Page 4 of Love Potion No. 69
I pull out my phone and send a text to the delightfully stubborn Clementine Rowan, informing her of my arrival tomorrow and requesting her address. I’ll meet her face to face and convince her to sell me the seeds so we can grow the flowers in Coal’s Lake.
Piece of cake.
Clementine
I’M UP WITH the birds like always. After making a cup of my oldest sister Aspen’s special blend of morning-time tea, I curl up in the wicker loveseat on the back porch and watch the sun rise over the family willow tree in the distance. Pink is always the first to arrive in the winter, shooting streaks of brightness into the sky and demanding to be seen before all the other colors, and I whistle a hello to the color before I take my first sip of tea.
A pair of cardinals tweet back from their perch in the blueberry bush that runs alongside the house, and I grin. We trade a few more whistles, and while none of us is truly certain of what the other is saying, I’m convinced that today is going to be a good day. I felt it when I woke up, and my feathered friends confirm it.
The kitchen light comes on behind me, the warm yellow spilling onto the porch around me and announcing the next person’s awakening. I send a question into the atmosphere, and I get my answer: Mom. The pipes squeak as she pours her morning glass of water, and the floorboards’ creaking makes its way outside, as well. I love our house. It’s big and messy and loud, kind of like our family, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. We’re all still here: Mom, Aspen, Magnolia, Willow, Juniper and Jasmine, and me. The only one missing is Hazel, who’s doing her residency in Boston and who my sisters are convinced will eventually return home, but I don’t think she will. She’s never believed in our gifts, explaining everything away with hard-headed logic and deciding to become a medical doctor to wield her preternatural ability to understand the body. She doesn’t need the training, but I stopped trying to convince her when I was five.
Just as I finish my tea, Mom arrives with the teapot. She smiles and pours me another round, then tucks herself beside me under the cozy blanket with her own cup. She bends her knees up, curling into a ball as she leans into me. “Good morning, my youngest.”
I tilt my head to her, snuggling back. “Good morning, oldest.”
She swats me as she softly laughs. “Watch it, you.” Her bright blue eyes miss nothing as she scans me, and I swear she can see under the blanket. I know all mothers seem to see everything, but Daphne Rowan takes mothering to a whole different level. She squints. “What aren’t you telling me?”
I huff a laugh. “Nothing.”
She shakes her head and raises her eyebrows. “You and I both know that’s not true,” she prompts.
She’s right, of course, but I decide to go with the easier tale. “There’s a man coming today.”
“He wants something.” It’s not exactly a question.
I sip the tea. It’s not Aspen’s blend, but Mom’s, and while she’s never revealed the one ingredient that none of us can figure out, I can guarantee it’s a truth serum. And it’s cute how she still thinks it works on me, when it was literally the first thing I created an antidote for. I was six.
“Don’t they always?” I ask. Because it’s true. Never have I met a man who wasn’t after one thing or another: my body, my recipes, my sisters.
Mom makes a noncommittal grunt.
I take another sip. “He wants to buy Elysian Blossom seeds,” I finally say. “His family had a bottle of the essence and used it to make perfume, but the bottle ran out.”
Mom closes her eyes. “The Henrys. Coal’s Lake.”
“Yes.”
Before she can say anything else, Aspen strides outside, her deep blonde hair waving in the breeze. “You getting a ride with me to the shop?”
“Of course,” Mom says, unfolding herself and rising. “I have a delivery of books set to come in. They’ll be there?—”
“At eleven thirteen,” Aspen finishes, already turning to go back inside. “I know. Mondays are when we get all our shipments.”
Mom follows Aspen inside, but pauses at the door to look back at me. The sun’s rays frame her pixie face and graying hair as she says, “You know what to do, Clementine.”
I nod and drain the tea. Above me, a clutch of starlings squawk as a fat black cat twirls his way around the deck furniture. His green eyes are far from innocent as he blinks up at me.
I tsk at him. “Uncle Fester. Quit terrorizing the birds.”
He says nothing, just plops his butt down and licks a paw.
* * *
The cardinals were right: it’s been a good day. A massive thunderstorm blew in out of nowhere, so it’s kept all my sisters away from the greenhouse and apparently prevented Quinton Henry from coming. I think the air pressure might actually be helping, so I’ve made a note of the barometric pressure. I’ve spent hours on the love potion, extracting a fresh batch of Elysian Blossom essence and pulling all the ingredients together in a carefully controlled procedure. So far, it’s gone absolutely perfectly. So perfectly that I think this is going to be the batch.Thebatch. Love potion number 69. I can’t help but snicker.
The only step left is to add in the Elysian Blossom essence, and my body is humming with anticipation. But before I get it out of the fridge, I need a moment to reflect and appreciate how far I’ve come. This has been such a long road, one I’ve been on practically since I was born. To be here, on the precipice of succeeding at a goal my family never thought I’d make…it’s freaking awesome.
I turn the dance music up and shimmy down the aisle as the rain lashes the surrounding glass, two-stepping and twirling without a care in the world. Life is good. I lean down to kiss a succulent, then skip a few plants down and give an air hug to Elmer, the giant aloe plant that’s older than me. I’m contemplating a cartwheel when there’s a booming knock on the glass door.