts and some wilted wildflowers.

“The soil acidity has drifted slightly.”

She hadn’t guessed how happy she might be to hear that voice. But she was.

It took her a minute to see him, though. The air was steamy from all the rain they’d had and the sun was high and bright. Finally, there he was, seated in the shadows on the stone wall, not far from where he’d sat the day the certification guy had done the on-site.

“Does it need to be corrected?”

“Perhaps. The rain helped.”

“I was thinking I might weed around the Brussels sprouts.” She’d planted them on the little man’s suggestion about two weeks before. They’re in the cabbage family, like tatsoi, but when she’d asked about flea beetles, the little man had said not to worry. And sure enough, they hadn’t been a problem. A few holes in the plants’ baby leaves here and there, but nothing major. Susan suggested that fall, after the frost, Libby harvest them by cutting off the whole stalk. Some people love buying them that way, especially the seniors.

“Clear to about four inches back from the plants,” the little man said. “Leave everything else.”

She nodded, then glanced at the altar. “You’ve had company.”

He didn’t answer.

“They can’t see you, right?”

“Why don’t you ask them?” he answered, and she turned, and rushing up the hill were about 30 campers, Gina striding out in front, her Indian print skirt swirling around her legs, grim and purposeful like a striding Attila the Hippy.

29

“Don’t walk on my beds!” Libby pleaded. “Not on the beds!”

She bounded over the beds toward them—to get to them before they got to the beds.

It worked—the forward advance slowed and then stopped as she stood facing them.

“Are you having a session?” Gina panted. Apparently she was now designated spokesperson because everyone else just looked at Libby, waiting for her answer.

“I was—I just need to do some weeding. I just need to get some work done here.”

“Libby, these people are your guests. You really ought to show a little respect.”

Respect.

One time when Libby was about seven or so, Gina decided she was going to start charging her little sister every time she went to her room. Their home was a split level and Libby’s bedroom was at the end of the hall. To get to it, she had to pass Gina’s room, and that, Gina said, disturbed her. Her case seemed pretty plausible, too. “Wait until you’re in junior high and have four hours’ worth of homework every night. You’ll see what it’s like.”

How could Libby argue with that?

Gina set the fee at a nickel per pass-her-door. Libby’s 25 cents-a-week allowance ran out pretty fast if she wasn’t careful, so she learned to plan her playing with extreme care, hauling a suitcaseful of toys down to the living room or lawn so that she wouldn’t have to return for the doll she’d missed, or the tea set.

The downside was that moving toys en masse irritated their mother. One load of the suitcase emptied downstairs and her neat house was pretty much trashed. “Libby, two or three dolls is enough, isn’t it?”

Libby tried, once, to explain to her mother why she needed to play with so many toys at a time. But “You two work it out,” was all she said. “You don’t need more than two or three dolls, so pick which ones you want to play with and take the rest to your room. Maybe if Libby had used the word “extortion” her mother would have paid more attention. But it wasn’t yet part of Libby’s vocabulary. And she supposed she whined.

“I need to work. Please.”

“Can we help?” someone in the pack piped up.

“Yeah, we’ll help!”

“I don’t want—I don’t need help. I’m sorry.”

A contingent of four or five campers started toward the little altar, breaking off stalks of wildflowers—the St. John’s Wort and white campion were in bloom—presumably to refresh the offering. “Watch the beds!” Libby pleaded again as they got near her baby Brussels sprouts.

They stepped over the beds with elaborate care.

The rest of the pack had formed a half circle around Libby and the questions had begun. “Have you seen the little people today?” “How about Pan, have you ever seen Pan?” “Do they appear in visual form or are you just linking up with their energies?” “I told Machaelle Small Wright she should contact you. Did she ever contact you?”

“Gina.” Libby turned to her sister. “Help me out here, please?”

Gina had been waiting for this. “Okay,” she said to the campers. “Here’s what we’re going to do.”

It occurred to Libby that Gina might interpret “help me out” differently than Libby would.

“You can submit questions in writing. Libby will pick, let’s see—” Gina paused thoughtfully. “Oh, how about three a day. Then once a day she’ll meet with you and give the answers.”

“But I—”

“That’s fair, isn’t it, everyone?”

The pack gave a little cheer of approval.

“Hey, guys, the pita chips are gone!” called one of the altar-tenderers. “Libby, did they say anything about us leaving them food? Do they like pita chips?”

Pita chips.

That did it. Yeah. She snapped a little bit.

“No! They don’t like pita chips. They like . . . they like . . . Thai food. Take out is fine. How about . . . masuman chicken. Bring it to my house about 6:00 tonight, okay? And I’ll make sure the little people get it.”

Gina glared at her sister. “That’s not funny,” she said.

Libby drew her garden gloves back onto her hands. “Also,” she ignored Gina’s face and scanned the pack, instead, “someone here . . . let’s see, it’s not coming through very clearly yet . . .” She frowned pensively. “Ah. Got it. Someone here has some unfinished karma. Something to do with a theft . . .” She scanned the pack again. “Someone here stole something. It may not have been a physical object. An idea, maybe? Anyway. Your energy is interfering with the fairy portal. Which means they can’t get through. They’re getting angry about it, as a matter of fact. So if you’d all just please go back down to your . . . tent village, I need to purify this space. ’Kay?”

They nodded, alert and anxious. Except Gina. “Libby,” she hissed. “May I speak to you in private, please?”

Libby sighed and followed her.

“You’re missing the point here, Libby,” she started.

Libby hated herself for letting Gina push her around. But it was so exhausting to fight. “Okay, Gina. What is ‘the point’?”

“You’ve been given a gift. You owe it to these people to help them.”

She was standing on the downhill side of Libby, so for once she wasn’t the taller of the two. But Libby still found it hard to maintain eye contact. “Gina.” It came out in a whisper. “I’ve been through so much. I just want people to leave me alone.”

“You haven’t been through that much, Libby,” she said. “You married an asshole and you finally woke up. That’s nothing compared to what some people have had to live through. See that woman there?” She pointed. “She’s a breast cancer survivor.”

Libby followed Gina’s finger, then looked away. It was getting late. A bird flew in and out of the treeline bordering Dean’s property, like it was weaving something into the trees.

“Maisey and I are going to Alex’s tonight,” Gina said. “To have a meeting. Tyler can put up a website. You need to start holding workshops—”

“Workshops?”

“Workshops. It will kill two birds. You’ll be able to share your gift with people, and you can charge for it, so you’ll be compensated.”

“But I don’t want to be compensated.”

“You need the money, right?”

Payback for insisting that the divorce settlement hadn’t made her rich. Figures.

“Well . . . yes. But money isn’t the issue.”

“Money is always the issue. And anyway, there’s no point in arguing. We love you, and we’re going to help you.”

“Hey,” someone yelled. “Lookit the dog.”