Jilo (Witching Savannah #4)(69)

The box fell from May’s grasp, and she pointed to the closet door, trying to form the words to warn Jilo, but they wouldn’t come. May watched paralyzed as the mist flooded the room, dampening the light. May’s lungs began to burn, and she couldn’t catch her breath. It came as no small relief that Jilo seemed unaffected—unaware, even. But, of course, the Beekeeper had finished with May. She hadn’t, May realized with a breaking heart, finished with Jilo.

May reached out and caught ahold of her granddaughter’s arm. She had to warn her. May had to explain so Jilo wouldn’t ever make the same mistake that she and her mother had made. But she couldn’t speak. She couldn’t breathe. And even if she could, would Jilo listen? Would Jilo even believe her, or would she assume May’s mind had gone soft? Jilo’s entire life, May had been lying to her. Wanting to free her girls of the temptations of magic, she had pretended to make her living off mundane tricks played on those with more cash than common sense.

In truth, the ruse was mostly for Jilo. The girl was just so clever. So curious. So full of her own power. An aptitude for magic that the Beekeeper herself hadn’t seemed to understand. She squeezed Jilo’s arm as tight as she could, willing her granddaughter to somehow understand.

“Nana,” Jilo said, then called out, “Binah!”

May could hear the anguish in Jilo’s voice. As Jilo’s image faded, May grasped that she herself had never been the one the Beekeeper wanted. It had been Jilo all along. May’s last wish was that she could do something, anything to protect the girl. Her last thought was the realization it was too late.





TWO


December 1954



Robinson Jesse Wills stared at his mother’s breast with solemn fascination. Jilo reached back to adjust the bed pillow, then laughed as she shifted her boy, slipping a hand behind his head. Robinson grasped the sides of her breast in his tiny, damp hands and clamped down on her nipple. A smile crept onto Jilo’s lips as she watched his mouth tug away at her flesh. He was hers. All hers. The men in her life, even the ones she’d respected and loved, like her father and Pastor Jones, hadn’t stuck around for long.

But this one here, he was hers. No one would ever take this boy away. She forced away thoughts of Guy, even though this child in her arms was the spitting image of him. Yes, Robinson looked like his father, but she was his mother. She’d be the one who would help determine what kind of man he became.

Rain hammered on the roof above, so loud it sounded like hail had entered the mix. Her eyes drifted up, settling on the eternal summer-sky blue her Nana had chosen for the room that had once been hers, and was now Jilo and Robinson’s. During Nana’s time, the walls had gone unadorned, giving the monochrome chamber a sense of expanse, making a body feel like she could be flying, or maybe falling, depending on the longings or fears in her heart.

Jilo had chosen to break this illusion by hanging photos along the wall, each spaced an equal distance apart: one of her father; one of a much younger, and oh, so pretty, Nana; one from Opal and Nate, showing their ever-expanding family; and a recent one of Poppy and her new husband, Isaiah Davis. Shame Nana hadn’t lived long enough to hear the news—for Jilo knew Nana would have been thrilled. In spite of the rupture between the two stubborn women, Nana had always hovered over Jilo’s shoulder whenever a letter from Poppy came, eager to read her news.

They’d all pretty much given up on Poppy ever finding herself a man. She was a pretty, tiny, little thing, so she had never lacked for suitors, but she’d put off marrying, focusing instead on the garment business she’d built up all on her own. As of her last letter, Poppy employed a dozen other women up in Charlotte.

It struck Jilo that she was the last of the Wills girls; Poppy was now Mrs. Davis, and Opal had long since taken the name of Mrs. Lofton. Certainly, Binah, too, shared the Wills name, but it was a secret to no one, especially Binah herself, that this name was a mere matter of convenience. After Nana’s passing, the two sisters had even managed to laugh about it. “Mama must’ve kept her legs closed real tight to hold on to me so long,” Binah had joked, once Nana was no longer there to get angry over such talk. Jilo knew that in Nana’s mind, Nana was every bit as much Binah’s grandmother as she was the other three’s. That meant Jesse Wills was Binah’s father, mathematics and biology be damned.

Jilo found herself staring at the photo of Nana’s sweet, young face. Oh, how she missed her nana.

Though May Wills had always been an old woman in her eyes, she’d come to believe, as irrational as the thought may have been, that her nana was somehow eternal, that each wispy gray hair on the woman’s head was a testament to her ability to withstand anything, even time.

Jilo felt her eyes tearing up, so she looked away, and her gaze was once again caught by the turquoise-blue of the walls, ceiling, and floor. Even faded, it was the color of the heavens. A memento of a July sky on this darkening winter day.

The thought of summer used to bring her happiness, but as she sat on her nana’s old bed, rocking to the rhythm of Robinson’s nursing, she wondered how they’d manage to hold on until summer. If Jilo had the slightest idea of how to sew, she’d call Poppy to see if her sister might take her on at her factory. But Jilo couldn’t even thread a needle. And Poppy had been so distant over the years, staying up in Charlotte, always finding one reason or another not to come back to Savannah, even for a short visit. She’d written a lovely letter after Nana’s passing, but she still hadn’t bothered to come down for the funeral, even though Opal had made it all the way from West Texas, where Nate was now stationed.