Chapter 1
Sage
I’m getting married in three weeks. I have no flowers, no music, and, as of today, no one to officiate the ceremony. It sounds pretty bad—and it is—but at least I’ve got a cake. At least, I think I’ve got a cake.
I paw through my purse and dig out my cell phone to call the baker, who just happens to be my older sister Rosemary.
“Sage, hi! Are you getting excited?”
Her cheerful voice is like a knife to my gut. I always imagined the weeks leading up to my wedding as a time of romance and elegance—like my regular life, only with a golden, soft filter applied to it. And while I’m definitely excited about marrying Roman, my actual wedding … that’s shaping up to be a disaster.
“Yeah,” I manage weakly. “I just want to make sure we’re all set for the cake.”
The background din of pots and pans banging together and echoing off the tile walls of Rosemary’s commercial kitchen stops. She’s silent for a long moment.
“You don’t think I’d let you down on your wedding cake, do you?” Her voice is dangerously soft.
“No!”
It’s true. I don’t think so. But I also didn’t think that Reverend Walker would flake. Or that every band and DJ within a seventy-five-mile radius would be unavailable. Or that the flower shop would lose my contract and the florist would look straight in my eyes and claim to have no memory of meeting with me to pick out centerpieces and bouquets.
I never imagined any of these events would come to pass, but here I am. So Rosemary’s firstborn sense of responsibility and obligation notwithstanding, I thought I better check.
My answer must satisfy her, because the clattering resumes. “Okay. Hey, I talked to Thyme yesterday. We’re going to fly out there this weekend and take you to this amazing spa that Muffy recommended.”
I shake my head as if she can see me.
“Nuh-uh. No way. First of all, if Muffy Moore likes the place, it’s probably crazy expensive—”
“It’s our treat.”
I keep going. “And I don’t have time for a spa day.”
“That’s exactly why you need one. You can’t run yourself down before the wedding. You can take a couple hours for yourself to hang out with your sisters and just relax.”
I really can’t, but I also recognize Rosemary’s will-brook-no-argument voice and don’t have the energy to take her on.
“Sounds great,” I chirp, making a mental note to call Thyme later and see if I can wheedle my younger sister into canceling the plans, so I don’t have to.
“Excellent. I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to it. My little sister’s going to be a married woman in less than a month,” she muses.
Maybe. If my luck turns around.
She interrupts the scene of impending doom that’s playing out in my mind. “Have you talked to Mom and Dad?”
I sigh. Mom and Dad. My list of potential wedding day disasters wouldn’t be complete without the reminder that my incarcerated parents may not be able to secure a day pass to attend.
“I did. Agent Morgan is still trying to pull some strings to get them released for the wedding. But Mom says if they can’t be there, just make sure we record it.”
She drops her voice and asks gently, “Is that why you sound so stressed out? They’ll be there, Sage. If they can, they’ll be there.”
In my heart, I know she’s right. And, while under ordinary circumstances, the chance that my parents might miss my wedding would probably be my main concern, I haven’t really had time to worry about it. Mom and Dad are serving sentences for tax evasion. If they can’t be there, it’ll be because of some bureaucratic hold up and, well, their own bad behavior. The outcome is literally out of my hands.
But everything else? Everything else is on me. I’m supposed to be making things happen so I can have a beautiful ceremony and reception. Meanwhile, I feel like my hair is on fire, and I can’t find any water. My convict parents are the least of my worries.
Rosemary waits a beat.
“I don’t want to rush you off the phone, but I need to get these quiches in the oven. Dave and I are going to look at a house this afternoon.”
She and Detective Dave got married just over a year ago, and they’ve already moved fully into the grown-up world of homeownership, mortgage applications, and meetings with realtors. Meanwhile, I have one free weekday a week to come over from the island where I live and work as a nanny to pull this wedding together, and I can’t even get anyone to return my phone calls.
“I can’t believe it!” I squeal, my excitement for her momentarily overtaking my misery. “Good luck.”
She reminds me to pull up the website with the spa’s list of services so we can pick our treatments, and we say our goodbyes.
I drop my phone into my purse as I round the corner to the dress shop where I’m having my gown fitted and reach for the door. It’s locked.
I peer inside. Jessalyn's Dress Shoppe is closed up and dark. Confused, I check my watch, even though it’s eleven o’clock in the morning, and I’m right on time for my appointment.
An index card taped to the door catches my eye. Someone’s scribbled a hurried note: Closed indefinitely due to family emergency.
I lean my forehead against the glass and whimper, “My wedding is cursed.”
* * *
“Your wedding is cursed.”
I lean in closer to Roman’s grandmother, sure I’ve misheard her.
“Pardon?”
She nods her head, swallows a spoonful of gumbo, and repeats herself, “I said, you've been cursed.” She gives me a watery smile before resuming her attack on her bowl of food.
I sit in silence, trying to formulate a response to the octogenarian’s announcement that my wedding’s been cursed, and come up blank.
Beside me, Roman must sense my befuddlement. He pats my thigh reassuringly under the white tablecloth and grins at his grandmother. “Now, Granny Effie, don't go teasing my bride-to-be like that,” he scolds her good-naturedly.
Any trace of amusement vanishes from the woman’s wrinkled face and her spoon clatters to the table. She plants both elbows on the table, juts her chin forward, and locks eyes with her grandson.
“You listen good, Roman. This isn’t a laughing matter. Y’all have been cursed. And you need to take heed, or it’s only gonna get worse.”
She stares at him for a long moment before picking up her spoon and returning to her lunch.
I focus on the tablecloth’s floral pattern, losing myself in the dizzying swirls and curlicues. She’s joking, I reassure myself firmly. Or, sadly, maybe she’s slipping into dementia, blurring reality and fantasy. It happens.
But I can’t ignore the clench of my stomach, like a tight fist in my belly, or the way my pulse crashes against my throat like a breaking wave.
I wait until Roman’s in the restroom, which in reality is just his move to intercept the check before the waitress brings it to the table and Effie insists on paying. They do this little endearing dance every week. Last week, Effie outsmarted him and slipped the waitress some cash when she brought the sweet teas—a little prepayment of sorts. So this week, she’ll let her grandson win. It’s only sporting.
This is my chance. I lean toward her and drop my voice conspiratorially.
“Ms. Lyman—”
“Sugar, I know I told you to call me Granny Effie. You’re as good as family.” She pats my cheek.
“Granny Effie, am I though? I’m worried the wedding may not happen after all ….” I have to pause here and consider how ridiculous what I’m about to say sounds. “I mean, if it’s cursed like you say.”
She nods with satisfaction. “I’m glad to see one of you has the sense to take this seriously. Now, don’t fret too much, I believe he only cursed the wedding itself, not your union. That’s a small blessing.”
“He? You know who did this?”
Did what? My rational brain taunts me. You can’t really think some spell is responsible for all the problems you’re running into.
I ignore the voice inside my head and focus on the old woman. She purses her mouth in a little bow and twitches it from side to side, considering what and how much to tell me.
“Granny, please hurry. Before Roman comes back.” I’m pleading now, but I don’t care. I need to know what she’s talking about.
She’s apparently made up her mind. She squares her jaw and says, “We Lymans have had a long-running feud, for ages and ages, with a powerful family of conjurers, the Davises. It started before my time. Even as a wee little girl I can remember my papa telling me to stay away from the Davis Family. He said they had strong, dark magic.”
Her faded eyes stare out at the bustling restaurant but I can tell she’s seeing something else, something far away and long ago. I reach for her hand.
She gives my hand a surprisingly strong squeeze and goes on. “I was just a slip of a girl, and, of course, I didn’t pay my papa any mind. I was fascinated by the idea of magic, even dark magic. So one Sunday after church, I raced away through the field that separated our property from the Davises’ place and sneaked into their barn to look around.”
Her quavering voice is hypnotic. Despite the fact that I know full well I’m an adult woman sitting in a bright and busy restaurant, my heart hammers like I’m a small child crouched in the shadows of a creepy old barn, spying on a sinister adult.
“What happened?”
A sly half-smile dances across her lips and she sips what’s left of her tea, which, from the looks of it, is mostly undissolved sugar. My teeth ache just watching her.
“If he saw me, he never let on. But, looking back, he must’ve known I was there. He put on quite a show, hollerin’ and dancin’ barefoot around a cauldron—”
“Wait. There was a cauldron in the barn? What kind of barn has a cauldron lying around?”
“Well, now, it might’ve been a kettle, if you’re gonna be fussy about the details. Or maybe a barrel. But, to me, that day, it was a cauldron.” She crosses her arms and gives me a defiant stare.
“Sure, I’m sorry for interrupting. Please, go on.”
“He did a lot of wavin’ his hands and callin’ on the spirits to punish the Lymans.”
Despite myself, I gasp. “He said that?”
“Clear as day. It scared the bejeezus out of me. I waited until he went into the tack room for something and took off running as fast as my legs would carry me. I was slick with sweat and my Sunday dress was covered in hay and dirt when I got home. My mama was madder than a hornet.” She chuckles at the memory.
“I’ll bet you were in big trouble.”
“You’d a thought I’d get a switching. But she took one look at my face and must’ve known something was wrong. She drew me a bath and put me to bed even though it was still daylight. But that wasn’t the end of it.”
“It wasn’t?”
She shakes her head. “I woke up the next morning running a high fever. I was covered head to toe with itchy red bumps and my throat, oh, it ached.”
My eyes widen. “Really?”
“A-yup. My daddy went into town to get the doctor, who said I had scarlet fever and had to be isolated from the family. He said there wasn’t anything he could do, and if I was strong enough I’d live. Well, as soon as he left I broke down bawling and confessed to my mama about where I’d been and what I’d seen in the barn.”
I’m on the edge of my seat, but it occurs to me that Roman’s taking an unusually long time in the bathroom. Although, to be fair, he did drink about a gallon of that sweet tea. I can’t very well ask Granny Effie to speed up her story of her brush with death, but I do really want to hear the whole tale. So I clamp my mouth shut so as not to interject and nod enthusiastically.
“Mama started wailin’ and cryin’ that I’d been cursed. She sent my brother to fetch the root woman. That woman took one look at me and boiled some holly leaves with pine tar and told me to drink it in the morning and midday. Then she told Mama to make sassafras root tea and have me drink that in the afternoon and night. Finally, she mixed up a poultice of clay and who knows what and plopped it down on my chest. She said that’d lift the curse right off me. And do ya’ know what?”
I’m leaning so far forward that I’m in danger of tipping over and faceplanting into my plate of okra and rice. “What?” I breathe.
“I was up runnin’ around with my brothers and sisters by the middle of the week.” She settles back in her chair with a satisfied smile just as Roman returns to the table.
He rests a hand on my shoulder. “Are my two favorite ladies ready to go?”
“Why don’t you be a good boy and bring the car around?” she reaches up and pats his arm.
Effie’s stubborn insistence that she can walk as well as anybody is legend, so the request throws him for a loop.
“Are you feeling okay, Granny?” His brow is a maze of worried furrows.
“Right as rain. I’m just wearing the wrong shoes.” She lies fluidly.
His forehead relaxes, and he drops a kiss beside my ear before trotting off.
Once he’s out of earshot, she considers me carefully. “You think I’m crazy, don’t ya?”
I laugh. Effie doesn’t know about my hippie-dippie upbringing. I’d be the last person in the world to dismiss the power of natural remedies.
“Because the root woman’s potions worked when the doctor had nothing to offer? Not in the least,” I assure her.
She gives me a half-smile, then her eyes narrow shrewdly. “But you don’t think the curse is real.” It’s a statement, not a question.
I answer honestly. “I’m not sure what I think. You said this curse has been hanging over the family for ages, right?”
“Sure as shooting.”
“Why don’t you tell me more about it while we wait at the front for Roman?”
I stand and extend my hand to help her to her feet. She swats it away.
“There’s not enough time to tell you every misfortune that’s befallen us because of the hex, but I’ll give you the highlights.”
As we wend our way through the restaurant, she draws a deep breath and starts ticking off disasters. “There was the fire of 1948, Uncle Jerome’s bankruptcy twelve years later, that awful car accident that took young Marlin ….”
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