The Things We Do for Love (5 page)

“You can do it,” Jonathan said. “You’ll give great advice.”

Like how to steal someone’s fiancé with a love potion?
The thought of what she’d done the night before was mortifying. In a way, she supposed, it was better that Graham had drunk it. It wasn’t going to work, and this way it was as if she hadn’t actually tried to spike Jonathan’s drink.

Mary Anne said, “I’d like to…think about it.”

“Well, I plan to be at the studio most of the day doing paperwork,” he said. “Come by if you want to talk about it—or just hang out.”

Mary Anne widened her eyes. It was nothing. He was just being a friend. “I…might,” she said.

“Great. I’ll look for you. We’ll go have coffee.”

“I said I
might,
” she clarified.

“Then, I’ll hope,” he replied.

She hung up the phone, squinting, heart beating hard, playing the conversation through her mind.
Come by if you want to talk about it—or just hang out.

Did it mean anything? Was he finally interested in her?

Interested or not, he
was
engaged to another woman.

And he hadn’t called her on the phone to say that relationship was broken because he’d suddenly realized he didn’t want to marry Angie Workman. Instead, he’d called her and told her he’d be spending the day at the
studio. Sunday, when the studio was usually quiet, the station running prerecorded programs.

No, she was being silly. People popped in and out on Sundays.

What if she made an excuse to go down to the station? Was that what he hoped would happen? She couldn’t decide whether that was good or bad.

She called Cameron.

“G
RAHAM DRANK
the love potion.”

Cameron’s heart sank. It wasn’t that she believed the love potion would work. All the same, Graham Corbett’s drinking it seemed a sign—a sign that he and Mary Anne were going to end up together.

In any case, he was not attracted to Cameron. If he had been, she would have felt it.
Lots
of men
were
attracted to her. But last night, when Graham had taken her home, he’d seemed deeply preoccupied.

Cameron lived in an old miner’s company house that had been moved from its original location to the foot of Jack Hollow. When she’d climbed out of Graham’s car, the dogs came to greet her. Wolfie was feral, a black animal almost certainly part wolf, who’d gradually become tame and was loved by the people of the hollow, and his daughter, Mariah, Cameron’s own dog. Cameron had glanced into the car at Graham but he was simply waiting, engine idling. No hope.

She told Mary Anne, “I don’t think he needed to.”

“Needed to do what?”

“Drink the love potion. I think he’s already seriously smitten with you.”

“Well, I’m not smitten with him. What happened when he took you home?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

Mary Anne said, “Well, forget him.
Jonathan
called.”

Cameron listened to the details, saying, “But he didn’t drink the love potion. Maybe
this
is what Clare meant—that they don’t always work the way you think.”

“She told me to make sure the right person drinks it.”

Cameron considered, curious. “If I’m up at her place again, I’m going to ask her about other things that have happened with love potions.”
Maybe she has something that will help me get over my stupid crush on a man who likes my cousin.
“You’re going to do the show with Graham, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know. I’m thinking about it.”

Cameron remembered something she’d meant to ask the night before. “Hey, can you help me with Women of Strength next weekend?”

“As long as it’s not caving.”

Cameron smiled, remembering that on a previous caving trip Mary Anne, who wasn’t proportioned for the sport, had gotten stuck in a narrow passage. “It isn’t
this
time, but we’re doing Big Jim’s Cave at the end of November and I want you to do that with us. You
won’t
get stuck there.”

“What’s next week’s joy?”

“Hiking and studying wild plants with a local herbalist.”

“Sure.”

“Good. Okay. I’ll talk to you later.” The local herbalist was Clare Cureux and Cameron supposed she had some ulterior motive—that perhaps Clare could
remove
Graham’s infatuation with Mary Anne. Then, she blinked, feeling sad, knowing that love potions, like happily ever afters, were just dreams from Nanna’s books.

O
CTOBER CELEBRATIONS
. October celebrations. October celebrations.

Mary Anne could not focus on the topic she’d chosen for this week’s radio essay. It was Monday, and she always went on the air Tuesday afternoons at three-fifty, right before
All Things Considered.

At two-thirty in the afternoon, she sat in her grandmother’s living room playing bridge with Nanna and the Morrisseys, who lived next door. She was struggling to concentrate on the game, knowing only that her essay was not done, had no fire, was nothing.

Nanna had dressed in black slacks and a white blouse. Her hair was straight and white and fell below her shoulders, and she held it back with a black velvet bow clip. She wore her gold hoop earrings. She had a law degree and had clerked in a law office before she met her husband. She was formidable.

Relieved to find herself dummy in the last hand, Mary Anne sat thinking about the fact that she had been so desperately in love with someone that she had spiked his drink with a love potion, which the person she most disliked had seized and drunk. The fact that she’d attempted something so foolish, not to mention childish, as a love potion alarmed her.

“Well,” said Nanna, “here we are.” Totals, smiles, the rubber, the game. She and Nanna had won.

Mary Anne made polite responses as Mr. Morrissey folded up the card table and as Mrs. Morrissey complimented Nanna on the lemon cake Lucille had made. Finally, the two of them were gone, and Mary Anne told her grandmother, “I better work on my essay. I keep putting it off.”

“What’s your topic?”

“October celebrations,” Mary Anne said with a sigh. “I should probably switch, because it’s doing nothing for me.”

“Maybe you should look at my community calendar and see what’s happening this month.” Nanna reached to the table beside her for the small calendar with its photographs of Logan. She flipped it slowly to October, squinted, then handed it to Mary Anne.

Mary Anne looked at the various announcements, reminders and historical anniversaries. Today marked the hundredth anniversary of Logan’s first hospital birth. She blinked, thinking of Clare Cureux, a midwife who attended births in homes. And wasn’t Clare’s ex-husband, David Cureux, an obstetrician—or hadn’t he been in the past?

Mary Anne wasn’t sure why she felt drawn to the Cureux family, except that she wanted to cover up that first impression she’d made—as a love-potion customer. She wanted them to know that she was a rational person who’d tried the potion just for a lark, just for the sheer goofy fun of it. As if any minute of the experience had been fun.

The other option was to avoid them, to skulk when she passed her neighbor David Cureux’s house and try to pretend it had never happened.

No, she wanted to restore her reputation and she wanted to start at the place where she’d begun to destroy it.

“Nanna,” she told her grandmother, “you’re a genius. This is the anniversary of Logan’s first hospital birth, and I’m going to write about birth in Logan County.” She studied her grandmother. “Were you born in the hospital?”

“Oh, yes,” said Nanna. “And I love your idea.” She lifted her face, and Mary Anne kissed the soft skin, taking in the familiar scent of her grandmother’s face cream.

“Love you,” Mary Anne said.

Lucille stepped into the living room. “Mrs. Billingham, are you ready to go upstairs for a nap?”

“I think so, Lucille.”

“Miss Mary Anne,” said Lucille, “if you go out, you wrap up good. It’s chilly out.”

“Thank you, Lucille.”

When Mary Anne had first visited her grandmother in West Virginia she’d been a little startled by the tall, elegant black woman who called Nanna “Mrs. Billingham” and called Mary Anne “Miss Mary Anne.” It all seemed so
Gone with the Wind
—and just a little bit disturbing. However, she had since come to know Lucille well and had visited her family in nearby Holden and met her son, who was a Porsche mechanic. She’d never succeeded in persuading Lucille to drop the “Miss” in front of her name.

Far be it from Nanna to suggest that Lucille call her “Jacqueline.”

Mary Anne went upstairs to collect her car keys, purse and notebook. Her first stop wouldn’t require her to drive, however. David Cureux lived right around the corner.

U
NFORTUNATELY
, when Mary Anne reached the next block, she discovered that he and Graham Corbett were
enjoying an afternoon cocktail together on Graham’s wide front veranda.
Damn
.

David Cureux must know that the purpose of her visit to his ex-wife had been to obtain a love potion. What if he told Graham? She started to turn, hoping to escape without being seen and bringing the unhappy event to mind, but Graham called out, “Mary Anne!”

Into the fray.
Surely, David Cureux wouldn’t mention the damn love potion. And if he did, Mary Anne would simply deny it. Maybe she’d say it was for Cameron—it had been Cameron’s idea, after all.

“Hi, Graham,” she replied. She hadn’t discussed Jonathan’s proposal for the show with him yet. Maybe that was what he wanted to talk about. But as she climbed the steps to the veranda, she said, “Dr. Cureux, you’re the one I was hoping to find. I’m writing an essay on childbirth in Logan County, in celebration of the hundredth anniversary of our first hospital birth.”

“Well, now that’s an interesting topic,” the obstetrician replied, his blue eyes instantly alight.

It would be all right, Mary Anne decided. This was a sensible man, and he probably thought the love potions were nonsense anyhow.
Just as I do.

“What tack are you going to take on this essay?” he asked.

“Well, it seems obvious to me to talk about hospital births and home births and discuss the fact that both still occur in Logan County. But what usually happens when I write an essay is that I don’t know what I’m going to say until I’ve gathered some stories and mulled the topic over. This idea came to me literally fifteen minutes ago.” She knew that as the interviewer, the burden was on her.
“For instance, maybe an interesting place to start would be with the births of your own children. You were married to a midwife who attended births at home.”

“Yes, and I would have had to sedate Clare to get her inside a hospital, where she was convinced that terrible things would happen to her. Her births were trouble free, and I attended them.”

“Have you attended any other home births in Logan County?”

“Well, a few, and a couple emergencies, too. I delivered a baby during a big rock concert in the seventies—
at
the concert, no less.”

Graham watched Mary Anne sit down automatically in the chair he offered. She murmured her thanks without a glance in his direction. She was entirely focused on her interview, which gave him a chance to study her. He’d agreed to Hale’s idea, doubting if Mary Anne would do it. She had some bizarre ideas about what was appropriate for a journalist.

David Cureux said, “How are your folks, by the way? I was watching a rerun of one of your dad’s movies the other night.”

Graham blinked. “Who’s your dad, Mary Anne?”

“Jon Clive Drew,” David replied.

“No kidding!” Graham exclaimed.

Mary Anne nodded almost impatiently and turned the topic back to childbirth, asking the doctor about his first experience attending a birth at the hospital.

Graham examined her face, looking for a resemblance to the actor who had first become well-known for his role on a daytime soap opera. Jon Clive Drew had moved on from there to portraying villains and heroes in detective
dramas, and then he’d hit the big screen where he’d made it very big for a very short time. As Graham recalled, he’d also done some kind of car racing, and he’d recorded some albums, too—folk music, Graham thought. The man had made his mark, though not with his art as much as through his personal life. Graham recalled a photo he’d seen somewhere of Jon Clive at a Miami Beach party, women drawing on his bare chest with lipstick while he grinned in a carefree, dissolute way. How old had Mary Anne been when that had happened? Graham wasn’t sure how old he’d been. He also remembered an epic drunken car chase across several states, which had ended when Jon Clive drove off a Texas pier, leaping from the car as it hurtled toward the water. And there was some bar he set on fire after he was insulted at a concert. And affairs with various actresses, one after another. All of these things were always topped off with Jon Clive’s public and religious remorse and apologies. Because part of the actor’s personality was that he loved to stand by his religion, wanted everyone to know he was a God-fearing man. Yes, Jon Clive had been a professional bad boy.
Had
been, as in has-been. Clearly, Mary Anne didn’t find him a worthy topic of conversation.

But Graham couldn’t help asking, “And he was on that show…
Miami!
”

“Right.” Mary Anne stood up, having nothing more to say about nighttime television’s short-lived answer to
Dallas.
“Thank you, Dr. Cureux. You’ve given me some good things to think about.”

“Don’t run off,” said Graham, standing up as well. “I didn’t offer you a drink. I’m sorry.”

“No, thanks. I have other things to look into.”

Graham said, “About the show—”

“Yes?”

“I’m game if you are,” he continued, surprising himself by hoping she wanted to do it.

Mary Anne’s lush eyebrows drew together slightly. “All right,” she agreed. And with a nod, she left them, hurrying down the steps.

As she left, Graham admired the image her body presented from behind. She was tall and strong, and he liked that about her, liked her straight hair shining like wheat in the sun.

Dr. Cureux regarded him curiously, glanced at the departing woman and then looked back at Graham. “What’s this about a show? Your show?”

“She’s going to be on it to offer dating advice.”

Surprisingly, the physician snorted.

Graham blinked at him, startled. “What?”

David Cureux shook his head and rose wearily from his chair. “I will leave you to go back to your writing, Graham. Thank you for the refreshment.”

“You’re welcome,” Graham replied, wondering if his neighbor knew something about Mary Anne that he didn’t know.

Myrtle Hollow

M
ARY
A
NNE ONLY
wanted to see Clare Cureux again to emphasize that, well, she wasn’t the kind of woman who bought love potions or used them. She wanted to show Clare Cureux the
real
Mary Anne Drew. But as she parked by the cabin alongside two other vehicles that hadn’t been there the first time she visited, she consid
ered turning around and driving away. She could write her essay without speaking to Clare Cureux.

And what if the woman mentioned the love potion in front of the other people who were inside?

Briefly, Mary Anne studied the cars. One was an ancient navy-blue Volvo station wagon bearing two bumper stickers, one supporting the Logan County Women’s Resource Center and the other suggesting that none of the current candidates for president was conservative enough.

He put it on there to annoy his mother,
Cameron had said.
See what I mean about mother issues?

Okay, so that was Paul Cureux’s car. Mary Anne had met him, through Cameron, with whom he seemed like a bad older brother who lured his sister into stunts that would get them both into trouble. The other vehicle contained two children’s car seats and an assortment of pro-children, pro-home birth, anti-immunization, pro-vegetarian bumper stickers.

Mary Anne placed the car with a face. The dreadlock woman. Oh, good grief—Clare Cureux’s hippie daughter, Bridget—Paul’s actual sister. Mary Anne couldn’t help wondering if
her
bumper stickers had been chosen in part to annoy her father.

She was thinking of backing out again, driving away, escaping, when Clare, herself, appeared on the porch.

Too late to flee now.

Mary Anne got out, dragging purse and notebook after her and speaking before she even reached the porch. “Hi, I hope it’s not a bad time. I’m writing an essay on a hundred years of birth in Logan County.”

Clare said, “The wrong person drank it, didn’t he?”

How had she known? Only Cameron knew…Tele
graph, telephone or “tell Cameron,” Mary Anne thought in annoyance.

“You must have spoken to Cameron.”

“Who? No. Haven’t seen her. Why?”

Mary Anne said, “It doesn’t matter. It was just something we thought we’d try for fun.” She hoped she wasn’t insulting the woman.

Clare, however, did not look insulted. She looked as if she knew absolutely everything that was going on inside Mary Anne and was slightly amused that Mary Anne should be pretending things were…

Well, so what? thought Mary Anne defensively. It
was
something she’d agreed to do just for fun. Sunday, she’d thought that Jonathan had finally noticed her, but when she’d arrived at the station to talk with him about her being on
Life—with Dr. Graham Corbett
she’d found Angie and one of her bridesmaids there as well, talking about bands and reception venues.

“I really wanted to speak to you about your experiences as a midwife.”

“Well, come in then.”

The cabin smelled like baking pie, and Clare’s dread-locked daughter and two small dark-haired children, one still with baby hair and the other with a Mohawk, sat at the table snacking on various things and critically scrutinizing the face drawn on a gutted pumpkin. Paul Cureux held the carving knife.

Both Paul and Bridget Cureux had their mother’s dark eyes. Bridget’s seemed all the darker for the contrast of gold-streaked, albeit matted hair. Paul’s hair was dark—as dark as Clare’s must have been when she was young.

“One tooth!” said the Mohawk. “Just one!”