Page 11 of Fall Love

Aunt Charma glances from Neve to me and back, pointing a finger between us as well.

“Drink from the well, find a true love.”

I chuckle choppily at the nonsense while arching a brow at Neve. A smile shows in her eyes, because the mask covers her mouth.

Charma is the one who told my cousins and me that the well in the center of Lovewell Landing is special. She was always spewing such things, suggesting magic is in the air. You only had to listen, then you could taste it.

I run my hand down Aunt Charma’s back. “Okay, Aunt Charma, that’s enough of that.”

Her forehead scrunches, and Neve gives me a chastising glance.

The only miracle we need in this place is the transmission flushed on this Toyota and some way for me to convince Neve she should no longer be working here.

“How is old Betty?” Charma steps closer to the RAV4.

“Is this your SUV?” I should have known. A single daisy in a vase is clipped to a vent in the dash next to a square air freshener.

“She sure is.” Charma smiles with pride. “Got to keep her engine ticking and her fluids flowing. She likes to be wet.”

I sputter, and Neve’s face turns a sweet shade of pink. She dips her gaze to her lap.

“And how are you, dear? Are you staying lubricated?” She addresses Neve.

“Charma,” I choke.

My aunt turns on me with mischief in her eyes. “What? Hydration is important when you’re pregnant.”

She steps closer to Neve and leans forward, dangling one of her crystals over Neve’s belly. I’m instantly on alert, feeling strangely protective of Neve, and not wanting any of Charma’s woo-woo hovering over the baby.

Charma smiles and softly says, “This one is a fighter. Just like the rest of you girls.” She stands taller and cups Neve’s chin, tender, familiar, compassionate.

What has Neve had to fight? Who? Why? How?

All questions that shouldn’t matter to me.

“Then again,” Charma turns toward me. “Her father was as well.”

Neve’s father? The baby’s father? I hate when my aunt talks in riddles, and I don’t like to engage, because she’ll never give a straight answer.

Instead, I turn back to the transmission work at hand.

“Not much longer,” Charma addresses Neve again. “I predict you’ll deliver early.”

Neve doesn’t answer her, reminding me she cut herself short earlier from telling me her due date.

“Not much longer on your service,” Neve counters, slipping off the stool. One hand comes to her lower back. The other rests on her belly. “Can I interest you in a cup of coffee? I have pumpkin spice creamer.”

I gag.

“As one should,” Charma simpers, slipping her arm around Neve’s shoulder and leading her toward the waiting room, like she owns this business and not the other way around.

Although the leaves haven’t officially changed color yet, and won’t for a few more weeks, I hear the rustle of dry leaves skitter over pavement behind me and turn to watch a swirl of them dance in front of the open garage bay.

Strange.

Then again, autumn signifies a seasonal shift.

Unfortunately for Neve, it won’t be much longer, and she won’t own this business.