Practical Magic (Practical Magic #2)(65)
“Same goes for you,” she says. She’s throwing paper plates in the trash at breakneck speed. She already has the dirty silverware and the glasses soaking in soapy water, which is so unlike her usual messy self that Ben is starting to get suspicious. “Vamoose,” she tells Ben. She hates it when he looks at her that way, as though he knew her better than she knew herself. “These girls have to finish packing and be on the road by seven a.m.”
“Something is wrong,” Ben says.
“Absolutely not.” Gillian’s pulse rate must be a good two hundred. “Nothing’s wrong.”
Gillian turns to the sink and gives her attention to the soaking silverware, but Ben puts his hands on her waist and leans against her. He’s not so easily convinced, and Lord knows he’s stubborn when he wants something.
“Go on,” Gillian says, but her hands are soapy and wet and she’s having difficulty pushing him away. When Ben kisses her, she lets him. If he’s kissing her, he can’t ask any questions. Not that it would do any good to try to explain what her life used to be like. He wouldn’t understand, and that may be the reason she’s in love with him. He couldn’t imagine some of the things she’s done. And when she’s with him, neither can she.
Out in the yard, twilight is casting purple shadows. The evening has turned even more overcast, and the birds have stopped calling. Gillian should be paying attention to Ben’s kisses, since they may well be the last they share, but instead she’s looking out the kitchen window. She’s thinking about how Sally may be telling the investigator what’s in her garden, way in the back, where no one goes anymore, and that’s where she’s looking while Ben kisses her; that’s why she finally sees the hedge of thorns. All the while no one was watching, it has been thriving. It has grown nearly two feet since this morning, and, nurtured by spite, it’s growing still, coiling into the night sky.
Gillian abruptly pulls away from Ben. “You have to go,” she tells him. “Now.”
She kisses him deeply and pledges all sorts of things, love promises she won’t even remember until the next time they’re in bed and he reminds her. She works hard, and at last she wins.
“You’re sure about this?” Ben says, confused by how hot-and-cold she is, but wanting more all the same. “You could spend the night at my place.”
“Tomorrow,” Gillian vows. “And the next night and the night after that.”
When at last Ben leaves, when she’s watched out the front window to make certain he’s really gone, Gillian goes into the yard and stands motionless beneath the murky sky. It is the hour when the crickets first begin to call out a warning, their song quickened by the humidity of the coming storm. At the rear of the yard the hedge of thorns is twisted and dense. Gillian walks closer and sees that two wasps’ nests hang from the branches; a constant buzzing resonates, like a warning issued, or a threat. How is it possible for these brambles to have grown unnoticed? How could they have allowed it to happen? They believed him to be gone, they wished it to be so, but some mistakes come back to haunt you again and again, no matter how certain you are that they’ve finally been put to rest.
As she stands there, a fine drizzle begins, and that’s what makes Kylie come after her, the fact that her aunt is standing out there all alone, getting wet without seeming to notice.
“Oh, no,” Kylie says when she sees how tall the hedge of thorns has grown since she and Gideon played chess on the lawn.
“We’ll just cut them down again,” Gillian says. “That’s what we’ll do.”
But Kylie shakes her head. No clippers could get through those thorns, not even an ax would do. “I wish my mom would get home,” she says.
Laundry has been left on the line, and if it stays out it will be soaked, but that’s not the only problem. The hedge of thorns is giving off something nasty, a mist you can barely see, and the hems of each sheet and shirt have become blotchy and discolored. Kylie may be the only one who can see it, but every stain on their clean laundry is deep and dark. Now she realizes why she hasn’t been able to imagine their vacation, why it’s all been a blank inside her head.
“We’re not going to the aunts’,” she says.
The branches of the hedge are black, but anyone who looks carefully will see that the thorns are as red as blood.
Puddles are collecting on the patio by the time Antonia pushes open the back door. “Are you guys crazy?” she calls. When Gillian and Kylie don’t answer, she takes a black umbrella from the coat rack and runs out to join them.
A storm with near-hurricane-force winds has been predicted for late tomorrow. Other people in the neighborhood have heard the news and have gone out to buy rolls of masking tape; when the wind arrives to rattle their windows, the glass will be held together with X’s of tape. It’s the Owens house that’s in danger of being blown off its foundation.
“Great way to start a vacation,” Antonia says.
“We’re not going,” Kylie tells her.
“Of course we’re going,” Antonia insists. “I’m already packed.”
In her opinion, it’s truly creepy out tonight; it makes no sense to be standing here in the dark. Antonia shivers and considers the overcast sky, but she doesn’t look away long enough to miss seeing that her aunt has grabbed Kylie’s arm. Gillian holds on tight to Kylie; if she dared to let go she might not be able to stand on her own. Antonia looks to the rear of the yard, and then she understands. There’s something under those horrible thornbushes.