Page 43 of The Dysasters

Eve welcomed the rush of sensation that opened within her like a flower bursting into bloom. She was filled with a sudden clarity that had her intelligent mind whirring with possibilities, and though there was pain—the pain of the perfect russet crystal that instantly began to swell just beneath the skin of her right shoulder—Eve welcomed it, accepted it, and appreciated it. The power of the earth was balm to her harried body and soul and she wished desperately that she could remain there, communing with her element, being filled with protection and clarity.

She could not remain there, though. What would happen to her brothers? To her father?To her world?

Eve’s eyes opened and she stood quickly, shoving the pillow back into the box and hurrying from the gazebo.

Why hadn’t she thought of it before? It was simple, really.

They shouldn’t be searching for Foster. That was a dead end. Cora had made certain the girl could hide from them.

They shouldn’t be searching for Tate, either. That he hadn’t surfaced—not to bury his parents—not to return home to what was left of his life—meant that Foster had convinced him to remain hidden with her. If that’s how the boy wants to play this, then they should accommodate him. Tate should have tostayoff the grid. If he wants to act like he doesn’t exist, perhaps heshouldn’texist, or at least not legally. Tate is following Foster’s lead, but he’s just following. He’s not like Foster. He wasn’t raised by smart, savvy Cora Stewart. Up until a few days ago he was a normal kid. Now he has no parents and no home.

“He won’t want to lose his entire world,” Eve spoke aloud to the waving palms and the swaying grasses. “And he won’t want to lose anyone left in his world. So, let’s turn up the heat on good-boy Tate, and keep an eye on any family he has left. He’s going to break. He’s going to contact them, and when he does—we’ll have Tate and Foster—two for the price of one!”

Filled with the clarity of carnelian, Eve continued speaking to the waving grasses and swaying palms.

“We can’t make the same mistake with the water kids. They need to be drawn together. One’s already in the Gulf. The second should be on his way there, but Matthew needs to be sure of that. He needs to follow those creditcard trails. And Mark—my water brother—needs to brew up something that will be impossible for them to resist…”

Smiling with satisfaction, Eve headed to her brothers’ cottage with renewed energy and determination. Perhaps it was the sudden insight she’d gained, or maybe it was the stone’s protective properties, but as her steps lightened, so, too, did the pain in her shoulder where the carnelian crystal emerged from her skin. Eve touched it gently, thankfully.

Mark was right. I needed this.

As if in response a soft rain began to fall, baptizing Eve in the warmth of its gentle touch.

13

CHARLOTTE

August in the Deep South was many things: hot, muggy, green, magnolia-scented, mosquito-compromised, tick-filled, gator-friendly, and hot. Really,reallyhot.

Charlotte Davis hated everything about it except the magnolia-scented part. That she liked. Well, and she didn’t hate the heat too much, but only because heat meant sweat and sweat was salty and wet like the ocean. She loved the ocean most of all.

I-85 South was a conundrum. When it passed through cities it was a nondescript superhighway of boredom, but when it cut through mile after mile of what looked like uninhabited forestlands, Charlotte thought it was almost pretty.

She rolled down the window of her very used Ford Focus, put her hand out of the driver’s window, and let the hot, moist air surround her skin like one of those warm towels aestheticians used during facials.

“Oh my, what I wouldn’t give for a lovely facial right now,” Charlotte spoke on a sigh, the soft Southern drawl that colored her words always more pronounced when she was alone. In Charlotte’s life, she only truly relaxed when she was alone. When she was six she’d learned that sharing too much about herself with too many people was a mistake. A big, bad mistake.

Window still down, Charlotte breathed deeply of the humid air and just then passed a sign that blazed WELCOME TOSOUTHCAROLINATHEPALMETTOSTATE.Her lips, glossed with the perfect tint of pink, lifted and, purposefully exaggerating her North Carolina drawl, Charlotte said, “Well, bless your heart, Palmetto State, but are you talkin’ ’bout the trees or the bugs?”

Her musical laughter filled the car as she rolled up the window and turned up the volume as Etta James hit the first notes of the bluesy “At Last.” Charlotte’s smooth alto was harmonizing with Etta when her “Under the Sea” ringtone interrupted, but she didn’t mind. It was her favorite person in the world. She punchedACCEPT.

“I did it, Grandma Myrtie! I’ve officially departed the state of North Carolina. For evah!” she said, sounding a lot like Scarlet O’Hara.

“Oh, Charlotte, my dear! Well done! Where are you now?” Her grandma’s voice would always evoke the sweetness of the homemade caramels she would be eternally famous for making—and famous for guarding her secret recipe from the world.

“I believe I am somewhere outside Spartanburg, South Carolina. Why do towns in South Carolina all sound so much like battle stations?”

“Because, my dear, too many Southern menfolk think lifeisa battle station. Which is the only reason you’re fleeing the South.”

“But is fleeing to Texas actually an escape?”

“You’re not simply fleeing to Galveston. You’re going to Texas A&M to set down your water-loving roots and become who you will be for the rest of your life,” Grandma Myrtie said firmly.

“I feel like I need to say thank you again, Grandma Myrtie.”

“Charlotte, there is no need, but as always I appreciate your politeness.”

“And I’ll always appreciate you blackmailing my parents so that they were forced to let me be me.”