Jilo (Witching Savannah #4)(79)
He reached over and placed his hand near hers. They didn’t touch, but she still felt his energy once more. She turned toward him, transfixed by the slim space between them. “Oh, I know how it sounds. I sound like some crazy man.” She let her gaze drift up to his face, surprised to see his eyes fixed on the road before them. “But tell me. Do you believe in love at first sight?”
“Turn here,” Jilo said, pointing west as they approached West Anderson. “Then go south on Ogeechee.”
He did as he was told, but remained silent, evidently waiting for a response. She wasn’t sure she had a response to give, so she said nothing at first. She felt disappointment descend on him like a dark cloud. “Look,” she said, her tone heated, impatient. She took a breath and began. “What I believe is that it’s easy to imagine things about someone you don’t know. And what I know is you don’t know me.”
“You’re right. I don’t know you. I . . .” He paused, shaking his head a little side to side. “This is not how I planned this . . .”
“Planned?”
“Well, imagined. This isn’t how I meant it to happen. When I imagined getting a chance to see you. To talk to you.”
“And that’s the problem. You’re in love with your own imagination. Life just doesn’t work the way you’d like to believe,” she said, her voice nearly breaking. “There’s no magic in this world.” She coughed to clear the frog from her throat. “I’m not some angel like you’ve obviously imagined me to be.”
Tinker laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. “Oh, no, ma’am. I never imagined you to be any kind of angel. Remember, I’ve been on the receiving end of that temper of yours.”
“All the same. I’ve got a son. I’ve got family to look after.”
“You say you have a son, but I don’t hear anything about you having a man.”
“Doesn’t having a son imply there’s a man in my life?” She wished the old truck would move more quickly. Still, she felt a touch of sorrow when she looked over to see that in spite of the way the beast was crawling along, Tinker had pressed the pedal all the way down. Looked like she’d nearly succeeded in pushing him away after all.
“Ah, now, we both know that ain’t true.” The truck jolted, then relented by putting on some speed. It sputtered and shuddered as they traveled south, giving up the ghost right where Kollock and Ogeechee intersected at the tip of the cemetery.
Tinker looked over at her, then leaned in toward her, his brow low, his eyes full of embarrassed anguish. “Just give me a second to look at her. I’ll get her up and running again right quick.”
Jilo shook her head and reached for the door handle, surprised to see it had been replaced with a homemade rope pulley. She tugged on it, and the door opened. “I’m almost home anyway.” She climbed out of the truck, nearly jumping as a large black bantam rooster perched on the cemetery fence cried out like he was greeting the last dawn the world would ever meet.
She turned back to the truck and retrieved her shopping bag from where it had been sitting by her feet. After the brief rest, the sack felt heavier. Just like her heart did after imagining—even for a moment—that this Tinker Poole might somehow know how to fix what had been broken in her. Tinker hopped out and ran around the front of the truck. Jilo felt certain he was about to offer to come along with her on foot, shouldering her burden as his own. She clutched the sack in both arms and shook her head. “There is no magic in this world,” she said again. “No magic whatsoever.”
She trudged down Ogeechee, making a turn onto the gravel road that would, after a long bend, lead to her own sandy drive. As she neared that drive, she looked up, and from across the field, she could see a sleek and shiny red convertible sitting in front of her house. She knew Binah would be doing her best to entertain this new, and obviously rich, client long enough for her to make it home. She picked up her pace, hoping to arrive before he, or possibly she, lost patience and sped away in that little red number.
She was sweating profusely, her turban growing damp and limp, as she made it around the bend and approached the front of the house. From a distance, she could make out Binah offering what looked like lemonade to a young man with a complexion as pink and as fresh as bubblegum, his hair almost as red as the car he drove. A wealthy buckra boy. What on earth could a fellow like that be wanting from Mother Jilo? What else, she answered her own question, than the key to some wealthy buckra girl’s heart?
As she drew a step nearer, Binah handed a glass to another man who leaned forward to accept it. Jilo stopped dead in her tracks. This man, with his dark complexion and wavy hair, she recognized instantly. “Guy,” she said his name, feeling the earth beneath her feet tremble, just like the world was ready to open up and swallow her whole.
FIVE
Her feet felt like they’d been replaced with anvils, each step requiring every shred of determination she could muster. “Binah,” she called out, holding the shopping out to her sister. Binah looked up, then ran down the steps and relieved her of the sack’s weight.
“He doesn’t know. He hasn’t seen him,” Binah whispered in her ear.
Jilo placed a hand on Binah’s shoulder and gave her a gentle push. “Take those inside,” she said, relying on Binah’s momentum to set her own feet back into motion.