The Witch of Belladonna Bay by Suzanne Palmieri Read Free Book Online Page A

know a Whalen when they see one.
    Grabbing my bags off the luggage carousel, I made my way to the exit. I could see him roll his eyes and follow me, but I didn’t care. I’d been making eyes roll all over the East Coast for fourteen years. BitsyWyn Whalen was surfacing far too quickly for my liking.
    Walking into the heat, I felt more than the heavy air. I felt the weight of my memories. The ones I’d hoped would come back slowly—drip by drip, moment by moment—only they weren’t cooperating. Instead, they tried to ambush me from behind the air, so I held my breath because I was sure the minute I inhaled, BitsyWyn would wake up and snatch my quiet soul.
    The idea that I’d “get my bearings” was laughable. Born out of an orderly northeastern way of thinking about things. You’re off the I-95 corridor now, Wyn .
    Naomi had flown into this airport with Minerva, just like me. They’d waited on a driver sent by Jackson, too, and taken the same road into the unknown.
    My mother’s unknown began winding itself around mine, and I started to feel the intoxicating love I had for her when I was a little girl. Sorrow is a heavy thing.
    â€œYou ready, Miss Wyn?” asked the man sent to bring me back home.
    Wyn. He called me Wyn like he’d known me forever.
    I decided to take a real look at this escort of mine, so I could get a good feeling for the fellow who’d bring me back to my former life.
    He was an older man but not an Old-timer. Not a Towner either. Old-timers were the ones from way back. From the time when the Whalens owned every bit of Magnolia Creek. When the lumberyard was the place every man worked, and every woman worried about. When Jackson took over, he closed down the mills and offered all the workers a fine pension. It’s those men and their wives (the ones that are left, anyway) who we call Old-timers. The rest of us, the children of all those people, young and old alike (depending on whatever age the Old-timer was when Jackson closed the mill), we’re the Towners. But this man wasn’t either. He was new.
    â€œI seem to be at a disadvantage here,” I said. “You know my name, only I don’t know yours.” I knew I sounded haughty, but I couldn’t help it. Sometimes my brain makes my mouth say things to protect my heart.
    â€œSorry about that, Wyn. My name’s Carter. No nickname, no funny sort of pronunciation. Just plain ol’ Carter.”
    â€œAre you a Towner, Carter? I don’t remember you,” I said, knowing full well that he wasn’t. Small talk …
    â€œNo, miss, you don’t know me,” he responded, “We ain’t never met. I came on over from Birmingham to visit your dad about a job. I don’t know, maybe a month or so after you … left.”
    He’d been here, living with my family for almost as long as I’d been alive before I ran off. Time is a blurry thing.
    â€œHeard he was tryin’ to cultivate some newfangled ’maters,” continued Carter. “And since I know a thing or two about ’em, I came on down, and that’s when I met Minerva. I married that woman quick.”
    Minerva was married. My own great-aunt got married and I never heard about it.
    Typical Jackson. He’d written about the hydroponic farm but left out the part where Minny got married.
    I smiled and placed a hand on Carter’s shoulder.
    â€œNice to meet you, Carter. I’m sure you’ve been a big help with Paddy. I wish Jackson had written me about your marriage, I would have come for the wedding.” He smiled back at me and moved to put my bags in the trunk of a long, black town car. “Buy American!” Jackson always said.
    â€œNo, Wyn. You wouldn’t have. But it’s mighty nice of you to say so. Now, Paddy’s wedding? That one was truly beautiful. That’s the one you shouldn’t a missed.”
    Nothing beats a slap of