Just as Kathleen had said, Charleigh couldn’t miss the Swifts. Before she’s even to the end of the road, she spots the red mailbox, slows the Jag to a crawl. Right next to the mailbox is a barn-red sign with lettering:
Swift’s Custom Furniture & Swift’s Apothecary.
Kathleen could have just told her to look for the signs, but that would’ve been too simple.
Charleigh sucks in a breath, turns into the drive. As she crosses the cattle guard, her leather seat thrums beneath her. She doesn’t miss this feeling, of being sucked back into farm life.
But this land is different. Majestic. Their little wooden house is perched back far from the road, the drive a long, meanderinglane that slopes over the rolling hills. The meadow is so green, it’s almost emerald, so much more vibrant than the mud-caked pasture of her childhood. And the land is dotted with chubby pecan trees so ancient, they look prehistoric. This homestead is well tended to, cared for, a row of paperwhites lining the drive like little flags.
She eases into the small gravel parking lot, the pebbles crackling under her brand-new tires.
Charleigh steps from the car, peers up at the house.
It’s small but tidy. A homey cabin with what appears to be an upstairs loft. A pair of crystal-clear windows on the second floor wink down at her in the crisp morning light.
The porch, which hugs the front and sides of the house, is wooden, unfinished, but immaculate, without a particle of dust on its threadbare boards. A basket of pecans rests next to a rocker, their caramel-colored shells waiting to be shucked.
Another pair of signs, these smaller but carbon copies of the ones at the entrance, are planted at the front left corner of the house, arrows directing her down a crushed-granite path.
Other than the tractor parked out in the glistening pasture, there’s no other vehicle, no sign of life, so Charleigh is not even certain that anyone’s home.
She treads down the path, rounds the house.
A small wooden shed with the insigniaSwift’s Apothecarystands about thirty paces away. There is no door, only an open-air entryway where a door should be.
What the hell, Charleigh thinks, as she strides over.
She mounts the wooden steps—also threadbare but immaculate—pauses at the threshold. Clears her throat.
“Oh! Come on in!” The merry voice chirps, sounding like it’s coming from beneath the baseboards.
Charleigh steps inside. From behind the counter, a woman pops up. She has a bandanna fixed to the top of her head, a dusting rag lolling in her hand.
“Don’t mind me, I was just cleaning the display case.” The woman beams at Charleigh.
Charleigh grins back. Studies her. It’s the same woman she and Nellie spotted downtown soon after the Swifts arrived. The wife, Abigail.
And like that afternoon, Abigail is dressed in what Charleigh, having grown up herself in handsewn clothes, can easily see is a homemade dress. All of the woman’s attire today is made from gingham, blue and white, and honest to God, it looks like something one of those back-to-basics religious women might wear.
Her face is tanned. Well, maybe it’s just dirt. Charleigh can’t tell. She’s plain, that’s for sure, verging on homely, but thereisan appeal there. Her voice, for one, is warm, smooth like honey. Her hair is natural blond—but straw colored, more like dishwater blond. And even though she’s slender, she seems…capable. Her blue eyes shine as if the sun is setting behind them, and her demeanor is cheery, but one of forced cheer, Charleigh thinks, as if Abigail has seen hard times but stepped right over them, just kept on going.
She also looks young. Charleigh pegs her for early thirties. Wonders how she has a seventeen-year-old.
“How may I help you?” she asks, tilting her head to one side, placing the rag down. “I’m Abigail, by the way.” Dimples pucker her cheeks as she grins again at Charleigh. She reaches out her hand for Charleigh to shake it.
“Charleigh. Charleigh Andersen.” When Charleigh offers her own hand back, she’s acutely aware of the gold Rolex dangling from her wrist, the clash of their vastly different classes.
“Pleased to meet you, Charleigh. And I like your name. “It’s”—Abigail knits her eyebrows together—“different.”
Charleigh’s used to hearing this. Sometimes it bothers her, but coming from Abigail, she senses it’s a compliment.
Whyisshe here? What is she supposed to say?I’m looking for your brat daughter because my own brat child already hates her?
“I heard from a friend about your products, so thought I’d drop by, have a look—”
“Ah! Great to hear that word of mouth is spreading!” Abigail clasps her hands together. “It usually does, but it can take a while, so I’m grateful it’s catching on quickly here.” She waves her arm around, gesturing to her shelves of amber-colored bottles. “I bet you’re here for the love potion.” She steps on her tiptoes, pulls down a dropper bottle, slides it across the counter to Charleigh. “It’s my most popular botanical.”
The cream-colored paper label reads,Love Potion Number #9, made with care (and love!) and all-natural oils. Ingredients: ylang-ylang, lavender, jasmine, and amber. Jojoba oil and arnica oil.Charleigh studies the fine print, which is truly so fine that she has to squint:Proverbs 31 Woman.
