Witched at Birth--A Paris, Texas Romance Page 8

  It continued to stare blankly, its blue eyes vacant as he closed the door on it, shutting out Winnie.

  Shutting off his feelings.

  Chapter Nine

  The abrasive blare of an air horn made Winnie fall out of bed and hit the floor in a tangle of limbs and wrinkled ruffles. “What the hell?” she groaned, fighting her way out of the blankets.

  “Rise and shine, cupcake!” Icabod’s voice floated to her sleep-hazed brain.

  Glancing upward at the clock on the nightstand, she read five a.m. “You’re kidding me.”

  “Oh no, Pooh Bear. The list said wake up was at five a.m. sharp. It’s time to face the day!”

  She grumbled, pulling herself back up to the bed to rest her elbows. No one got up at five in the morning. Not even in prison did she get up at five in the morning. It was inhumane.

  “C’mon, Winnie! Shake off those sleepies and get that eleven-minute shower in. If you hurry, you can rinse your hair.”

  Last night came rushing back to her full force. She’d been in the weed-filled garden, wandering through it, remembering her mother’s garden. Her soul ached at the mess it was, but she found she recognized some of the flowers. A flood of memories of her mother, a big floppy hat on her head, telling her stories about the origins of each plant, assaulted her.

  She’d suddenly felt so tired her legs couldn’t carry her anymore, so she’d sat down to catch her breath and…

  Now she was in her bedroom. “How did I get back upstairs last night?”

  “Big, strong, handsome Ben. Carried you in here like you were some damsel in distress and lay your delicate head on your pillow before covering you up. In some circles—mostly female, I suspect—that’s considered hot and romantic.”

  Ben had carried her up here?

  “I think he still likes you. Even though you blew his stuff up.”

  Pushing away from the bed, she made a face at Icabod. “He doesn’t like me. He despises me. Just like I despise him.” Yeah. Just like that. “And I didn’t mean to blow anyone’s stuff up. It was an accident.”

  She could swear she heard Icabod roll his eyes. “Whatever,” he drawled. “How about we argue about this tonight upon your return from kindergarten chaos? For now, it’s up and at ’em. You have teeth to brush and skorts to fashion into acceptable teacher’s-aide wear.”

  As she’d sat in that neglected garden last night, she’d reaffirmed her promise to herself to try. After hearing what Icabod said about her father and how hard raising her had been, how he often talked to her mother about it, she’d strengthened her resolve to do this well. So when All Hallows Eve came, she’d be able to look Yaga in the eye and know she’d done her best.

  Today, at five in the freakin’ morning, her resolve waivered. But only for a moment before her own personal creepy doll cheering section interrupted her waffling.

  “Win? Hurry up! Let’s do this and do it right. A small child is counting on you.”

  She instantly stopped making the bed and looked to Icabod. “What does that mean?”

  “It means Lola needs you. She’s just like you, Winnie. Her mother died, too, and she’s angry and hurt and she misses her. Surely you see the parallels? You can help her with that. I heard you downstairs with her last night. You’re the person she needs right now. Don’t let her down.”

  Winnie returned to making the bed. “I have to doubt she needs a convict.” When she’d been locked up, she hadn’t felt the kind of humility she felt knowing Lola would find out about her prison time, if she didn’t already know.

  Why was some six-year-old’s opinion of her important?

  “First of all, it’s not like you’re Gacy. You’re not some serial killer, Winnie. ‘Convict’ is pretty harsh. Second, know why Lola’s opinion of you matters? Because you don’t want her to feel as empty as you do.”

  “How are you so attuned to my feelings?”

  “A lot of Oprah. Your reign of terror was during the height of Oprah’s popularity. Your father watched it religiously, hoping to find some way to help you get through those difficult years.”

  There it was again, that ugly stab of remorse. “I put him through the wringer, didn’t I?”

  “You damn well did. But now you can help Lola before she does the same thing to Ben.”

  “Ben deserves to be put through the wringer. The jerk.” But was he really?

  Okay, he hadn’t called her for three days. Boo-hoo.

  She hadn’t waited to find out why he hadn’t called, either. She’d reacted. Her anger had risen like a helium balloon, and she’d convinced herself he’d used her.

  But did a guy waste three solid months of dating just to get in your pants? If Ben were that kind of guy, he’d have dumped her after date two when she’d decided there was something about him that made him different than all the rest and they should wait to make love.

  Last night, as she’d sat in Moira’s garden, she wondered what her mother would say about what she’d done, and she was humiliated by her behavior.

  “I dunno,” Icabod said, interrupting her thoughts. “Something about that doesn’t sit right with me. You didn’t see the look on Ben’s face last night when he tucked you in. That aside, does Lola deserve to be put through the wringer? Yaga put you here for a reason. I suspect it was to help a child who’s suffered a similar loss. Now go brush your teeth and carpe diem.”

  Winnie didn’t bother to respond. Hearing these insights into her deepest feelings made her uncomfortable, made her sweat as if she were right back at the top of that flagpole again.

  But there was one thing she had decided to do. Apologize to Ben.

  Blowing up his warehouse had been petty and childish, and a million times wrong. She’d let her anger get the best of her, and she regretted it now. If her mother really was looking down on her, Winnie wanted her to be proud. She wouldn’t be proud of a daughter who was so vengeful.

  Before she ran to the bathroom, she smoothed the quilt on the bed and grabbed a bar of soap from the dresser. “Do you want to sit on the bed today, Icabod? Change of scenery, maybe?”

  “Nah. I’m good here, but thanks for asking, Winnie.”

  She smiled at him, double-checking to be sure his head was upright. “Okay. Gotta run. See you tonight?”

  “Like I have a choice?” he asked on a chuckle. “Go slay those little dragons!”

  She laughed at him before making a break for the bathroom.

  No way was she going to let those little monsters mock her for having bedhead.

  “Have a terrific day, Weenie!” Jacques sang out as she put the suddenly working Pacer in park. She’d wondered the entire drive over to the school how it had gotten up into the driveway without a miracle—or at least some magic.

  She’d eaten a quick breakfast of cereal, managing to avoid Ben and Lola altogether before flying out of the house. She was still too raw from Icabod’s words to see them. Lola should never use her as an example for anything, and she didn’t want the responsibility of mentor.

  She was no mentor. She was a fuck-up. Plain and simple.

  For now, she’d focus on being a hardworking fuck-up. As she slammed the door shut on the Pacer, she caught sight of BIC, standing at the red door, wearing a freshly ironed pair of culottes with pink and yellow flowers embroidered on them and a sharp crease in the leg. Her shirt was pink today, but her vest was the icing on the cake. Orange, with a white paisley pattern on it that matched nothing else on her body.

  “Morning, BIC!” she said cheerfully, tucking under her arm the quick lunch of peanut butter and jelly she’d made and stuffed in a brown paper bag.

  BIC gave her the once over. “Nice pants.”

  Winnie looked down at her yellow parachute pants before she said, “Listen here, What Not To Wear, this isn’t by choice. You have a choice.” She pointed at the orange vest and culottes. “Don’t judge lest ye be judged.”

  BIC held the door open for her. “You’re late,” she scolded, scribbling on her stu
pid clipboard.

  Winnie peered over the top of it before BIC snatched it to her chest. “I am not. I’m three minutes early.” She waved a hand at the clock above the bench she’d sat in the day before.

  “We have work to do, Foster. Shake a leg.”

  The moment the words were out of her mouth was the moment Winnie heard Miss Marjorie from the interior of the classroom where the door was cracked. Her voice was wobbly and unsure, instantly making Winnie defensive on her behalf. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Martin. I promise I’ll keep a closer eye on Miss Winnie.”

  BIC’s eyes met Winnie’s. “Did you tell Travis Martin you’d feed him bat’s wings for snack if he complained one more time about the quality of the juice boxes?”

  “Is Travis Martin the mean little shit who wouldn’t quit pulling little Tara Nettles’ hair during story time yesterday?”

  “That’s him.”

  Winnie hiked up her parachute pants. “Then yep. I sure did. And I’d do it again. He’s a mean one, Mrs. Grinch.”

  “You can’t threaten the children, Winnifred—”

  “Are you Miss Winnie the ex-con?” asked a platinum beauty in a figure-hugging, black maxi-dress, two enormous diamonds on her fingers and big, dark sunglasses.

  “That’s me. Ex-convict gone teacher’s aide.”

  Mrs. Martin sauntered up to her, a finger in the air, with Miss Marjorie right behind her. “Let me make myself perfectly clear, Miss Winnie. If you ever threaten to feed my son bat wings again, I’ll go to the Council and have you locked up far longer than just nine months. We haven’t punished children like that since the Dark Ages. You leave my son alone, understood?”

  Count to ten, Winnie. Count to ten million, but do not, I repeat, do not deflate her poofy jugs. “I’d be happy to leave Travis alone—if he’ll leave Tara Nettles alone. He pulled her hair so hard yesterday I thought she was going to end up with whiplash.”

  Mrs. Martin cornered her, pushing her flush to the red doors leading to the classroom, the scent of her perfume heavy in the humid air. “My son is not violent.”

  Winnie sucked in her cheeks and clenched her fists. “Right. He’s just here because he’s a gentle lamb, caught up in the fray of the misunderstood. This is a school for children with behavioral issues, most of which Travis displays, Mrs. Martin.”

  Mrs. Martin looked to BIC now, her hazel eyes blazing. “Are you going to allow her to speak to me like this?”

  Miss Marjorie, her sweet face full of horror, pinched Winnie’s arm before she planted herself between the two women. “I’ll make sure Miss Winnie takes a gentler approach. You have my word, Mrs. Martin. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have to prepare the classroom for the children.”

  “You’d better make sure that you do, Miss Marjorie, or the Council will hear about this,” she seethed, pivoting on her wedge sandals to begin taking her leave.

  When she stopped at the door, she looked back at Winnie. “Oh, and nice pants. Did MC Hammer have a garage sale this weekend and I missed it?” she taunted before strolling out the front door.

  Winnie closed her eyes and tried to remember where she’d mentally counted to in order to pick up where she left off—because she wanted to turn Travis Martin’s mother into a tree frog.

  “Winnie?” Miss Marjorie called, tugging on her arm. “You okay?”

  “I’m de-boobing Mrs. Martin and downgrading those overflowing floaties to an A-cup in my mind, but it’ll pass.”

  BIC slapped her on the back while Marjorie threw her arms around her neck and gave her a hard squeeze. “You can come back in now, Mrs. Martin,” BIC called.

  She opened her eyes to find Mrs. Martin smiling at her, her cloud of perfume tickling Winnie’s nose. “You passed! Congratulations!”

  She looked at the three women dumbly. “Passed?”

  “Yes!” Marjorie said, her cheerful voice excited. “That was a test to see if you’d set Mrs. Martin on fire or keep your cool. You did okay. Great job, Winnie!”

  Mrs. Martin smiled broadly, her eyes warm when she patted Winnie’s arm. “Travis did behave badly, and he probably does deserve bat wings for snack. I’m sorry he pulled Tara’s hair. I’ll call her mother and apologize immediately and make sure he apologizes to Tara. He’s very angry these days, which is of course why he’s here. Divorce from a cheating jackass can be hell on the kids.”

  Winnie held up a finger, narrowing her eyes. “Hold up. This was a test? What kind of sadistic trick is that to play on me? I saw my whole parole flash before my eyes!”

  BIC grinned, which actually made her chubby face pretty. “That’s how we keep you on your toes, parolee, and how we can be sure you won’t act out when we’re not around to stop you.”

  She sagged against the door, suddenly exhausted after the rush of anger. “I don’t like any of you right now.”

  Mrs. Martin nudged her and winked. “That’s okay. I like you. You really made Travis listen, Winnie. Something I just can’t seem to do these days. I realize all the psychologists say threats aren’t the way to handle a situation like that, but it was harmless enough, and you did get results. He had a begrudging admiration for you this morning over breakfast. So forgive me, and maybe we can be friends?” She held out her French-manicured hand to Winnie. “I’m Daphne. It’s so nice to meet you.”

  Daphne’s hopeful eyes were hard to deny. Winnie shook her hand and smiled, not even bothering to resist her warmth.

  “So maybe one day you can drop by with Lola and she and Travis can have a play date? I know you’re staying at Moira’s. I miss her so much, and I bet Ben could use the break.”

  When Winnie hesitated, knowing she had no right to say yes to anything concerning Lola, Daphne coaxed, “I have a big pool—bet Lola would love to swim. She and Moira used to come over all the time.”

  Her heart clenched hard in her chest. Lola needed to be with her friends, friends from her former life, before her mother was gone. “I’ll check with Mr. Yagamawitz.”

  “Be sure you do, Winnie. And something else to take note of. I have a closetful of clothes—all from the twenty-first century. You can borrow whatever you’d like.”

  Winnie couldn’t help but laugh. The promise of something other than a skort and parachute pants, coupled with Daphne’s warmth, made her nod her head. “I’ll check and see if it’s okay and get back to you.”

  “Good enough. Really nice meeting you, Winnie. And I don’t regret a second of it—not even my crack about MC Hammer,” she said on a chuckle and a wave of her hand, floating out the front door on a supermodel walk and perfect hair.

  Marjorie and BIC began to speak all at once, but Winnie held up a palm to their faces. “You’re both dead to me for scaring the life out of me. At least until snack time, when I’ll have no choice but to sleep with my enemies so I can talk you out of some Cheez-Its to go with my lunch,” she joked.

  BIC pinched her cheek. “Aw, c’mon, Foster—we’re just doing our jobs.”

  Winnie fought a grin. “Job-schmob. Now, if you two Oscar Award-winning actresses will excuse me, I have children to threaten.” She adjusted the shoulders on her padded jacket and breezed into the classroom to the tune of their laughter.

  But on the inside, she was secretly pleased. Not just that she’d passed the test, but that she’d garnered more BIC/Miss Marjorie approval.

  “Winnie? Have you seen Wyatt and Lola?” Marjorie, her face full of worry again, tapped her on the shoulder.

  She was busy sitting at the smallest table on the planet, cutting out pumpkins for the children to decorate and put their names on while Marjorie monitored recess outside. “I thought they were at recess with you?”

  Her hand flew to her throat. “They were, but just like always, they disappeared. I can’t find them in any of their usual hiding places. I’m worried, Winnie.”

  Winnie dropped the scissors and jumped up instantly, a surprising knot in her stomach. Wyatt was sneaky, definitely not a good influence for Lola. “I’m on it. You get the kid
s inside and ready for lunch. I’ll hunt for Lola and Wyatt.” Making her way out of the classroom, she paused a moment.

  She was in tune with Lola and her hijinks now. As a result, she felt a slight vibration when Lola’s magic was in use. It was almost like a homing device, but as she stood silent for a moment, there was nothing.

  A strange panic settled in her limbs, unwarranted because it wasn’t as if Lola hadn’t disappeared before, but it troubled her in a way she didn’t understand. Making her way down the narrow hallway, she passed their small cubbies and the boys’ bathroom, listening.

  Hanging a right, she saw the janitor’s closet and a door that led to a stairwell. She pushed her way into it and climbed the narrow staircase. She’d thought the schoolhouse was only one story, but to her surprise, the stairs led to a loft area where she heard voices.

  Two small, ratfink little voices.

  As the loft came into view, stacked with boxes, she found Wyatt and Lola sitting on an old chest. Rather than rush in to scold them for disobeying, Winnie waited to eavesdrop on their conversation.

  Wyatt held up a wand, a powerful one at that. “See,” he said, showing it to Lola. “Watch what it can do.” He swished it in a circle, the sheer power of that motion bolting Winnie’s feet to the floor.

  The room swayed then blurred before it shuddered and groaned, and from a fiery circle, a woman appeared.

  Beautiful and dark-haired, willowy and tall, she called Lola’s name. “Lola! Oh, my sweet, sweet Lola! Mommy misses you so. Come play with me,” she sang, holding out her arms.

  Lola didn’t think twice, she hopped off the chest and began to run toward the circle, her eyes filled with happiness. “Mommy!”

  “Lola! Nooo!” Winnie screamed, lifting her arms high, cursing the restrictions of her cropped jacket before waving her hands at the wand, knocking it from Wyatt’s hands to the floor.

  Lola’s eyes went wide when her mother disappeared before she turned to Winnie and screamed, “That was my mommy! Why did you make her go away?”

  Her words stung, but there wasn’t time to understand why they stung. She rushed to Lola’s side, kneeling in front of her and directing the wand to her hand with the flick of a finger. “That wasn’t your mother, Lola!” She didn’t know who the hell it was, but it wasn’t Moira. She felt it. Knew it.