Page 46 of The Women of Wild Hill
Brigid had spent the whole trip staring out the window, marveling at how little seemed the same. There had been forests once and old farmhouses surrounded by fields. But after the car left the highway, they’d driven through one subdivision after another. The only thing that remained recognizable was the tall, ivy-covered iron gate in front of her.
“This is it.” Her heart raced as she gathered her things. A breeze tickled the ivy and for a moment, the entire gate appeared to writhe.
“You sure there are people here?” The driver was watching her in the rearview mirror. “And you’re sure they’re expecting you?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” Brigid answered his second question and ignored the first.
“How are you planning to get through the gate?” he asked.
Brigid fished around in the front pocket of her jacket and pulled out the key that the raven had brought her. “I always come prepared,” she assured him. “Don’t bother getting out. I’ll grab my bag from the back.”
She waited for the driver to pull away before she rolled her suitcase up to the gate. She wasn’t sure what she’d find, and she figured it was best to find it alone. Then she slid her key into the hole and turned it to the left. For the first time in thirty years, Brigid heard the lock click and hinges squeal as she pushed the gate open.
As Brigid dragged her suitcase down the drive toward the cottage, she had the uncanny sensation that she’d stepped back in time. It was as though the worst week of her life had been perfectly preserved, like her own hellish Brigadoon. There were no weeds in the driveway. No paint chips peeling from the trim of the pretty brick cottage up ahead. To her knowledge, for thirty years, Wild Hill hadn’t welcomed a single guest. Her mother’s accounting firm in Los Angeles still oversaw the trust Flora had set up before herdeath. The property taxes on Wild Hill were paid each year. But, as far as Brigid knew, no one had been sent to mow the grass, tidy the house, or touch up the paint. And yet nothing had changed. Everything looked exactly as it had the day Brigid and Phoebe had abandoned it. They may have been gone for decades, but Wild Hill had always known they’d be back. Everything else in Brigid’s life—career, movies, lovers—had just been a detour. Her fate had been waiting for her here on the Island. She wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about that.
Brigid dropped off her suitcase at the door of the cottage and went for a walk around the grounds. She stopped first at the site of Aunt Ivy’s garden and greenhouse. The stone wall that encircled the garden had been built to keep the local wildlife out—for their safety. Inside, the plants had run riot. They strangled each other, chipped away at the mortar between the bricks, and scaled the walls in search of freedom. Brigid wondered how many were the descendants of Ivy’s beloved babies. Her aunt had tended both flowers and vegetables, but Ivy’s main interest lay in what she jokingly called power plants. She grew species that could kill and others that healed. There were plants you could find in any Island garden, and others she’d brought home from far-flung travels. Ivy and Phoebe had spent hours together in the garden while Brigid pursued her own interests. Both the girls knew that Ivy’s plants had a purpose—particularly those she confined to the greenhouse.
Brigid approached Ivy’s greenhouse but didn’t dare open the door. Whatever was in there seemed desperate to get out. It pressed up against the frosted-glass panes and pushed through two that had shattered at some point in the past thirty years. Brigid didn’t recognize the foliage, with its long leaves and round green fruit. But she knew there were trees that could kill from a distance. Anything Ivy kept locked up in the greenhouse was certainly best avoided.
Brigid left the garden behind and strolled out across the grand lawn. The wildflowers she waded through were those she recognized from her youth. Chicory, Queen Anne’s lace, and black-eyed Susans. An apple tree she and Phoebe had planted by the pond when they were both small had grown into a monster. Though it was only the middle of June, the branches were dripping with fruit. Rather than red or green, the apples were a purple so deep it almost looked black. Brigid plucked one off a tree and took a bite. The flesh underneath was a brilliant white.
She continued on to the crest of Wild Hill, where her ancestors’ gravestones formed a row. A young woman lay curled up on Sadie’s grave. The last time Brigid had seen Sibyl, she’d been seated at a table in her niece’s restaurant, her identity carefully concealed. Though she hadn’t expected to encounter the girl on Wild Hill, it made perfect sense that The Third would be there.
Brigid let her niece sleep and greeted her great-great-grandmother instead. “Hello, Sadie, long time no see.” She walked along the stones. “Ivy. Lilith. Rose.” Brigid stopped at the last stone and found herself unable to speak. She’d etched the name into the stone herself. “Mama,” she finally mustered. “I’m back.”
BRIGID SAT DOWN ON THEgrass that grew on her mother’s grave and fished out a joint she’d tucked into the top pocket of her black suit. She smoked it while she finished the rest of her apple. Then she closed her eyes and lay back, letting the wind wash over her, dissolving layers of tension. A thousand strands of grass gently cradled her form while the dark world beneath orientated itself to her presence. The flowers sent fragrances wafting through the air. Waves lapped at the beach at the base of Wild Hill while enormous creatures cruised the dark depths offshore. Everything she needed was all around her. Her ancestors were with her, inside every blade of grass, every flower, and every apple on Wild Hill. For the first time in forever, Brigid felt something like peace.
“Brigid?” asked a voice.
Time must have passed—just how much she couldn’t be certain. Though Brigid wasn’t quite as high as she had been, she was still flying. She opened one eye. The young woman on Sadie’s grave had woken, her wild red hair backlit by the sun. “Hello, Sibyl,” Brigid said. “Did you have a nice rest?”
“It was interesting, that’s for sure,” Sibyl replied. “How did you know about me? Did my mom tell you?”
After a short struggle, Brigid finally managed to sit up as well. “Fuck no. Phoebe hasn’t talked to me in decades.”
“Did you have visions?” Sibyl asked.
“That would have been cheaper. No, I hired a private investigator.”
“So you’ve been spying on me all this time?” Sibyl sounded amused.
“Hardly,” Brigid said. “I get an update on you and your mother twice a year. I hear you’re quite the chef.”
“It’s my one and only gift.”
“Good.” Brigid stood up and brushed herself off. “’Cause I’m fucking famished.”
“I didn’t bring any groceries,” Sibyl told her. “Did you?”
“Groceries?” Brigid laughed her ass off. “My dear, this is Wild Hill.”
The Queen Rules Alone
Brigid slipped into the caretaker’s cottage just long enough to grab an unopened bottle of Scotch and a glass from the liquor cabinet. She brought both out to the porch and settled into an Adirondack chair looking out over the garden.
“Be careful!” she shouted at her niece, who’d disappeared among the twisting vines and towering stalks. “There might be a few things in there that could eatyou!”
Sibyl seemed to think Brigid was joking. Every few minutes, the birdsong and chirping would be interrupted by an excited squeal, and her hand would shoot up above the foliage holding another treasure for her aunt to see. At last she emerged from the jungle of bean vines and cornstalks with a basket overflowing with vegetables.
