Miracle Molly: A Love Story

By Geof Johnson

When an anonymous tip about corruption and crime leads Archie Macintyre back to his small hometown, he thinks he's found the big story he's been waiting for, one that could save his flagging career as a journalist. He's more than ready to give up bartending and one-night stands that leave him feeling empty and lonely. He's especially tired of having to write sappy feel-good stories to pay the bills.
One of those sappy stories leads Archie to Poppy Kingston and her therapy dog, Molly. Sparks fly between him and Poppy, and the more time he spends with her and Molly, the more he notices something strange going on with her dog, something possibly supernatural, and believes this may be an even bigger story if he can prove it, but he'd be forced to choose between the love of his life and his career.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 23, 2019
• ISBN: 9781543998351

Book preview

Author

Chapter 1

A sharp pain in Archie’s jaw reminded him that he was grinding his molars again, but he couldn’t make himself stop. His sense of urgency was overwhelming.

I have to get some good info from this guy or I’ll be in big trouble.

No info meant no story. No story meant no money, and Archie was desperately broke.

He stuck his phone to his ear with his left hand and clutched a pen with his right, spun halfway around in his cheap office chair toward his open bedroom door, then rotated back to his original position so that he faced his computer on his desk and the notepad beside it.

Then he spun in the opposite direction.

He repeated this process like a human pendulum, marking anxious time, pausing only when the front door slammed. It startled him until he remembered it was Zoey, his roommate, going to get a pizza for their dinner.

Archie shifted his attention back to his pending phone call in time to hear a tinny voice say, Hello?

Finally! Hey, this is Archie Macintyre. Who am I speaking with?

Anonymous source.

This sounds like Bernard.

It’s Anonymous.

Come on, Bernard. Let me attribute a real name to this tip.

Can’t do it.

It’ll help sell this story, and my rent is due next week.

That’s your problem, not mine.

Don’t you care that I may be homeless soon?

Not really.

All right, if that’s the way it’s going to be. What do you have for me today?

On what?

On the weather, Archie said impatiently. What do you think I’m calling about?

Idyllwild.

That’s it. Idyllwild Homes was a chain of luxury retirement-slash-assisted living condos. Something fishy was going on with the company and Archie was determined to find out what it was and write a story on it.

It’s messy, Anonymous-Bernard said.

I like messy.

I may not be able to tell you what the issue is right now.

Sure you can. It’s just you and me.

And however many readers see your story.

Okay. You’re Anonymous, officially.

Still can’t.

You’re stonewalling me? After all we’ve been through?

We’ve hardly been through anything. Being casual friends in college doesn’t count.

I gave you the connection that got you that job.

It’s a shitty job.

Can I quote you on that?

I’d get fired.

I was kidding. I know bottom-feeding bureaucrats don’t get paid enough.

And we work too much, Bernard said.

Conservatives think you’re all a bunch of lazy bums.

That’s the media’s fault.

It’s not mine, and I’m the media. I’m on your side.

I know. Sorry. I wanted this job. Well, not this particular one, but I wanted my foot in the door.

You’ll be agency director in ten years.

Great, he said dully. King of the hill.

Are you done feeling sorry for yourself yet? I need a story in a bad way, and I think you’re just the person to give it to me.

Like I said, it might be someone else’s purview.

You just used an obscure word.

It’s a product of my over-education, Bernard said.

And you’re overqualified, underappreciated, etcetera. C’mon, give me something I can use. One little tidbit. I really need it. Archie ground his molars again.

There was a long, hissing inhalation on the other end of the line, followed by a short pause. The matter with Idyllwild Homes may not be my agency’s concern.

That’s BS.

It’s the truth.

Isn’t HFR in charge of places like that?

Supposedly.

What’s that mean?

No comment.

Aren’t you investigating Idyllwild? Archie said. You suggested that, last time we talked.

We’re stretched too thin because we’re understaffed.

Everybody says that.

Because it’s true.

Was your boss told to look the other way and keep his nose out of it?

I wouldn’t say that, exactly.

But something’s up with Idyllwild.

When I say it’s messy, what I really mean is that it’s complicated.

But still under your department’s jurisdiction.

Maybe, maybe not. That’s part of the problem.

Is it Medicare fraud?

Something else.

Something worse?

There was a long pause. Much worse.

Can you tell me what it is?

No.

Why? Will you get fired?

Maybe worse.

Another worse from Bernard. Archie liked the smell of this, and was drawn to it like a dog pulling at the leash to get to a dead squirrel in the road. What, like you’d get hurt?

Bernard didn’t answer, and after several seconds of waiting, Archie said, Am I right?

No comment.

Whoa! I am.

Possibly.

You’re serious?

Dead serious.

Is this an organized crime thing? Mexican cartels? What?

I’ve said all I can say.

Archie slid lower in his seat and rubbed his right temple with his fingertips. What the hell is going on? Well, I don’t want you to get murdered by big, beefy men in black suits and bad attitudes, but you still haven’t given me anything I can use in the story.

You’re an investigative journalist. Do some investigating.

That’s what I’m trying to do right now. I just need a little more info from you.

I don’t want to put myself in danger.

So that’s a real possibility? Bernard had a tendency to be melodramatic, so Archie had to maintain some skepticism.

You need to go check out one of the facilities. That’s all I can tell you.

Any one in particular?

Just whichever one is closest to you.

That would be Gainesville, on the lake.

You can try any of them. There are five, with a sixth in the planning stage.

How about the one in South Georgia that’s near my parents?

That would be a good place to look. Any of them would be.

They all have the same problem?

Didn’t say that.

You didn’t have to. Archie glanced at his notepad, which had too little written on it. Okay, Anonymous. Thanks. I’ll check into it.

Archie ended the call but remained in his chair, thinking. He still didn’t have anything he could turn into sellable copy, but Bernard’s cryptic answers made Archie believe that this could be just the story he needed for his big break, if he could get to the heart of the matter.

Archie, sitting at the ancient, Formica-topped table in his kitchen, used a fork to transfer a hot slice of pizza from the cardboard box onto his plate. Zoey already had a piece and was consuming it in prodigious bites. She didn’t care if she burned her tongue on the sizzling cheese. Zoey was tough.

She chewed for a moment and swallowed. Did you get anything good for your story? Zoey was a freelance journalist, too, and always curious.

Not exactly. He told her what had transpired in the earlier phone conversation.

That sounds like it could be huge.

That’s what I’m hoping.

Any idea what the deal is?

I thought it was Medicare fraud, but my source said it isn’t. Archie took a tentative bite from his pizza slice, careful not to singe his mouth. I guess I’ll have to go up to Gainesville and check out that Idyllwild, though I have no idea what pretense I’d use to get in. Or I could look at the one in Waycross this weekend when I visit my family.

You’re going down there again? You just went.

Three weeks ago. My mom called and asked me to come. She’s feeling poorly.

Isn’t she always? Zoey grabbed another slice of pizza from the box.

It’s an on-going thing with her. The pain of the month.

Is it ever anything real?

I doubt it. She goes to the doctor a lot with some mysterious symptom and gets a bunch of tests done, but nothing ever comes up positive.

Sounds expensive.

I’m sure it is.

It’s a good thing your dad has a lot of bucks. She took a bite worthy of a good-sized wolf.

That’s her hobby, complaining, going to the doctor about her ailments, and then calling me and making me feel guilty until I promise to drive down there for a day or two. She wants me to come Friday afternoon, but there’s no way I’m dealing with that traffic. I’ll leave early on Saturday and come back Sunday.

You gotta bartend that night? Zoey said.

He nodded. My folks don’t live that far from Waycross, so I could potentially swing over there and look into Idyllwild while I’m down that way, but I’d have to think of a good excuse for checking them out.

Tell them you want a tour because you have an ailing mother who can no longer live in the family home.

I thought of that, but since I’m only twenty-four, most people would know my mother wouldn’t be old enough for assisted living or retirement. He took another bite of pizza, bigger this time.

Then tell them it’s for your grandmother.

I might be able to pull that off, but I don’t know what I’d learn from that. They’d probably just show me their model unit and make me sit in front of a screen and watch a slick promotional video.

Then they’d hit you with the ol’ hard sell, like buying time share. My folks went through that last year, for a vacation rental in Sarasota.

I could endure the hard sell if I thought I could dig around with a few, well-placed questions, but there’s no way to tell in advance if the salesperson would know the facts that I’d need to build a solid story from.

Zoey reached for the last slice of pizza. They might not be willing to tell you anything that’s not related to sales.

I know it won’t be easy. It’s not like calling somebody at a bureaucracy. There’s always some disgruntled office drone with a chip on their shoulder.

There should be a few like that who work for Idyllwild. They’re a big company with lots of employees. They can’t all be happy.

Finding the unhappy ones who are willing to talk is the trick, though.

Maybe there’s an employee users group, for anonymous, on-line bitchin’.

I’ll do some checking tonight.

Zoey glanced at the empty pizza box and said, Got my seven bucks for your half?

The pizza was fourteen bucks?

Yeah, even with a coupon. Pay up.

Archie checked the meager contents of his wallet. I got it, but then I’ll be broke.

Are you going to have your share of the rent on time? It’s due Monday.

I’ll probably work a double at Victory on Sunday, and that should give me enough.

Are you covering for somebody in the afternoon?

Carter. His daughter has a gymnastics tournament and his wife will divorce him if he misses it. He missed the last two.

Are tips good for that shift?

Usually. We’ll have five or six different NFL games on the big TVs, and some other stuff, like baseball and soccer on the smaller ones, Archie said.

Women’s basketball?

If a customer asks for it.

I would.

That’s only because you played.

It’s because it’s a great sport to watch. Zoey said. You should try it sometime,

I watched some of your home games in college.

True. Could you pick up a shift this Saturday?

I’m going to see my folks, remember? I wish I could, though. The money would come in handy.

Since you don’t have a story to work on at the moment, do you want me to see if I can find one for you?

I don’t want to write a fluff piece right now. That’s your gig.

I don’t write fluff, either. They’re feel-good stories.

That’s a euphemism for fluff.

"Parade Magazine didn’t think so."

Zoey never missed a chance to bring that up, her one-and-only piece printed in a national publication, even though the magazine was just part of the Sunday newspaper, like another sales flyer, as far as Archie was concerned. That’s their whole deal, Zoey! Total, undiluted fluff.

Their check wasn’t diluted. She shot him a self-satisfied smile. And it’s the most widely read magazine in the US, distributed to over 700 newspapers. Millions of people saw my story. Millions. Her gloating smile widened. Zoey was a competitive person. Archie hated playing pool or throwing darts with her. She seemed to think they were contact sports. Bruising was involved.

I don’t want a reputation as a fluff writer, Archie said.

Doesn’t bother me. Her smile dwindled quickly. Hey, uh, think you’ll have time to edit my latest article?

Dang, you have a lot of nerve, and zero tact.

You’re used to it. Can you help me or not?

What’s it about, who’s it for, and when’s it due?

"It’s about a support group for parents of autistic kids, it’s for Sunny Day Magazine, and it’s due tomorrow at noon."

You’re not giving me much time. How many words?

Only twelve hundred. I’m at least a hundred and fifty over that right now. I’m hoping you can help me pare it down.

I’d have to be ruthless, and you hate that, and you argue with me over every sentence.

I won’t do it this time, I promise. I’ll agree to every cut and every change.

I don’t believe you. We almost got into a fistfight over your last article.

There’s not enough time for me to be contrary. I don’t want to miss my deadline. I won’t get paid.

He glanced at the seven dollars that still lay on the table. I want my money back, then.

She pushed the bills toward him. That’s a bargain. You always make my stuff sound good.

"Your grammar’s okay, it’s just that you like redundant constructions. If I see you write exact same one more time, I’m gonna slap you silly."

You might have to stand on a chair to reach my face.

You’re not that much taller than me.

Six inches.

"Five. You’re six two and I’m five nine. Don’t write exact same ever again."

But everybody—

No! It’s redundant.

The worst thing about getting you to edit my stuff is having to endure the lectures that go with it. She scowled. By the way, I got an email from our old buddy Gerald. Remember him?

Fairfax?

That’s the one.

What’s he up to?

He wants to know if he can stay here next Saturday. He’s driving to Washington, DC, and needs a place to crash overnight. I told him he could use the couch. Hope that’s all right.

Gerald’s an insufferable twit.

Been reading Brit Lit again?

He’s a fart blossom.

Sounds about right.

Damn, I don’t want to put up with him. Archie reached for his ear and fingered the rough line of skin behind it, where it joined his head.

Zoey pointed at his hand and said, Does it bug you that much?

What?

Gerald coming. Whenever something bothers you, you fiddle with your scar.

He dropped his hand to his lap. No I don’t. I’m just thinking.

You don’t even notice that you do that, do you? I’ve known you a long time, and I can tell when something’s buggin’ you. You mess with your ear.

Just a habit. You talk to yourself when you write. You do it so loud I can hear you in my room with the door closed.

She pointed at his ear again. Do you ever think about when it happened?

I try not to, and I don’t remember much. I was only five.

Musta’ been awful, having you ear ripped halfway off by a—

Do you mind? I’d rather not talk about it.

* * *

Poppy eyed the pizza box when Dana, sitting across from her, slid it toward her. There was only one slice left. A second box was on the other end of the kitchen table, and it was empty. The five people who were with her had eaten almost all of it. Poppy’d had none. The remaining piece looked sad and thin, with no pepperoni on it. Someone must’ve picked it off when she wasn’t looking. No thanks, she said to Dana. I’ll make a grilled cheese sandwich after they leave. She checked the clock over the stove. 8:55. I hope it’s soon. She had to work in the morning.

Haley, the stocky de facto leader of their group, glanced at the yellow notepad she held in her lap. We need to come up with a few better ideas than these if we’re going to raise enough money. Somebody has vetoed each one so far.

That’s because most of them are terrible, Marsha said.

Except the one about selling wrapping paper. Dana fashioned an optimistic smile. Haley gave her a scathing look and the smile vanished.

Edward, tall and lanky, with salt-and-pepper hair and matching beard, gestured at the notepad. Remind us what we got, Haley.

Car wash. Bake sale. Selling coupon books for local businesses. Charity concert, a—

I still think that’s the best idea, Bobbie said, the second-youngest member of their group, only one year older than Poppy. My uncle’s band will play for free.

Your uncle had one hit, Haley said, if you want to call it that. I’ve never heard it.

Then you need to get out more.

Who would buy tickets to see him? Haley said. Nobody, that’s who. And we’d have to rent a venue, hire security, and all that crap. Where are we going to get the money for that? We’d have to pay up front for it.

We went over this earlier, Poppy said, after another anxious glance at the clock.

Then you think of something, Marsha, the wiry grandmother said.

Let’s have a hunger strike, Poppy said jokingly, and send out a press release before we start it. We’ll say we won’t eat until we raise five thousand dollars.

No way I’m doing that, Frank said. He liked to eat. It showed. He was so heavy that Poppy worried he’d break her kitchen chair when he sat on it.

Edward scratched his well-groomed beard and pursed his lips. Let’s try to get the Atlanta paper to do a story on us. The AJC does stuff like that sometimes, and our donations would go way up, so we wouldn’t have to do some pain-in-the-ass fund raiser.

Who’s going to handle that? Poppy said. Do any of you know a reporter?

That can be your job, Haley said.

Me? Poppy put her hand on her chest. I don’t know anybody at the newspaper.

But you’re the nicest looking of our bunch. A reporter will be more inclined to say yes to you.

No.

Come on, Poppy. Do it for the organization and for the people who need us. If we don’t raise money soon, there won’t be a Therapy Paws Atlanta anymore, and you know what that means.

You’re trying to make me feel guilty.

Of course I am. Sit down with a reporter and make us look good and deserving. You can handle it. You’re smart. You won’t embarrass yourself or the rest of us.

I have no idea how to do something like that. What do I do, call one of the newspapers and say I want someone to interview me? I never took public relations in college. I was an education major.

I’ll spread the word among my friends. One of them will know how to do it, or they’ll know someone who does.

And if I don’t do the interview?

Haley stabbed the writing pad with a stiff finger. Then we either do one of these shitty fundraisers, or fold. Bye bye Therapy Paws Atlanta.

And I can’t heal kids anymore, Poppy thought ruefully. Do we have enough in our account to pay our current bills?

Dana, the treasurer and bookkeeper, said, Barely, but insurance is due soon, and we won’t have the funds for that. We can pay for our monthly web hosting, but that’s about it.

We have to have insurance, Bobbie said, don’t we?

If we’re going to operate as therapy pet owners, we do. We need the extra credibility of the therapy animal status. We could always try this as a comfort animal thing, but that would be a big step down, with less access to really sick people.

I started out doing the comfort animal thing, Marsha said with a steep frown. I don’t want to do that again. We have to continue as we are.

Which means we’ll need money for insurance, Dana said, and it’s expensive.

How soon do we need it? Poppy said.

We can probably slide by for about two weeks after the next payment is due before they’ll cancel us, so that gives about thirty days.

Poppy sighed, defeated. Okay. I’ll do the interview, but I’ll need some help. Don’t dump this all on me. I have to work full-time.

We all do, Haley said, except Marsha, and she’s just lookin’ after her decrepit sister.

Marsha glared at Haley. It’s dementia, I’ll have you know, and it’s still mild.

Sorry, Haley said, but obviously didn’t mean it. She was indifferent toward good manners and social graces.

Marsha glanced at the clock, too. Poppy, when does your sister get home?

Not until after midnight. She’s working second shift.

I bet your neighbors like having a cop in the neighborhood.

It’s a safe place to live anyway.

Bobbie turned in her chair and considered Poppy’s yellow Labrador retriever, lying patiently on her bed in the corner. She sure is well-behaved. She didn’t beg for food at all while we were eating. My dog would’ve been halfway in my lap the whole time, wanting some pizza. He loves pizza. That’s why he’s so big.

Molly never pesters me when I’m eating, Poppy said.

Was it hard to train her to do that?

I didn’t have to do much at all. I said no the first couple of times she did it, back when she was still a puppy, and that’s all it took.

It’s a miracle then.

Yes. She is.

* * *

Archie knocked his brother to the ground and fell on top of him, wrapping him up with his body to protect the smaller boy. The monstrous dog was upon them in an instant, snarling before it clamped its terrible jaws on Archie’s upper arm. Archie shrieked and hugged his brother tighter.

The Rottweiler released Archie for a second, and bit him on the back of the head. Archie grunted at the pain. Then the dog sank his teeth into Archie’s left ear and yanked, and the scorching shock was white-hot fire. Archie screamed to end the world.

He sat up in bed, panting, sweating. I hate that dream. He gasped a few times as it replayed in his mind. Dammit, Zoey! he said, even though she probably couldn’t hear him. Her room was on the other side of the hall. This is your fault! If you hadn’t brought it up when we were eating, I wouldn’t have had this nightmare.

He lay back and rubbed the scar behind his ear, as if to reassure himself that everything was still attached. It’s going to take a while to fall asleep again.

It always did, after that dream.

* * *

Poppy waited impatiently at the front of the shop for her sister and mother to catch up with her, even though Poppy was already ten years old and big enough to go inside by herself, wasn’t she?

I’m not a little kid anymore, she’d argued earlier.

You’re still too young to wander off alone, her mother replied. There are a lot of weirdos in this town right now, so I want you where I can see you. Don’t get too far ahead of me.

Salem, Massachusetts was crowded during October, and Poppy loved it. The town started celebrating Halloween, one of the best holidays ever in the history of holidays, right at the beginning of the month, and it was extravagantly decorated, and people were everywhere in fantastic and ghoulish costumes. Street performers entertained (Poppy had seen a juggler, a puppeteer, and three musicians so far that day), countless women of all ages dressed up as witches, and there were historical tours. Poppy’s family had visited a famous cemetery and the Salem Witch Museum. Now they were perusing the shops. Afterward they were going to the Kids Fun Fest on the Commons.

That’s what Poppy wanted to do the most, but her mother and her sister wanted to shop, first. Poppy was so antsy she was ready to explode, and she stayed twenty steps ahead of her family, urging them to hurry. It was as far as she could go without getting in trouble.

Her mother and her sister, after two-and-a-half forevers, left the previous shop, where they’d been looking over shawls and scarves among the racks placed on the sidewalk. Rose was twelve years old and thought of herself as sophisticated, and therefore too mature to hurry ahead with Poppy, but Poppy had to admit that Rose could use a new scarf to cover her bald head. She’d torn her other one at their aunt’s house, and now she had to wear a Red Sox cap that their aunt had loaned her.

When Poppy’s mother and sister joined Poppy, they entered Curious Curios.

It was much like the other five or six shops they’d already visited. It had racks of clothes that favored capes, robes, and hooded cloaks (all dark colors, of course). Shelves were stocked with books on Salem’s history, magic, witches, and witchcraft. Other shelves had crystals and polished stones that supposedly bore strange powers, mandalas (Poppy had just learned the word that morning), countless jars of herbs, and figurines of mystical things. Poppy liked the unicorns the best. When she pointed them out to her sister, Rose sniffed disdainfully.

Mom made her way to the jewelry rack, where silver necklaces, tiaras, bracelets, earrings, finger rings, nose rings, toe rings, belly button rings (Gross! Poppy said, and Mom laughed), and every other kind of ring imaginable sat on a tall, narrow shelf. Poppy found all of that boring and wandered toward the glass counter at the side of the store, where a vast collection of shiny bric-a-brac was displayed.

A long and slender middle-aged woman was perched on a wooden stool behind it, near the cash register. She was dressed in a deep maroon robe and sported so much jewelry she would’ve drowned from the weight of it if she’d fallen into a swimming pool. Her makeup was peculiar, with deep purple lipstick, eyeshadow, and fingernails, long and dangerous-looking. Her free-flowing hair, which hung to her waist, was jet-black, and even Poppy could tell that it had been dyed. Seen from a distance, you’d think it was made of crows’ feathers.

The woman smiled in a friendly manner. Hello, I’m Della. What’s your name?

Poppy told her, after a moment’s reluctance. She wasn’t supposed to talk to strangers, but she knew this woman’s name already, making her less of a stranger, but still strange. Purple lipstick! Poppy wasn’t allowed to wear any lipstick, but if she could, it wouldn’t be purple.

If you find anything you like, tell me and I’ll pull it out for you so you can see it up close.

Do you have anything for less than five dollars? That’s all that my mom will let me spend, and that’s for the whole time we’re on vacation, and she told me not to spend it frivolously — that means foolishly, by the way. I just learned that.

Good for you! You sound smart.

I am. My daddy says so all the time, and he’s a professor at a big college so he should know. Poppy held her head high, proud of herself and her father. But anyway, I can’t buy the first thing I see or I won’t have any money for the rest of the week.

Well, I don’t want you to spend your money too soon, but there are quite a few inexpensive things in here, like some small but lovely crystals, —she pointed into the glass display case while she talked— packs of junior-sized Tarot cards, some costume jewelry. She looked closely at Poppy. I see your ears aren’t pierced yet.

I’m old enough, but Mom said no, not ’till I’m twelve, like my sister.

That’s the girl with the hat?

Yes, but she hasn’t gotten her ears pierced yet, either. She’s been sick.

Let me guess. Cancer?

Yes, but she’s in remission right now. That’s why we were able to come here. Last year she was too sick, but she feels better, now.

Where are you from?

Roswell.

New Mexico?

No, Georgia. It’s by Atlanta. Everybody should know that. My daddy couldn’t come because he has to teach at the college and look after our dog. Her name is Mimi. She’s a mutt.

How long are you here for?

All week. We have fall break at school, so we came to see my aunt. We’re staying at her house, ’cause it’s free.

Free is good. I’m a big fan of free. She glanced at Poppy’s sister again, who was still at the back of the store. I wish I had something free to give you, because you seem like a nice girl. She clicked her tongue thoughtfully. Though I might have a, um…do you like unicorns?

Oh, yes! More than anything!

The woman spun on her stool to the wooden counter behind her, slid open a drawer, and sifted through its contents. I think I have one in here. This is where we keep things that we don’t know what else to do with, but we don’t want to throw away. After a few seconds of searching, she withdrew a figurine and turned back to Poppy. I have this little unicorn that has a nick on one of its hind legs. It’s not really noticeable, but I can’t sell it. Would you like it?

She showed it to Poppy, and Poppy’s eyes grew wide when she saw the tiny white magical horse with the horn on its forehead. Its mane and tail were thick and flowing and golden, and it had sparkling stones for eyes.

The woman smiled kindly and offered the unicorn to Poppy. Poppy forgot to breathe and held out her hand, and the woman reached over the counter. When she placed the figurine in Poppy’s palm, her fingertips grazed Poppy’s skin, and the woman gasped and jerked back and her eyes flared and her mouth fell open as if she’d touched a hot frying pan.

Are you okay? Poppy said.

I felt something. She looked probingly at Poppy, as if trying to see inside her to discover what she was constructed of, and it made Poppy uncomfortable. Della said, This is an awkward question, but could I hold your hand for a moment? I promise I won’t hurt you.

Why do you want to do that? The warning about strangers rang in her mind like a fire alarm. This woman was definitely strange.

It’s just a little test. I think…well, it’s hard to explain, and it could be nothing. Do you mind?

Poppy glanced at her mother, who had moved to a different display rack with Rose at the back of the shop. Poppy swallowed hard and considered the unicorn, which she clutched in her fist. She did give me this, and it’s not candy. Strangers with candy were the worst. Everybody said so.

Della’s smile was pleasant. Warm, even.

I guess she’s nice enough. Poppy held out her free hand. The woman cradled it with both of hers like she would a fragile thing, and closed her eyes and her face grew slack as if she’d fallen asleep. After several seconds she released Poppy and nodded firmly. I thought so. You have the Gift.

I know. Poppy held up the unicorn. I didn’t lose it. I’ll never do that. It’s too beautiful.

I’m not talking about that. Tell me, do unusual things ever happen to you that you find hard to explain?

Everything is hard to explain. I’m a kid. Poppy warily said, What do you mean?

Do you ever know things before they happen, like when the phone is about to ring, or can you tell what another person is going to say before they say it?

Poppy had to think about that. It was an unusual question from an unusual person. No, but I’m really good with our dog. She always behaves for me, but not anybody else. My father almost gave her away because she was so bad, but I got her to stop chewing up the couch cushions and barking late at night and all that stuff. He hated that. Everybody did, except for me. That’s ’cause I love Mimi the most, and she loves me.

Sounds like you two have a very special bond.

A what?

You’re really good friends.

Yes, we are. I can get her to do anything. My dad says it’s like magic.

Della nodded sagely. Is there anything else you can do that seems magical?

Poppy thought about it for a moment, but nothing came to mind, so she shrugged.

The woman placed her hands on top of the display case and leaned over it so that she was closer to Poppy, and said in a near whisper, I think you can do more. Much more. She looked briefly at Rose, who was still at the back of the shop with Poppy’s mother. How long has your sister been sick?

Over a year, but she’s better right now.

Do you think it was the treatments that helped her?

The doctor said the chemo was working, finally. She was feeling really horrible for a while, and she was throwing up all the time and was tired and had to stay out of school, but she’s back, now. I mean, except that we’re on fall break. The other kids make fun of her bald head, though. That’s why she’s looking for a good scarf today. She tore her other one when she was playing with my aunt’s dog. Mom doesn’t like her wearing a cap because it makes her look like a boy, but Rose doesn’t mind.

When she was really sick, did you ever wish super hard for her to get better?

Oh, sure. All the time. I sat by her bed during the worst part and kept her company, and when she slept, which was a lot ’cause she felt awful and she was weak and everything, I prayed really hard for her to get better, and she did.

Does your family go to church?

Not really, but I know about praying because my friend Audrey is Catholic and she has to pray like, twenty times a day, and she told me how to do it. So I prayed for Rose, and now she feels good enough to go on vacation.

Did you ever stop to think that you had something to do with that?

How?

With your Gift. The same one that helps you bond with your dog better than anyone else can. Think of it as a power that only certain, very special girls have.

This woman was talking nonsense. Poppy shrugged again, because she didn’t know how to answer her.

She leaned toward Poppy again and lowered her voice so that no one but Poppy could hear. I hope this doesn’t happen, but if your sister has a relapse, I think you can help her, maybe even more than the doctors can. You see, I have the Gift, too. I’m not good with dogs, but I can do other things that non-gifted people can’t. That’s how I was able to tell that you have the Gift. I sensed it in you, strongly. I think you will be able to not only help your sister, but to heal her completely. Would you like to do that?

Yes ma’am, but how?

If she gets really sick again, you have to use the power inside you to make her better. You lay your hands on her, close your eyes and think about letting your thoughts sink inside her, then—

What?

Just imagine that you can feel inside her, I mean really feel, like you’re almost the same person instead of separate individuals. That may sound strange, but you have to trust me on this. Do you understand so far?

Sort of. But not really. Poppy just said it because she didn’t want to admit that she didn’t, and she was becoming more uneasy by the second.

Once you’ve joined with her in that special way, you need to use your will, which is like thinking harder than you ever have and making the most powerful, special wish that you’ve ever made, and I don’t mean the kind you make when you want a new toy or some candy. This is a desperate, must-have-it-at-all-costs kind of wish. The kind that comes from here. She thumped her gut with a fist. You’ll picture in your mind how she would be if she were totally healed, and you’re going to make that happen, because you love her so much. Can you do that?

Poppy wasn’t sure. It all sounded weird and it was a lot to remember, and she felt like a little kid again, not a big ten-year-old. She wanted to help her sister, because there was a chance that Rose could relapse, but what this woman was saying hardly made sense. She seemed so sure of herself, though. I’ll try, Poppy said.

Good. That’s what girls like us do. We help others.

Poppy doubted she was like this woman at all. She didn’t know anybody who was.

But after you help your sister, Della said, you must never tell anyone what you did. It has to be your secret and yours alone, or other people might worry about you. They’ll think you’re different from them, and people don’t like that.

I don’t want to be different.

But you already are, in a very special way. You’ll be able to help those who need it the most, and that’s a really good thing. Unfortunately, you can’t tell them you’re doing it.

I can’t even tell Rose? We share everything. She’s my very best-and-only sister, even though we fight a lot.

You can share it with her if you feel like you absolutely have to, but you must swear her to secrecy. Haven’t you done that kind of thing before?

They had. Many times. Poppy thought of a few of them right away, the solemn pacts they’d made to keep them out of trouble sometimes — for stolen cookies, mud on the carpet, the broken antique serving dish.

Poppy’s covert conversation with Della was interrupted by Poppy’s mother and Rose, who approached them with items they’d selected to purchase. Della turned her smile to them. Did you find something you like?

Mom showed her a silver bracelet. I have this, and Rose has a scarf.

While you were browsing, I had a delightful conversation with your younger daughter.

She’s not shy. She doesn’t even know what it means.

Poppy held the unicorn toward her mother. Look what she gave me!

Oh? Her mother arched a suspicious eyebrow.

It has a blemish, Della said. I can’t sell it, but she seemed to like it so I gave it to her. She shifted her attention to Rose. But I don’t want you to feel slighted. I can’t give you the scarf, but I can let you have it for half price. Would that be all right?

Rose’s eyes widened with her smile. So it would only be nine dollars? That would be great!

Let me ring those up for you. Della took the bracelet from Poppy’s mother and set it beside the cash register, but when she reached for the scarf from Rose, she let her fingers brush Rose’s hand. Della didn’t gasp like she did when she first touched Poppy. She glanced at Poppy and gave her head a barely perceptible shake.

Poppy made a silent oh with her mouth. She just checked to see if Rose has the Gift. Poppy felt extraordinary then. She had something that her superior-acting sister didn’t. Poppy would figure it all out later, when she had time to think about it.

Della rang up the items and placed them in a bag, which she handed to Poppy’s mother. Della said, Poppy was telling me that you’re here to visit her aunt.

Yes, she’s my sister. We try to come every year if we can.

Are you from Salem?

Born and raised in Marblehead, which is nearby as you’re well aware of, and I moved to Georgia when I got married. My sister decided to stay here. Her husband is a native, also.

Do you have other family in the area?

Just her and her twin boys, who are away at college right now, but my ancestors on my mother’s side supposedly go all the way back to the original colony. We’ve attempted to trace that part of the family tree but haven’t uncovered any historically important relatives. My grandmother claimed we’re descended from a woman who was accused in the witch trials but was never tried. They ended all that madness before her case came up, and she was released.

Did she mention which woman it was? There were several. A few men, too.

She never got that specific, and I’m not sure if I even believe her. She had a tendency to be a little flamboyant and loose with the facts, and she was fond of telling tall tales.

Then she probably fit right in around here.

Without a doubt. I know that a lot of people claim to be related to somebody from that era, but who knows what the real story is?

I’m descended from two women and a man from the trials. The women were hung, and the man went free.

That’s typical. Women always get the worst.

Did your grandmother have any knacks or special talents?

Funny you should ask. Growing up, I always heard she could tell a pregnant woman the sex of her baby and get it right every time. She was also really good at predicting the weather.

Della gave Poppy a sly wink, and Poppy knew what that meant. My great-grandmother had the Gift, too. Della said to Poppy’s mother, How about you? Can you do anything like that?

She laughed lightly and said, Oh, no. If I could, I’d start playing the Georgia Lottery more and win a fortune, though I did win a little the last time I tried. It helped pay for this vacation. We flew this time instead of driving. That was nice. These two girls tend to fight on long car trips.

Della nodded. All siblings do. My brother still bears the scars from our trips to Florida.

Poppy and Rose exchanged a knowing look.

Mom gathered her bags and her children and said, Thanks for the discount on the scarf.

Poppy held up her prized figurine again. And thanks for the unicorn!

You’re quite welcome. Please come back and see me next time you’re in town. I’m always here. I’ve had this shop for seventeen years, and I expect to have it for seventeen more, at least.

They left, and once they were outside, they stopped on the sidewalk and Mom helped Rose put her scarf on her head. Poppy cringed when she saw the pale, hairless scalp, because it was a stark reminder of the terrible ordeal Rose was going through. She won’t be bald forever. She’s going to get totally well. I can help her.

* * *

Poppy strained to listen while her mother and the hospice nurse talked in hushed voices out in the hall. Poppy was with Rose in Rose’s bedroom and the door was shut, making it difficult to hear what the two women were saying, though Poppy tried as hard as she could. The nurse spoke in sympathetic tones. Mom sounded like she was resigned to something inevitable.

Poppy was able to pick out a few words here and there — make arrangements, and not much longer, I’m afraid — and it made Poppy sad. Though she still hadn’t turned eleven (her birthday was in two weeks), she was old enough to know that something awful was going to happen soon.

Poppy swallowed the thick lump that had formed in her throat, and turned to face her sister, asleep in the special bed their father had rented for Rose to make her more comfortable, and to make it easier for the hospice nurse to help her, which mostly consisted of checking and refilling Rose’s drip bag, administering the pain medications, and sponge bathing Rose when Mom or Dad couldn’t do it.

Rose had been bedridden for almost three weeks, but school was out for the summer, so Poppy had plenty of free time, and she gave almost all of it to Rose.

Rose looked pitiful, lying on her back with a needle taped to her arm, and a long, thin plastic tube ran from the needle to the clear bag, hanging from the rack on the other side of the bed. Her skin was ashen, and the smell in the room had worsened over the last few days so that it hit you like a rotten fist when you first entered the room. It was tolerable once you got used to it, but it didn’t matter. It would take more than a bad odor to drive Poppy away.

Poppy had done her best to entertain Rose when Rose was awake, reading to her, helping her find movies on the television their father had brought in for her, telling her stories that Poppy made up, but lately, Rose seemed to sleep most of the time. Poppy stayed anyway. She’d slept on the bedside rug the night before. She’d do it again if her parents would let her, and maybe even if they wouldn’t. She’d wait until late at night and sneak into Rose’s room with a pillow and a blanket.

Poppy turned her attention back to the muffled conversation out in the hall, and heard the nurse say, Probably in a couple of days. I’m sorry. Mom sobbed once.

Poppy wanted to sob, too.

She faced Rose again. I have to help her. Della said I can.

Poppy tried to remember what the strange woman from the shop in Salem had told her eight months earlier. You lay your hands on her, close your eyes and think about letting your thoughts sink inside her. That part seemed simple enough, so after a moment’s indecision over how to go about it, Poppy placed both flattened hands on Rose’s chest.

Poppy recalled the next part, which was more confusing. Just imagine that you can feel inside her, I mean really feel, like you’re almost the same person instead of separate individuals. Poppy wasn’t sure how that was supposed to work, but she decided to give it her best effort, and pictured her inner self merging with Rose’s.

Poppy concentrated intensely. Something seemed to be happening, subtle movement, like two fat drops of watercolor paint on a sheet of waxed paper, touching at the edges and gradually spreading into each other to form a new color. Red and yellow became orange. Oh, wow, Poppy marveled.

Poppy thought of the next part of Della’s instructions. Make the most powerful wish you’ve ever made. You’ll picture in your mind how she would be if she were better, and you’re going to make that happen, because you love her so much.

Poppy gritted her teeth and squeezed her eyes tighter, and clenched her gut and thought Get better, Rose! Get all the way better, now!

A warm, electric sensation filled and vibrated Poppy’s body, wondrous and powerful, and Poppy held onto it for a moment to consider and appreciate it, then pushed it with her thoughts toward Rose, and it flowed like honey tipped from a jar, through Poppy’s hands and into Rose’s chest, where it spread rapidly. The orange became gold, and the gold glowed so brightly in Poppy’s mind that it became blazingly white, and would’ve blinded Poppy if she’d seen it with her eyes, but she saw it with something else.

The Gift.

A few seconds later, or several years, Poppy wasn’t sure, the marvel ended. Rose gasped like a newborn child taking its first breath.

She was no longer gray, she was pink all over. Her eyelids fluttered before settling on halfway open. She sighed, deep and relieved, and turned her head toward Poppy. You’re still here.

How do you feel?

Rose furrowed her brow while she thought about it. Better. I’m kinda hungry.

You ought to be. You haven’t had any real food in over a week. I can get you something. Do you want me to make you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?

Can you make it with honey instead of jelly? I’m in the mood for honey right now for some reason.

Chapter 2

Archie got up early Saturday morning and started the three-and-a-half hour trip to see his parents. He made it all the way to Tifton without experiencing any wrecks or inconvenient road construction, and he turned west on Highway 82. He drove another 15 minutes to the two-lane road that was just beyond Alapaha, and was easy to miss if you didn’t know it was there, and he headed south toward Rickettsville, his hometown.

He passed acre after acre of pine trees, large sections of them set in orderly rows, planted a few years earlier and already tall as the sky. Loblollies grow fast, he remembered his father telling him.

His father owned quite a bit of that land, over a thousand acres, and owned more in nearby counties. The trees were the raw ingredient for his father’s business, cardboard box manufacturing.

A few lonely houses were interspersed among the edges of the forest, miles apart from each other. The people who lived there either enjoyed the isolation, were too poor to live in Rickettsville or Alapaha, or were crazy. Or all three, Archie thought as he drove by one particularly sad-looking home, slumbering about a hundred feet off the road like a drunk on a bender. It had a dirt driveway, where a rusted pickup truck was parked, and the one-story house behind it was sided with wood that might’ve been white when it had been painted decades ago. Now it was mostly the color of dust, with what little paint that remained curling like small strips of paper. Patches of rot blackened the fascia and soffit like scabs.

He soon reached the town limits, announced by a wooden sign the size of a small billboard, Welcome to Rickettsville, Cardboard Box Capital of the World, as if that were something to brag about. The lettering, originally bright blue on a background of yellow,