Sweetly (8 page)

“It’s great. I’m just dropping off the invitations to her chocolate festival.”

“Ooh, lord, I wish I was young enough to be invited to that thing,” the woman says. “This sprout is the only one in my family who’ll be lucky enough to go someday,” she adds, tugging on her daughter’s ponytail gently as she holds the door open for me. “Unless her entire generation is outta Live Oak by then. People keep moving out, and it’ll just be me and Ms. Judy!”

“Yeah, Jed said they might not even send a bus out here for school next year?” We pause in the parking lot to continue our conversation.

“I don’t know about that—I think the great state of South Carolina might be required to truck out here for Live Oak kids. People are fools—a few girls make a break for the big city and suddenly families are moving out of Live Oak in droves. Like they expect Columbia or Augusta to be safer!” she says, rolling her eyes.

“Is that why so many stores are closed?” I ask, motioning to the ancient brick facades across the street.

She shrugs. “Hard to stay in business when there aren’t any customers—”

“Can we go to the candy house?” the little girl asks, eyes wide.

“Ugh,” the mother groans. “Not today.” She gives me a polite wave and takes her daughter’s hand.

“But I want candy!” the little girl cries.

“Yeah, well, people in hell want ice water too, honey. Bye, Gretchen!” The woman waves. I get into Sophia’s car and crank up the AC. She knows my name. Maybe everyone here knows my name.

If I disappeared here, they’d put me up in the post office. They’d have my name displayed there for everyone to see. My picture. Even if I disappeared into the trees, I wouldn’t really vanish.

Layla. Emily. Whitney. Jillian. Danielle. Allie. Rachel. Taylor.

I back the car out of the lot and start toward Sophia’s, past the ghost of a thriving town. Eight girls disappear, and people flat-out leave. Sophia really is the sign of Live Oak’s end days, even though it isn’t her fault.

I take a long time driving home—driving past the forest slowly is simultaneously punishing and empowering. If I can drive past it, could I walk past it? Walk in it? As the sun sets, the day cools off a little, and when I pull into Sophia’s driveway a half hour later, the sky is streaked with violet and peach shades.

I’m about to open the chocolatier’s screen door when something catches my eye. Something different—I turn slightly. On the far side of the porch is a seashell—a new one. I walk toward it, counting the others as I do so—there are now eight. The new shell is a conch shell, pale pink with perfectly shaped points spiraling around the larger end. I lift it, turning it over in my hand.

Something stirs in the woods.

My head shoots up, eyes scanning, old desperation and fear sweeping through me.

It’s the witch. She’s here. She’s coming. I’m sure it’s her. Is there even a recent photo of me to put on the post office wall? Yellow eyes—where are they? Hurry. I need to get to Ansel, I can’t leave him—

An armadillo tumbles out of the underbrush, then hurries back into the forest.

I release the breath I’d been holding. My cheeks flush, embarrassed at my fear. Maybe everyone was right. Maybe there was no witch. Maybe I’m just a confused little girl.
Get it together, Gretchen.

I turn my back to the forest and step inside the storefront. I inhale slowly for a few moments, until the fear fades entirely. The scent of vanilla, the low hum of Sophia and Ansel talking in the kitchen…
Relax.

“What do you want to do eventually, then?” Ansel says lowly.

I hear Sophia exhale, and I grab the screen door before it slams shut. I’m not sure what’s intriguing enough to warrant eavesdropping, yet I listen intently, peering into the kitchen through the slats in the saloon doors. I can see Sophia’s back but not Ansel.

“It doesn’t matter. This is what I do now. Besides, you already said you don’t know what you want to do,” Sophia says, voice light and giggly.

“The difference,” Ansel adds, and I move close enough to see him lean over the counter, close to Sophia, “is that I know I want to do
something
. You aren’t happy here, so what is it you want to do?”

Sophia puts down the spoons that were in her hand and is silent for a long time—I wonder what look she’s giving my brother.

“I wouldn’t mind making chocolate, it’s just that things are weird right now. But if I weren’t doing that… I don’t know. Maybe I’d write? Teach?”

“Was that so hard?” Ansel teases her. “And you’d be good at either.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sophia says, and there’s laughter in her voice. They’re silent for a moment, so I use the opportunity to let the screen door go. It slams shut, and I see Sophia and Ansel jump and move away from each other. I take a deep breath and walk into the kitchen.

“I dropped the invites off. This woman at the post office knew who Ansel and I are. It’s weird,” I say to Sophia, sliding down onto a bar stool.

“Word travels fast here, I guess.” She turns back to the pantry and gathers a jar of peanut butter and loaf of bread in her arms as Ansel refills his tea.

“Anyway,” I continue, “they’re all mailed. But hey—where did that new seashell come from?”

The peanut butter slips from Sophia’s hands and thuds against the floor; the top pops off and the open container rolls across the kitchen, toward the screen door. Sophia stares at it; when she doesn’t react, I finally jump up to grab it. Ansel stares, eyes flitting from her to me.

“You okay?” I ask as I pick up the lid and screw it back on to the peanut butter. Sophia’s eyes look distant, as if she’s not really looking at me.

“Sophia?” Ansel asks.

“Where is it?” she says faintly.

“The shell? On the porch,” I say, taking the bread from her fingers and putting it on the counter. I’ve barely done so when Sophia brushes past me, pushing through the saloon doors and then the screen. Ansel and I follow.

It takes Sophia only a heartbeat to see the new shell. She inhales slowly, then walks over to it, as though she’s afraid she might frighten it away. She lifts it delicately, running her fingers over the points and tracing the spiral with her nails.

“Sophia, are you okay?” Ansel asks, voice strong, demanding an answer.

“Oh.” Sophia snaps out of her daze, back to her happy version. She smiles and sets the shell down. “Yeah, I’m fine. Someone must have dropped this off… Guess they didn’t have enough time to come in.” She pulls her hair up as she holds the screen door open with her hip.

“I didn’t see anyone pull up,” Ansel says as we head back inside.

“Might have walked.”

“Sophia, you live in the middle of nowhere—” I say.

“Maybe they biked, then. People bike here sometimes,” Sophia snaps.

My eyes widen and I take a step backward—she’s never used that tone before, and it startles me, scares me, almost. Ansel’s eyes flicker between me and Sophia, waiting for one of us to make the next move.

“Sorry,” Sophia says, her voice sincere. She takes my hand. “Sorry. I’m just worried about the Fourth of July block party and the chocolate festival. It’s a lot to handle.”

“It’s okay,” I say slowly. “Want me to make you a sandwich or something?” I add, nodding to the bread and peanut butter on the counter.

“Yeah. Yeah, please. Thanks, Gretchen,” Sophia says, and gives me an apologetic look. “I’m going to go get some fresh air. Maybe have a drink and some of those hazelnut pralines… I’m sorry, seriously.”

“It’s okay,” I say, shaking my head. Sophia nods; as she passes Ansel, she lets her hand rest on his shoulder for a moment, then folds her arms over her stomach and continues on outside.

“What was that all about?” I mumble when she’s out of earshot.

“I don’t know,” Ansel says, popping his knuckles. “Maybe she’s just mad whoever left that thing didn’t come in to buy something? Should I look around, make sure no one is here, hiding or something?” His eyes scan the yard.

“Maybe…” I hesitate. “You haven’t heard or seen…
anything?
” I ask cautiously.

Ansel gives me a hard look. “Nothing. Did you?”

I shake my head quickly. “No.”

If Ansel isn’t afraid, I don’t need to be afraid. I glance out the back door, to where Sophia rocks back and forth on the bench swing, biting into a praline. I can almost see the relief flooding through her as she swallows it, as if it’s calming her. I should have one too.

Anything to make the fear fade.

CHAPTER FIVE

A
week later, I take my books out of my suitcase. I slowly, carefully line them up on top of the dresser, putting them in order by the cover colors. I handle them delicately, as if they’re photos or mementos instead of paper and cloth. When I finish, I step back and stare at them for a moment. They look as though they belong here. I spend a few minutes arranging and rearranging them, flipping some on their side, remembering the first time I read them. Thinking about how I’ll read them again in this beautiful new place.

I smile and walk to the bedroom door, then gently open it.

I yelp and clasp a hand over my mouth.

“Sorry, sorry!” Ansel says quickly, trying to hush me. I groan and shake off the surprise.

“Why are you lurking outside my bedroom?” I grumble at him, embarrassed at shouting.

“Um, well… I’m going to…” Ansel shuffles his feet on the hardwood. I raise my eyebrows and fold my arms. Ansel finally spits out the rest of his sentence. “I’m going to ask Sophia to dinner.”

“To… dinner… what?” I try to suppress the smile emerging at the corners of my mouth.

“I just… it’s like she makes me feel comfortable. Normal, I guess. I don’t know. Stop making that face!” Ansel says, cheeks reddening.

The laugh escapes my lips. Ansel rolls his eyes at me and turns around to storm down the stairs.

“Hey, wait, wait,” I say, chuckling a little. “Sorry. I get it, I get it. She makes me feel that way too. I’m just not asking her out. But where are you going to take her?”

“I was thinking that Italian place? The guy who owns the hardware store said it’s the only date place left in Live Oak. That is, when he wasn’t laughing at me.” Ansel sighs. How long has he been planning this? I bet he hasn’t given the forest a second thought. It’s been on my mind more and more lately, as I recite the eight missing girls’ names over and over in my head. The scent of the chocolatier seems to have worn off, and old fears are fighting to win me back.

I pause a long time before answering. “She doesn’t like to go into town, and people in town don’t always like us anyway. You should make something here.”

“Here?”

“Yes, here,” I say, waving my arm at the living room. “I mean, just go to the grocery and get stuff for sandwiches and drinks and have a little picnic in the living room.”

“That doesn’t sound as nice as a dinner out,” Ansel says skeptically.

“Trust me. It’s the little efforts that count. Anyone can take a girl out to eat.” Ansel frowns but nods. Good. He should listen to me—I mean, I’ve never actually been on a date, but years of studying romantic leads in books and watching couples while still in school taught me a thing or two.

“Anything else I should do?” he asks, and I laugh. It’s odd, giving him advice—I feel as if I’m the protective one suddenly. It’s not a bad feeling.

“Be yourself, Ansel. You’ll be fine,” I tell him.

“That’s the most vague advice ever,” Ansel grumbles.

“Trust me.”

For most of the day, I help Sophia mold chocolate-shaped acorns in white, dark, and milk chocolate; we even make a few with white chocolate bodies and milk chocolate caps. She’s in a fantastic mood—three RSVPs for the chocolate festival came in. The way Sophia gazes at them pinned up on a corkboard by the kitchen door, you’d think they were diamond studded.

Between the two of us, work goes fast, and by dinnertime there’s nothing left to do. I make myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and head for my room, thinking I’ll eat there, read a magazine, and go to bed early. In the living room I pass Ansel, who is busy spreading out his array of fine Piggly Wiggly–brand delicacies—a huge plate of fried chicken, tub of potato salad, biscuits, and half a pecan pie.

“What do you think? The guy in the deli said this was good date food,” Ansel says nervously.

I shrug. “Your guess is as good as mine, but it looks delicious to me. I’ll be in my room,” I say, nodding toward my bedroom. Ansel leaps to his feet.

“What? No. You can’t be… right there.”

I fold my arms and lean against the door frame. “And why not?”

“Because I can’t be on a date with Sophia Kelly while my sister is seven feet away,” Ansel says, eyes widening as if I’ve missed the most obvious thing in the world. “It’ll be… um…”

“What am I supposed to do, then?” It’s one thing to ask Sophia on a date; it’s another thing entirely to throw me out in order to do so.

“I don’t know. Go read downstairs or something.”

“In the kitchen. You’re throwing me out and telling me to go hang out
in the kitchen
.”

“Or the porch. I don’t know. Come on, Gretchen.” He shakes his head, eyes pleading and serious. “Just this once. Please. I’ll owe you big.”