Love, Magic and Misfortune by Karla Nikole

9

Now

“It happened again.”

“Oh no,” Violet moaned. “Seriously? I’m so sorry, Rosie. How much this time?”

“Five thousand. My bank is so accustomed to it now, they actually called me first, preemptively suspecting the charge was fraudulent.”

“Yikes. This is the third time this year.”

Rose exhaled a heavy sigh into the phone. “It is—but it’s fine. We caught it right away, and when Jilly gets back from her work thing in Paris, we’re going to start planning wedding stuff. Life is good.”

“Oh very exciting. Have you talked her into letting you meet her parents yet?”

“Nope,” Rose said. “She’s still insisting they’re terrible people and we shouldn’t bother. I think I have to leave it alone. Anyway, what’s happening in Sleepyville? Entertain me with colorful stories of charming local yokels.”

“Hm, let’s see… Oh, Art was here last weekend. He was visiting his grandfather’s grave along with his grandmother.”

“Art? Who the heck is Art?”

“Arthur Malle. You dated him for two years in high school? You told me he was your first.”

“He was not my first.”

“Um, ’kay?”

“I think I just said that to make it seem like I waited. I didn’t want to corrupt your young, impressionable mind.”

“Great.”

“What about him?”

“Nothing, really.” Violet shrugged. “We bumped into each other in town, so we had coffee. It felt weird though. I think he was being flirty.”

“Don’t have coffee with my ex-boyfriend.”

“It wasn’t like that, and you didn’t even remember him a second ago, Rosie.”

“Still. It’s a sister code. Did he ask about me?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you say?”

“I told him you’re happy and living in the city with your charming girlfriend.”

“Ha! Did he freak out?”

“He didn’t do a spit-take or anything, but yes, his eyes went wide and he repeated, ‘girlfriend?’ It wasn’t subtle.”

“Good. I hope he tossed and turned in bed all night, questioning his masculinity.”

“I assured him that you’re bisexual.”

“You didn’t.”

“Of course I didn’t. But I don’t understand why you’re suddenly hoping to upset the psyche of an ex-boyfriend you barely remember.”

“Meh,” Rose spat. “I’m a hundred percent certain it’s divine retribution—probably on behalf of some other woman he’s wronged during the never-ending maturation process of the male ego.”

Boom-boom-boom.A heavy knock at the front door made Violet bolt upright on the couch, her heart pounding in her chest. She whispered into her phone. “Someone is at the door.”

Rose whispered back. “Okay… So go answer it.”

“No way—it’s after nine o’clock and I’m not expecting anyone.”

“Vi, if you have the lights on, it’s obvious you’re home. The cottage has all those picture windows.”

Violet stood, then tightened the belt of her robe before moving around the couch and silently stalking toward the front door. “So what? They don’t know what I’m doing in here,” she said, her voice low. “I could be on the toilet.”

“Now there’s a lovely image.”

“Shut up.” When she reached the door, she lifted to her toes, pressing her palm against the cold wood as she leaned into the peephole. “It’s Freddie.”

“Ah, Jean-Pierre Frédéric Martin strikes again. Why is he stalking you? Isn’t this the second time he’s come to Gram’s house? Sheesh, you’ve only been living there a month. Just answer the door and see what he wants. Get it over with.”

Staying silent, Violet shook her head as she watched. He was looking all around: over at the large living room window, then back at the door, over his shoulder at the front garden. Every movement appeared nervous and suspicious.

“Violet?”

“I’m here,” she whispered, just a breath. After a long minute, Freddie grumbled, turned, and made his way back through the yard to his shiny red pick-up.

She sighed. “I really just want him to go away. What’s his problem? We’re not kids anymore and I am not interested.”

“Go to the grocery store where there are lots of witnesses and ask him directly,” Rosie urged. “Take control of the situation. You ignoring and avoiding him obviously isn’t working.”

“You’re right. I’ll go sometime this week—ugh, what a pain.”

* * *

After a night of heavy sleep,Violet awoke to a frosty late October morning. It was the coldest it had been since she’d moved back home. Sitting upright, she shivered. Her mind was cloudy with exhaustion and her mouth tasted like sleep. Usually she left the fireplace in the living room burning when she went to bed, making sure all drapes were shut and windows closed to help insulate the house. The back-patio door off the kitchen was essential in keeping the warmth inside. The sun porch was wonderful, but more exposed to the natural elements, which made the temperature fluctuate in tandem with the day’s weather.

She got out of bed, stepping into her wooly house slippers and wrapping herself in her robe. She walked up to the large window overlooking the area behind the cottage, taking in the view of the dried meadow backed by the imposing silence of the woods. The sky was overcast again today, giving the scene an air of barrenness.

When she looked toward the greenhouse, something felt off. She tilted her head, trying to identify the subtle difference. The glass of the front door was cracked and broken—littered across the walkway in jagged shards.

She swept out of the room and into the hall. Immediately, the cold intensified as she moved through the living room, past the darkened hearth and into the kitchen. She flicked the bolt-lock mechanism and opened the door to the sun porch. The frigid wind rushed against her flesh, making her gasp from the shock of it. Here, too, the glass of the outer door had been broken in, the remains of it messily scattered across the wooden beams of the porch.

“What in the world? Why—” She looked over to her grandmother’s poppy chest—the massive trunk was askew, set in the center of the floor with the rug beneath it bunched up and wrinkled. But it was still closed. Locked and intact. Whoever did this had tried to take the trunk, but had clearly given up. Violet bent down and examined the surface. She could see a barrage of deep scratch marks around the padlock securing the chest. It had been tampered with but held strong.

Shivering from both cold and unease, Violet stepped over the glass, opened the porch door and walked down the stone steps toward the greenhouse. The wind whipped around her, making her robe flap no matter how tightly she held it against herself. Her dark hair bounced and swayed in its low ponytail, striking her cheeks like tiny whips. She smoothed it away from her face and restrained the curly mass as she peeked through the broken door. The floor of the greenhouse was a mess of leaves, dirt and other plant debris.

Timid, she grasped the cold brass knob, her fingers trembling as she pulled the door open. Nothing like this had ever happened to her before. Especially not in this village—her sleepy, charming hometown. This place where everyone knew everyone else. Except new people were slowly moving in. The town had expanded over the years after Violet had left for the city.

Hesitating, she walked down the narrow path, the greenhouse and its plants eerily still around her despite the rushing, howling wind outside. The structure creaked and moaned from the pressure, and Violet jumped when the door behind her creaked open and banged shut again from the suction. Another section of glass fell, loudly smashing against the cement floor.

As she approached the end of the row, an entire section of the long planter was cleared out: hastily, sloppily, because Violet could still see roots and stems sticking out of the soil. Messy footprints and squished leaves lay scattered across the floor.

In the silence, Violet stood straight. She deliberated only for a moment, then huffed out a laugh. “Well, that’s one thing that’s been taken off my plate.” That, as well as her potential career as a drug lord within her small commune.

The marijuana was gone.