Charlaine Harris - Midnight Crossroad

There was a long silence, and he was very tempted to hang up. But he waited. He loved his mother. He just had a hard time remembering that some days.

“I understand,” she said. She sounded tired and resigned. “Okay, call me in a week. Just to check in.”

“I will,” he said, relieved. “Bye, Mom. Stay well.” He hung up and went back to work. He was glad to answer another e-mail, to respond to a woman who was convinced that he was both talented and discerning, a woman who didn’t blame him forever for doing the obvious thing. In his job, he was nearly omnipotent—he was taken seriously, and his word was seldom questioned.

Real life was so different from his job, and not always in a good way. Manfred tugged absently on his most-pierced ear, the left. It was strange that he seldom got a reading on his mother. And really strange that he’d never realized it before. That was probably significant, and he should devote some time to figuring it out. But not today.

Today, he had money to make.

After another hour at his desk, Manfred became aware he was hungry. His mouth started to water when he wondered what was on the restaurant menu this evening. He’d checked the Home Cookin sign, so he knew the place was open on Sundays. Yep, time to eat out. He locked up the house as he left. As he did so, he wondered if he was the only one in Midnight who locked doors.

Before he could give himself the treat of a dinner he hadn’t cooked, he had to perform his social duty. He looked both ways on Witch Light (nothing coming, as usual) and crossed to Fiji’s house. He’d been eyeing her pink-flowered china plate and her clear plastic pitcher in a guilty way since he’d washed them. He’d enjoyed the cookies and lemonade, and the least he could do was walk across the street to return Fiji’s dishes.

The previous Thursday evening, he’d taken a break from work to watch the small group of women who came to Fiji’s “self-discovery” evening. Manfred had recognized the type from his own clientele: women dissatisfied with their humdrum lives, women seeking some power, some distinction. There was nothing wrong with such a search—in fact, people searching for something above and beyond the humdrum world were his bread and butter—but he doubted any of them had the talent he’d seen lurking in Fiji when he’d opened the door to find her standing there in jeans and a peasant blouse, a plate in her left hand and a pitcher in her right.

Fiji was not what he thought of as his “type.” It didn’t bother him at all that she was older than he was; he found that suited him just fine, as a rule. But Fiji was too curvy and fluffy. Manfred tended to like hard, lean women—tough chicks. However, he had to appreciate the home Fiji had made for herself. The closer you got to the stone cottage with its patterned-brick trim, the more charming it was. He admired the flowers that were still burgeoning in the pots and barrels in Fiji’s yard, despite the fact that it was late September. The striped marmalade cat known as Mr. Snuggly displayed himself elegantly under a photinia. Even the irregular paving stones leading to the porch were laid in an attractive pattern.

He knocked, since Fiji’s place wasn’t open on Sunday.

“Come in!” she called. “Door’s open.”

A bell over the door tinkled delicately as he went in, and he saw Fiji’s unruly head suddenly appear over the top of the counter.

“Hi, neighbor,” he said. “I came to return your stuff. Thanks again for the cookies and the lemonade.” He held out the plate and pitcher, as if he had to provide evidence of his good intentions. He tried not to stare too obviously at the shelves in the shop, which were laden with things he considered absolute junk: books about the supernatural, ghost stories, and guides to tarot readings and dream interpretation. There were hanging sun catchers and dream catchers. There were two mortar-and-pestle sets that were pretty nice, some herb-gardening guides, alleged athames, tarot cards, Ouija boards, and other accoutrements of the New Age occultist.

On the other hand, Manfred liked the two squashy flowered armchairs sitting opposite each other in the center of the floor, a magazine or two on the small table between them. Fiji stood up, and he saw she was flushed. It didn’t take a psychic to tell she was really irritated about something.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Oh, this damn spell,” she said, as if she were talking about the weather. “My great-aunt left it to me, but her handwriting was atrocious, and I’ve tried three different ingredients because I can’t figure out what she meant.”

Manfred had not realized that Fiji openly admitted she was a witch, and for a second he was surprised. But she had the talent, and if she wanted to lay herself open to judgment like that, okay. He’d encountered much weirder shit. He set down the plate and the pitcher on the counter. “Let me see,” he offered.

“Oh, I don’t mean to trouble you,” she said, obviously flustered. She had on reading glasses, and her brown eyes looked large and innocent behind the lenses.

“Think of it as a thank-you note for the cookies.” He smiled, and she handed over the paper.

“Damn,” he said, after a moment’s examination. Her great-aunt’s handwriting looked like a dirty-footed chicken had danced across the page. “Okay, which word?”

She pointed to the scribble that was third on the list. He looked at it carefully. “Comfrey,” he said. “Is that an herb?”

Her eyes closed with relief. “Oh, yes, and I have some growing out back,” she said. “Thanks so much!” She beamed at him.

“No problem.” He smiled back. “I’m going down to Home Cookin for dinner. You want to come?”

He’d had no intention of asking her, and he hoped he wasn’t sending the wrong message (if a casual dinner invitation could be the wrong message), but there was something vulnerable about Fiji that invited kindness.

“Yeah,” she said. “I’m out of anything remotely interesting to eat. And it’s Sunday, right? That’s fried chicken or meat loaf day.”

After she locked the shop (now Manfred knew he was not the only one who continued his city ways) and patted the cat on its head, they walked west. Manfred had gotten into the habit of casting a glance down the driveway that ran to the back of the pawnshop. Though his view wasn’t as good from the south side of the street, he did it now.

Because he was an observant kind of guy, Manfred had noticed soon after he’d moved in that there were usually three vehicles parked behind Midnight Pawn. Bobo Winthrop drove a blue Ford F-150 pickup, probably three years old. The second car was a Corvette. Manfred was no car buff, but he was sure this was a classic car, and he was sure it was worth huge bucks. It was usually covered with a tarp, but Manfred had caught a glimpse of it one night when he was putting out the trash. The Vette was sweet. The third car was relatively anonymous. Maybe a Honda Civic? Something small and four-door and silver. It wasn’t shiny new, and it wasn’t old.

Manfred hoped the hot chick, Olivia, drove the Vette. But that would be almost too good, like pancakes with real maple syrup and real butter. And who was the second tenant? Manfred thought the smart thing to do would be to wait until someone volunteered the information.

“How do you get enough traffic through the store?” he asked Fiji, because he’d been silent long enough. “For that matter, how does anyone in Midnight keep a business open? The only busy place is the Gas N Go.”

“This is Texas,” she said. “People are used to driving a long way for anything. I’m the only magical-type place for—well, I don’t know how big an area, but big. And people crave something different. I always get a decent crowd on my Thursday nights. They come from forty or fifty miles away, some of ’em. I do some Internet business, too.”