“Is that your husband, miss?” the nurse asks as she helps me dress.
“No.”
“He didn’t do this to you, did he?”
“No,” I snap. “He would never.”
“I’m sorry to ask. We just see these types of injuries when homes are unhappy. You’re certain you’re safe with him?” She looks at me with soft, kind eyes. I regret snapping at her. My emotions are untethered by Beckett’s tacit rejection. Raw.
“Yes. I’ll be fine.”
Beckett is stony and silent on the drive back to Eureka Springs. It’s almost October—my favorite month of the year. The leaves are stunning, the air crisp with the scent of fall, but all I can think about is how I might be losing the purest, truest thing I’ve ever known. What if his promises to write and call are empty? I see his assurances for what they are—a way to let me down easy. When we get to the depot, Beckett turns away from my attempts to kiss him, and hands my suitcase to me. His coldness breaks me in half. Steals my grace. “You’re being a coward, Beckett Hill,” I say to his back as he turns to go. “If you really cared about me, you’d fight for me. For us. We’d find a way through this, together.”
His shoulders stiffen. “I love you, Sadie. I do. But it’s better to lose you for now than to lose you forever.”
I wait until he drives away, and then I begin walking.
There’s no way in hell I’m going back to Kansas City.
Chapter 29
October 5, 1925
I walk the uphill mile to the Basin Park Hotel and book a room. I need to organize my thoughts, buy some time, and make a plan. Though my head pounds from exertion, I remember everything now, clarity coming to me with every passing hour. Beckett was right: Weston did this to me. He nearly killed me.
I have dinner brought to my room, then lie down to take a nap. When I wake up, it’s sunset. A cheerful banjo tune streams through my open window, along with the tantalizing scent of popcorn. I rise, relieved that my headache has abated. I pull my cardigan on over my dress and slip my oxfords on, drawn by the music. When I go out to the street, I see a plethora of electric lights twinkling in the dusk. There’s a carnival in the park. Booths line the curved wall below the bandstand, offering all sorts of handmade wares. One booth in particular catches my eye—a simple, hand-stitched tent of patched calico fabric. A sign hangs from a tree made of blue bottles out front:Granny Woman Charms, Herbal Cures, Fortunes Read.
My curiosity piques as I approach the tent. Figures and shapes woven from grapevine and willow dangle from the makeshift awning, along with bundled, dried herbs. A woman with bobbed, fiery red hair sits outside the tent’s opening in a rocking chair, holding an equally redheaded child. The woman smirks at me, her eyes skimming overmy clothes, marking my measure. “Mama!” she yells over her shoulder. “You got a customer!”
“You don’t have to yell so loud, Valerie, I’m right here.”
A striking woman with long silver hair emerges from the tent, her deep-blue eyes creasing at the corners as she smiles at me. “Well, come on in, child. Don’t be shy. I can see right now why you came.”
I follow her into the tent, which is lit with a dim combination of kerosene lanterns and beeswax candles. Spicy herbal scents surround me. A round table with two chairs sits in the middle of the tent, with a deck of cards stacked on top, larger than a typical deck. Tarot cards. I’ve seen them before, but never had a reading.
“We don’t need to bother with a reading,” the woman says, noting my gaze. “Your aura is pitch black. How long have you been under this oppression?”
“What?”
“The demon spirit, sugar. How long has he been bothering you?”
“I don’t know ... if that’s what he is.”
“Whether he’s a demon or a vengeful spirit who once lived, he’s put a seduction on you. I can sense it.” She rummages around in a tall apothecary chest, glancing over her shoulder at me. “Some people mince their words about these matters, but I’ll tell you straight. Butter wouldn’t melt in his honey mouth, would it?” She laughs. “His kind is mighty sweet, until you get on his bad side. Oh yes. I know just what you need.” She motions to the table, tells me to sit. I drop into the chair, stunned.
She slides a burlap pouch toward me, tied with twine. I pick it up. Sniff it. It smells like sulfur.
“That’s asafetida and cemetery dirt. Sprinkle it on all the thresholds, say a prayer, anoint the door lintels and posts with oil. Any oil will do, though some say olive oil is the best since that’s what our Lord was most likely to use.” Next, she slides a coin-shaped medal on a chain toward me. “You’re Catholic?”
I nod, speechless.
“Here’s Saint Michael. You wear that, and you don’t ever take it off. Do you know the prayer?” I nod again. “Pray it every night before you go to bed.”
“These charms will protect me from him?”
“Yes.”
Protection is a start. But I want more than protection. “How do I get rid of him?”
