A Witch In Time (33 page)

Nunzio had other plans. Not that he’d wanted the child, not at the beginning at least. Frannie had actually approached him about the baby once she had found herself pregnant. No, Nunzio had wanted to be paid off to leave the little family to themselves. Harry had agreed, because he wanted desperately to keep the illusion alive. No man likes to appear the cuckolded husband. Especially not in a small town. That should have been the end of it, and maybe it would have been, if Jordan Everett hadn’t died as a result of the drugs Nunzio had been supplying to him. Nunzio knew he needed to leave town and hole up for a while, until things blew over. Who knew how long that would take? Suddenly the cash Harry had paid him didn’t seem like near enough to last. Nunzio was a businessman. He needed to keep his options open.

But Nunzio had what for him was likely a rare attack of conscience or a change of heart when he went to the hospital to warn Frannie that her husband knew about her little indiscretion. Or was he just trying to make trouble on both ends? It didn’t seem to matter; at the time, she didn’t believe him. But Harry had seen Nunzio skulking around the Labor and Delivery floor that night. He had seen him, and he was afraid of what it meant for his little family.

That night Harry called Nunzio to have it out with him one last time. He knew Frannie would be sleeping, and he knew he himself wouldn’t, not with this threat hanging over his head. He’d intended to scare Nunzio, to threaten him, to let him know in no uncertain terms that he wouldn’t see another dime. That if he exposed the family secret—because after seeing the baby Harry had been certain that he was in fact Nunzio’s child—Harry would in turn see to it that Nunzio went to jail for extortion. The two men argued. Nunzio took off; Harry followed, pursuing on foot even as Nunzio tore off on his motorcycle. Eventually he gave up and just kept walking to cool his temper and try to come up with a plan to keep his world from falling apart.

And that was it.

He didn’t know how long he had walked, or how far, but in the end he had to call his father to come pick him up in his pickup truck.

When they got to the house, Frannie was hiding under the covers in bed, the baby was sleeping... and Nunzio was lying dead on the floor in the living room.

The two of them hauled Frannie out of bed, whereupon she tearfully claimed that she had been awakened by a noise downstairs and couldn’t find Harry. Taking his gun out of his nightstand drawer, she had gone downstairs to investigate and saw Nunzio as only a dark threatening shadow in the living room. She told them she knew it wasn’t Harry Jr. because he was far taller and broader, and she was so terrified that she had shot first and asked questions later.

And by that time it was far too late. The bullet had buried itself deep in Nunzio’s chest. He was dead before she could reach him.

She was so afraid that she didn’t know what to do. So she went back to bed and pretended to herself that it had never happened and simply... waited for Harry to come home.

It was Harold who decided that he should take the fall. Harold who loved his son so much that he couldn’t bear seeing his whole world torn apart after finally having the family he so desperately wanted. Harold who made them all promise to go along with his confession. The two men summoned Joyce, who brought doughnuts, blissfully unaware of the serious nature of the situation. When Harold met her at the porch with the news, she dropped the box as she rushed to see the truth for herself. Joyce didn’t want to go through with the false confession, but Harold was adamant that their new grandchild would need both a mother and a father, so finally she tearfully agreed to do as he asked.

But in the end, the enormity of what she had done had been too much for Frannie to assimilate. Her emotional and mental retreat had been abrupt and sharp and... complete. Harry had called Julie for help. Julie had recommended re-admitting her to the hospital, this time as a guest of the mental health facility.

No one really knew if Frannie had been telling the truth about coming upon Nunzio in the dark, but everyone was willing to accept it, because truth was subjective after all. Did it matter, really? Either way, the man was dead.

The odd truth of another matter came out later. The baby was actually the child of Harry Jr. and Frannie. The intricacies of blood typing and blood markers had proven too much for her to understand that just because the baby did not have Harry Jr.’s blood type did not mean that the baby was not his. Her worry to that end had been for naught.

Marcus had been right about one thing. A psychic—and I barely considered myself one in the first place—is never one hundred percent infallible. A case in point would be the elevator conversation I had overheard. As it turns out, it had nothing to do with Frannie Watkins or Anthony Nunzio at all. It was merely a synchronicity that worked on various levels of my consciousness and was a mental heads-up to me to start paying attention. That’s my story at least.

So what was the real story behind the sinister elevator conversation, and how did it connect to me and to this particular turn of Stony Mill bad luck?

I’m getting to that...

 

 

 

 

Time.

For some it was a great healer, the ultimate fixer of bad break-ups, shake-ups, and heartache. Here in Stony Mill we’d had plenty of those, and among the N.I.G.H.T.S. the general consensus was that it had only just begun. How could it ever be over, when we didn’t understand what had started it?

For others, Time was an insidious stealer of all the things they want most in life, stripping it away from them by sneakily changing the rules of obtaining it. Unconscionable and completely without sympathy, like a Vegas strip dealer who gave everyone their cards, let them feel like they were in control of their hand, while secretly waiting for just the right moment to take their last dollar. For all the joyful wishes and hopeful desires held near and dear to our hearts, Time was the one element most likely to keep it from our reach.

To me, Time was all of these, and none. Time simply is.

It’s the framework in which we play out the games of our lives, but the secret is not to control it. It is not to master it. It is simply to learn to exist fully within the moment, to be aware of every facet of our being, and to wring every ounce of joy from it. Perhaps we were our own thieves, lamenting the absence of even a spare moment to enjoy life, when all it really takes is to stop the complaints, take the moment firmly in hand, and make it our own. Because the secret is that Time passes, and if you let it, it will leave you in its wake, aching with every beat of your heart and in every fiber of your being for what you have missed.

It was with all of that in mind that Marcus and I planned a backyard get-together two weeks later. Well, Marcus did the planning—it was to celebrate my thirtieth birthday, an event I could probably have lived without calling an over-abundance of attention to, were it up to me. But when he sweetly proposed a gathering of our friends, how could I say no? The summer had been a long one. Celebrating the end of it meant giving thanks that we had made it through unscathed.

Well, I thought as I gazed ruefully down at my plaster-laden ankle,
relatively
unscathed.

Marcus took care of everything, stringing the backyard with white Christmas bulbs that stretched from house to tree to old carriage barn and back again, hanging paper Japanese lanterns from the tree at varying heights, and covering the picnic tables with green and white gingham tablecloths. The gas grill stood at the ready with a selection of steaks and chicken marinating in the fridge, mouthwatering summer veggies on kebab skewers awaited attention on the counter, and homemade strawberry ice cream was electrically churning in the garage. But best of all was the piece de resistance: a chocolate ganache triple-layer cake, the ganache a delectably shiny drizzle over the top and sides, while in between peeked layers of cream cheese and raspberry preserves... all compliments of Annie Miller, kitchen goddess extraordinaire. My mouth watered every time I looked in that direction.

Everything looked perfect. Everything was perfect. And if I had anything to say about it, we were going to have a witchin’ good time.

And so it was on the Saturday before my birthday that I reclined on a backyard lounger beneath the shade of his giant oak tree with my lemon-fabulous cast plopped comfortably on a cushy pillow and a giganto glass of lavender-infused sun tea by my right arm as my best friends in the whole world gathered around me. Marcus, Liss, Steff, Annie, Tara, Evie, Devon McAllister, Gen Valmont, Joe Aames, Eli Yoder (who had brought Hester, who seemed to have blossomed into life in the five months since I’d first met her...
hmm . .
.), and even Mel and the four girls, who with their nonstop chatter and infectious good humor immediately stole the show right out from under me.

Not that I minded.

At least not until Annie and Steff broke out the sparkle paint, faery glitter, and crystal doodads, and encouraged—nay, outright
instigated
a new and improved version of pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey.

I was the hapless donkey. Or at least the sparkly guinea pig.

Which was why as a peaceful, heart-full lull settled over the gathering I had to raise my former lemon-fabulous cast to the nearest sunbeam to admire my now bedazzled purple/ peacock blue/neon green glitter cast that had more bling factor than a Hollyweird starlet’s beaded designer gown.

“Do you like it, Auntie Maggie?” Jenna, the oldest of my four nieces at five, raised her excited and proud face to mine.

Courtie chimed in, beaming, “Pretty, i‘n’it?”

I put my arms around their chubby bodies and hugged them tight, then planted a resounding kiss on their foreheads. “It’s the most beautiful and sparkly and perfect cast I’ve ever seen. In fact, I told the doctors I wanted one just like this, but”—I shook my head sadly—“they couldn’t figure out how to do it. But you two knew just how!”

Courtie nodded, but Jenna tilted her head thoughtfully and looked at me askance. “Didn’t they know you can get art supplies at Walmart? That’s where Mommy always buys ’em.”

“I guess not.”

Mel was currently sitting at the other end of the picnic table. She looked tired, but then with two new babies and a husband that had gone off the deep end, I was of the mind that she had a right to be. Greg had showed up again on Mel’s first “official” day home from the hospital... but it was only long enough to pack a bag, kiss the girls, and tell Mel that he’d been doing a lot of thinking, and what he kept thinking was that it would be better that they end things now, before there was a lot of hate and bitterness between them. He could have chosen a better time to turn Mel’s world upside down, rather than hitting her with a sneak attack when she was most vulnerable. So while I couldn’t say I was surprised, it didn’t improve my views of him, and I was determined that my sister would learn from the experience and make a better life for herself, without him.

Steff, too, was a little down in the mouth that day and trying hard not to show it. But as her lifelong best friend, I saw the signs. I knew. Whatever was going on between her and Dr. Dan, it was serious, and my heart ached for her. Still, in true Steff fashion, she brushed all that aside now because once the cast was sufficiently nontacky from the girls’ artistic endeavors, Annie had decided to break out the body-art-quality henna to further enhance my birthday experience, and Steff evidently thought that was the coolest thing in the world. Soon I had beautiful, semipermanent
(oy!)
henna designs staining the exposed toes on my right foot . . . but the two of them decided that would leave an imbalance in my energy field and so proceeded to henna my left foot and ankle, too. The results were so intriguing to Jenna and Courtie that they hounded their mom to let them be hennaed, too. Kudos to Mel for her relaxed approach to it all: a pretty shrug and, “It’ll wear off.”

The girls managed to sit still through the entire session, thrilled with their swirling, swishing swoops and scallops. To reward them, we broke into the cake.

It really was a lovely, lovely afternoon. Witchin’, even. And then ...

Two SUVs pulled up in front of the house.

“I think someone’s here, I told Marcus.

“Oh?” was his vague response. I saw the slight smile, too, before he hid it away. What was he up to?

My suspicion turned into surprise and bewilderment as from around the corner of the house strode Dr. Dan, wearing his full doctorly regalia of white lab coat, casual khakis, button-down shirt, and stethoscope.

Steff froze in obvious confusion. “Dan. What are you—But I thought you—”

Without a word he took her by the hand and led her over to a lawn chair that had magically (as opposed to
magickally
) appeared on a bit of lawn set apart from all the others. I glanced over at Marcus. He was humming to himself, smirking and gazing skyward. Guilty. As. Could. Be.

At Dan’s urging, Steff sat down, completely and utterly bemused.

Still without uttering a single word, Dan snapped his fingers. All of a sudden a number of other doctors of assorted ages and sizes, each outfitted in lab coat and stethoscope of their choosing, appeared out of nowhere. Or at least from the front yard.

Ever the dutiful host, Marcus shook their hands and greeted each by name:

Only Marcus and the good doctors seemed to have a clue as to what was going on, and they weren’t giving anything away.

Dr. Dan paced back and forth for a few moments while Steff’s consternation and worry grew. Finally she could take it no more.

“For heaven’s sake, Dan, what on earth is all this about?” Dan turned his back on her and faced his doctor friends. “Gentlemen?”