“You had to be able to tell he was disappearing from folks’memories,” I say to her. “Were you curious why?” Maybe she already knew why.
Her dark eyes burn through her folds of wrinkles. “Knight made it clear, he wanted to be left alone. I was happy to oblige. You know why, girl?Because he knew he deserved it.”
“No onedeservesloneliness. And he’s not alone. Not anymore.”
He glances at me in that inscrutable way of his. Severe but unreadable. Lord, I don’t have time for all these brooding stares and angry pouts.
“My mom is dying,” I say, teeth grinding. It hasn’t gotten easier to say aloud, no matter how often I have today. “But I have the right recipe, and you’ve got the last ingredient I need. Momaw swore by your canned pineapple for her hummingbird cake. So I’m asking for your kindness, Ms. Fudge. One more time. Please.”
She huffs. Clicks her tongue.
The air stills around us, the porch a delicate bubble of pressure about to pop. Muggy humidity clings to my lungs. This is the final ingredient I need. My last chance to save my mom.
The Warlock breaks the silence first. “I apologize, Gertha.”
And here I thought I’d seen it all.
His hands clench. “You’re right. I haven’t helped the Holler when it’s mattered most. I’m trying to change that. Belatedly, but I’m trying. And if it’s of any worth this many years too late, I’ve regretted refusing your offer every day I’ve spent alone in that Manor.”
The old woman chews her cheek, looking anywhere but at him.
I give her my best smile. “What do you say? Will you help a neighbor?”
She looks me up and down. Snorts. Then faces the Warlock. “I’m still angry.”
“As am I,” the Warlock says. “But maybe we can be angry and kind at the same time.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
SATURDAY, JULY 2
Honey’s Helpful Hint, from
Honey Frost’s Southern Cookbook for Recipes Gone Wrong:
Send the letter. Cut the cake. Pass the butter. The best things in life are shared. It takes a holler.
I bake through the night in the Apothakery’s kitchen.
Generations of Frost family memories heat these ovens. It’s where Momaw Frost taught my mom to be a Farewitch. For this particular recipe, this kitchen just makes sense.
I bake six mediocre cakes first, one of which I drop on the floor. There’s some pillow-screaming at about three a.m. Every neighbor who contributed an ingredient gave me extra, and that generosity saves me. With the last of Gertha Fudge’s pineapple, I make a seventh and final cake, full of every fervent prayer I’ve ever made.
When the sun rises, I escort my finished hummingbird cake to the hospital. I try to stay awake as I feed my mom a bite at a time. She chews, weakly. Smiles, weakly. Then sleeps, strongly. Carolina promises to call me when she wakes up, then orders me to go home and rest.
So I do. But I don’t end up at the Apothakery.
Knight Manor’s kitchen is buzzing with people.
Silas and Rett and Arna Jean. Everyone who donated an ingredient. No Gertha Fudge, but Ms. Buchanan’s brought her own thin apple cake, and even the church choir is here.
At first, I assume folks came to buy something, but they’re nothere for the Farewitch. They’re here for Marigold’s daughter. No one wants to wait alone for news of their mayor.
When word gets around that folks are meeting up and dessert is involved, other neighbors arrive with more apple cakes. They plop them on top of each other, and soon we’ve got the makings of a proper country apple stack cake. As the layers grow, the kitchen becomes as full as I’ve ever seen it and Ms. Zeen ensures tea travels alongside the growing conversation. Somehow, my mom and I, the lonely Farewitches of Foxe Holler, have brought everyone together.
In the familiar warmth of the Manor’s kitchen, I begin to hope that things will be okay. I got used to this place when I wasn’t looking, but fell in love with it when I started. How did I ever drive away? What if I don’t want to leave again?
After a while, I get overwhelmed with the crowd and head outside for air.
