Page 4 of Christmas Past
The ex-traveling gypsy who lived all alone in an old stone cottage in the woods. He’d met her…several times. The woman got under his skin.
“What can I do for you, Bella?” His heart sank as he asked the question. She could be reporting a crime. He had to listen.
“I think someone might be in trouble.” Her hesitant tone pretty much shaved off the last hint of any patience he might have had.
“Did you see or hear something?” he asked, pounding again on the movie theater door.
She lived down at the end of a road filled with old homes that were set acres apart. It was remote enough to possibly attract someone wishing to hide – either there or in the woods.
“More like I felt it…”
He almost hung up on her. He didn’t have time for gypsy woo woo. He knocked one more time.
“Look, I had to call. If you think it’s nothing, that’s fine. I think I’m nuts half the time, too. I just…a little girl is frightened out of her skull…is the feeling I’m getting. She wet her pants. And I think she just threw up. So if that means nothing to you, I’m actually glad. I don’t believe for one second the garbage my family tells people about us all being psychic. I know for a fact they make that stuff up. And I really just want to be left alone. I’m sorry I bothered you…”
“Wait!” He said urgently with a half frozen jaw, but was too late.
She’d already hung up.
~*~
Bella wasn’t dressed for company. She never dressed for company. She lived alone, didn’t invite visitors, and didn’t really want them, either. She dressed to please herself. And on that particular snowy Monday morning, she’d been pleased with the tie-dyed, gauze-covered sweatshirt dress that hung down to just above her knees, coupled with a very worn pair of jeans.
And she was barefoot. Part of the gypsy in her that just wasn’t going to go away. She was okay with that. She’d been born to and raised in a family of gypsies. Her personal work was to figure out those Bohemian pieces, the ones that were real, and embrace them, while letting go of the lies.
And the liars. If her mother, sisters, and grandfathers could live with them, then that was on them. She couldn’t. And wouldn’t. Lies ruined lives.
Thinking again of the Christmas note she’d received, unsigned, in her mailbox,Bella returned to her sage, starting to feel better. To feel less. As though, by calling Sheriff Andrews, she’d proved the lie in what she’d been feeling. Her runaway imagination had made her a prime victim to those in her family wanting her to believe she had a ‘gift’ and wanting, too, to use her to take hard-earned money from innocent people who were hurting and willing to pay anything to find answers.
Her family had used her.
They’d used her because she’d had a gift for storytelling. They’d convinced her she was sensitive to those around her…and that she’d been giventhe gift– that she was special – one of the Called Ones, like her mother, Edith. Meant to help others. And she’d believed them. Until her gift had led to a stranger’s death.
Ten bottles down, ten to go. And when the grinding was finished, she’d get back to the soap. And to thinking about getting a pet. To be the most company to her, and in deference to the cold, she’d already determined it couldn’t be a lamb. Something she’d always wanted.
Or a llama. She particularly liked mangalitzas – a form of pig-sheep that originated in Austria. And if she lived in a warmer climate, she’d have alpacas.
But for upstate Maine, where she’d ended up simply because she’d dug in her feet and refused to move on with her family, she needed an inside companion.
Pushing the completely straight, long auburn hair away from her face, she thought about tying it back. But didn’t want to interrupt her rhythm. Not with the morning she’d had. Two more jars were done. She was moving right along. Probably should get the basil done, too, since she was on a roll.
A standard poodle, she was thinking. It was the closest thing to a lamb she was going to get. Plus, they didn’t shed or have dander so she wouldn’t be pissing off her allergies with the new addition to their family. Yes, as soon as the day’s work was done, she was going to hit the Internet to look for rescues. And if there were none, then breeders.
The knock on her door startled her so much sage flew from the mortar to cover the counter top.
“Bella Potter? Are you in there?”
She recognized the voice.
Sheriff Chad Andrews. One of the most handsome men she’d ever met, with his dark hair and perennially young features. And the coldest, too. These days the man was a walking computer. Reminded her of that Data character on one of the oldStar Trekshows she used to watch at the laundromat. Back when the grandfathers had let them spend the money to do their laundry in machines.
Tempted to ignore the man – she was sorry she’d bothered him with her paranoia, but she’d already apologized – Bella pictured him banging her door down.
And having to live with the cold coming in until she could get someone out to get it fixed.
“Look, I told you I’m sorry,” she said as she pulled open the door a crack, trying to keep out as much of the cold as she could.
At least the snow had lightened up a bit. She could see the sheriff’s footprints leading from her door to the cruiser parked on the drive.
