Crystal Cove (Friday Harbor #4)(3)

If the soot pattern on the inside of a glass candleholder resembled a heart pierced by swords, Marigold would say it was time to leave again. She saw signs in footprints, the shape of a cloud, the path of a spider, the color of the moon.

Justine couldn’t remember exactly when she had started to resent the nomadic pattern of their lives. She only knew that at some point, it had bothered her that they could pack up everything they owned in a quarter hour. “It’s so much fun to go to new places,” Marigold had told her. “We’re free as birds, Justine. All we lack is wings.” But even robins and starlings had stayed in their nests longer than Justine and her mother.

Things might have been different if Justine’s father, Liam, had still been alive, but he had died when she was a baby. From what little Marigold had told her, Justine knew that Liam had been a farmer—an orchardist—who had grown apples, pears, and cherries. Marigold had met him when she was buying apples to celebrate the autumn equinox. A red bandana had been tied across his forehead to keep his long dark hair out of his eyes. He had peeled an entire apple in one long strand, and when the peel had fallen to the ground, it had made the shape of Marigold’s initials, which she’d taken as a sign.

They had married right away. Liam had died before the next year was out. Their entire relationship had been as brief and intense as a lightning storm. Marigold had kept no photographs of him. She hadn’t even wanted his wedding band or pocketknife, or the guitar he had played. His orchard had been sold, and his possessions had been disposed of. Justine was the only evidence that Liam Hoffman had ever existed. She had his heavy dark hair and brown eyes, and according to her mother, she had his smile.

Whenever Justine asked for stories about him, Marigold shook her head and explained that when someone you loved was gone, all the memories went into a secret place in your heart. You could take them out and look at them only when you were ready. Eventually Justine had realized that Marigold would never be ready. All Marigold wanted to remember about her late husband was that love was the worst thing that could ever happen to you. It made you hate springtime breezes and guitar music and the taste of apples.

Reflecting on those years of constant upheaval, Justine thought she understood why her mother could never stay in one place. If you held still long enough, love might find you, and catch you so tightly that you couldn’t slip free.

And that was what Justine wanted, with all the force of her will.

“Can we forget this whole thing?” Justine asked Zoë, rubbing her tired eyes. “Because you don’t believe in this stuff, and if I try to explain, I’m only going to end up sounding crazy.”

“It doesn’t matter what I believe. What matters is that you believe in it.” Her cousin’s tone turned coaxing. “Tell me what kind of spell you wanted to cast on yourself.”

Justine scowled and swung one of her feet, and muttered something under her breath.

“What?” Zoë asked.

Justine repeated it, more clearly this time. “A love spell.” She darted a glance at her cousin, expecting derision or amusement. But this was Zoë. She only looked concerned.

“Is this because of the breakup with Duane?” Zoë asked gently.

“Not really. It’s more … oh, I don’t know. It’s just that now Lucy’s together with Sam, and you’re engaged to Alex, and … I’ve never been in love.”

“It takes longer for some people,” Zoë said. “You’re still a year younger than me, you know. Maybe by next summer—”

“Zoë, the problem isn’t that I haven’t fallen in love. The problem is that I can’t.”

“Why are you so certain?”

“I just know.”

“But you’re a very loving person.”

“In terms of friendship, yes. But when it comes to romance … I’ve never felt that kind of love. It’s like trying to understand what the ocean is like by holding a conch shell against my ear.” She glanced morosely at the romance novel in Zoë’s hands. “What’s your favorite part of that book? The page you’d tell me to use in a spell.”

Zoë shook her head, beginning to flip through the book. “You’re going to make fun of me.”

“I’m not going to make fun of you.”

The page was located with an ease that implied many repeated readings. Zoë handed the open book to her, her cheeks turning pink. “Don’t read it out loud.”

“I won’t even move my lips,” Justine said. Her gaze swept down the page while Zoë busied herself at one of the counters, measuring ingredients into a mixing bowl.

“You,” he whispered, “are my Solomon’s mine, my uncharted empire. You are the only home I need to know, the only journey I want to take, the only treasure I would die to claim. You are exotic and familiar, opiate and tonic, hard conscience and sweet temptation.”

The scene continued with escalating passion for pages afterward, compelling in its unabashed lyricism. Justine wanted to read more. “Are emotions like that even possible?” she asked. “I mean, even though you and Alex are in love…”—she gestured with the book—“real life can’t be like this, right?”

Zoë’s face turned pink as she replied. “Sometimes real life is even better. Because love is there not just in the big romantic moments, but in all the little things. The way he touches your face, or covers you with a blanket when you’re taking a nap, or puts a Post-it note on the fridge to remind you about your dentist appointment. I think those things glue a relationship together even more than all the great sex.”