“Margaret Scott,” she says, patting the stone in front of her. She’s set my daisies on it next to a semicircle of burnt tea lights and a withered rose.
“How much do you know about her?” I ask.
“I knoweverything,” Cyndi says. “She came to me and told me.”
Sweet Jesus, I think, but I have to know. “Please, tell,” I say, leading Cyndi to a normal wooden bench by the park’s entrance. We sit. “How lucky, to have a literal visiting Muse. And one you’re related to. How did it happen?”
“I was at work,” Cyndi says, “preparing a brief, and I went to the break room and there was Margaret. Standing by the mini fridge in her cloak and bonnet. I knew her instantly. She looked just like my gram.”
“That is... ” I say, fishing for the right word.Insane. “Astonishing. Were you frightened?”
Cyndi shakes her head. “Maybe I should have been, but I wasn’t. She said,Verily, child, thou must write my story. So I did. I gave notice that afternoon.”
“True dedication. Was that a difficult decision?”
“Oh, no. I mean, I missed my colleagues. And I felt bad about handing off some of my cases. But it was...” She squints into the trees.
“A calling?” I suggest.
“Yes,” she breathes.
“Every career writer feels that way, my dear,” I say. “Otherwise we’dall be doing something else, something more pleasant, like digging ditches.” Or law. “What is your process?” I give her a tender look. “Do you mind my playing twenty questions? I’m just—bewitched.”
Cyndi groans at my pun and gives me a little push. First physical contact she’s initiated. “I wouldn’t say it’s aprocess, exactly. That sounds so grand, more for actual writers like you.”
“Don’t put yourself down,” I say sternly. “Remember what I said? If you’re writing, you’re a writer.” She nods. “So Margaret—dictates to you, is that what it’s like?”
“Kind of. Margaret told me her story all at once, so I wrote it down and now I’m filling in the blanks. Like... writerMad Libs?”
“WriterMad Libs, that’s very good. It sounds like you’re a plotter, then, rather than a pantser?”
Cyndi wrinkles her pert little nose. “What doesthatmean?”
“Sorry. Shop talk. Plotters have an outline,” I explain. “Pantsers create the story as they go.”
“Oh! No, I work with an outline. Margaret gave it to me. And all those years of law school, I’m trained that way, I guess.” She looks worried. “Is that bad?”
I lower my voice and lean in. “Don’t quote me, but I one hundred percent approve. It’ssomuch better to use an outline. You waste so much less time.” This is completely true. “And how are you actually writing—using Scrivener? Word? A quill pen?”
Cyndi laughs. “Margaret would love it if I used a quill pen! I should have thought of that. But no, just regular Bics and legal pads.”
“You write longhand?”
“I do. Isthatwrong?”
“Not at all. It’s infinitely preferable.” This is also true. “A lot of writers are returning to writing that way. It’s a more direct creative conduit—at least for those of us who were raised to the pen. The indelible connection between mind and hand.” I take Cyndi’s petite paw with its bitten nails and turn it over so the vulnerable palm faces up, noticing as I do a semicolon tattooed on her wrist.
“That is serious commitment to punctuation,” I say, smiling. Cyndi looks down at our conjoined hands, cheeks flushing again. I lift her inked wrist to my mouth and press the lightest kiss upon it.
“Forgive me,” I say, “is it all right I did that? I should have asked.”
“No, it’s fine,” she whispers.
I gaze at her like a shy boy in a Norman Rockwell painting, but I release her hand. Something tells me to be extra careful with this one. She looks yearningly at me as I stand.
“I must away, milady,” I say, extending my arm. “Would you see me to my car?”
We retrace our steps through Salem, past tourists buying witch paraphernalia, having tarot readings, getting pierced. It’s a beautiful mellow September day, bees humming in the wastebaskets, the sun the bright white of an unshaded bulb. The season is turning, in more ways than one. Maybe I can put Simone behind me. Maybe Cyndi can help. She’s seemingly pliable and sweeter than syrup. Also, she’s certifiable. But who cares, as long as our romance is fruitful? What writer is not a little nuts?
