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“Planned?”
“Well, imagined. This isn’t how I meant it to happen. When I imagined getting a chance to see you. To talk to you.”
“And that’s the problem. You’re in love with your own imagination. Life just doesn’t work the way you’d like to believe,” she said, her voice nearly breaking. “There’s no magic in this world.” She coughed to clear the frog from her throat. “I’m not some angel like you’ve obviously imagined me to be.”
Tinker laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. “Oh, no, ma’am. I never imagined you to be any kind of angel. Remember, I’ve been on the receiving end of that temper of yours.”
“All the same. I’ve got a son. I’ve got family to look after.”
“You say you have a son, but I don’t hear anything about you having a man.”
“Doesn’t having a son imply there’s a man in my life?” She wished the old truck would move more quickly. Still, she felt a touch of sorrow when she looked over to see that in spite of the way the beast was crawling along, Tinker had pressed the pedal all the way down. Looked like she’d nearly succeeded in pushing him away after all.
“Ah, now, we both know that ain’t true.” The truck jolted, then relented by putting on some speed. It sputtered and shuddered as they traveled south, giving up the ghost right where Kollock and Ogeechee intersected at the tip of the cemetery.
Tinker looked over at her, then leaned in toward her, his brow low, his eyes full of embarrassed anguish. “Just give me a second to look at her. I’ll get her up and running again right quick.”
Jilo shook her head and reached for the door handle, surprised to see it had been replaced with a homemade rope pulley. She tugged on it, and the door opened. “I’m almost home anyway.” She climbed out of the truck, nearly jumping as a large black bantam rooster perched on the cemetery fence cried out like he was greeting the last dawn the world would ever meet.
She turned back to the truck and retrieved her shopping bag from where it had been sitting by her feet. After the brief rest, the sack felt heavier. Just like her heart did after imagining—even for a moment—that this Tinker Poole might somehow know how to fix what had been broken in her. Tinker hopped out and ran around the front of the truck. Jilo felt certain he was about to offer to come along with her on foot, shouldering her burden as his own. She clutched the sack in both arms and shook her head. “There is no magic in this world,” she said again. “No magic whatsoever.”
She trudged down Ogeechee, making a turn onto the gravel road that would, after a long bend, lead to her own sandy drive. As she neared that drive, she looked up, and from across the field, she could see a sleek and shiny red convertible sitting in front of her house. She knew Binah would be doing her best to entertain this new, and obviously rich, client long enough for her to make it home. She picked up her pace, hoping to arrive before he, or possibly she, lost patience and sped away in that little red number.
She was sweating profusely, her turban growing damp and limp, as she made it around the bend and approached the front of the house. From a distance, she could make out Binah offering what looked like lemonade to a young man with a complexion as pink and as fresh as bubblegum, his hair almost as red as the car he drove. A wealthy buckra boy. What on earth could a fellow like that be wanting from Mother Jilo? What else, she answered her own question, than the key to some wealthy buckra girl’s heart?
As she drew a step nearer, Binah handed a glass to another man who leaned forward to accept it. Jilo stopped dead in her tracks. This man, with his dark complexion and wavy hair, she recognized instantly. “Guy,” she said his name, feeling the earth beneath her feet tremble, just like the world was ready to open up and swallow her whole.
FIVE
Her feet felt like they’d been replaced with anvils, each step requiring every shred of determination she could muster. “Binah,” she called out, holding the shopping out to her sister. Binah looked up, then ran down the steps and relieved her of the sack’s weight.
“He doesn’t know. He hasn’t seen him,” Binah whispered in her ear.
Jilo placed a hand on Binah’s shoulder and gave her a gentle push. “Take those inside,” she said, relying on Binah’s momentum to set her own feet back into motion.
“There she is, the muse,” the redheaded young man said, standing as she approached. Jilo had been so overwhelmed by the sight of Guy, she’d all but forgotten the white boy was there.
“Muse?” she said, incapable of either looking fully at or fully away from Guy.
“Yes,” he said, drawing closer to the edge of the porch. “You must know that you’re hanging, well, your image is hanging in galleries all over New York.”
“Well, the better galleries, at least.” Jilo froze at the sound of Guy’s voice. He kept his seat in the swing, not rising as the buckra had. She raised her eyes to take him in. Hoping she would hate him, certain that she would. But oh, how she had to fight not to run right up those front steps. Struggle not to throw herself in his arms. “The last one. The large painting I was completing when . . . well, the day . . .” His voice trailed off. “It sold to a private collector. For quite a nice sum.”
“Yes, but it isn’t about the money . . .” the redhead began.
“Spoken like someone who’s always had it,” Jilo found her tongue. “For the rest of us, it’s always about the money.”
The young man looked at Guy, and they both burst out laughing. “You’re right about this one, Guy,” the young man said, surprising Jilo by how he pronounced the name to rhyme with “my” rather than “me.”
“Listen,” Guy said, standing and coming forward, wrapping his arm around the young fellow’s broad shoulders. “Jilo, this is my friend, Edwin Taylor.” He nodded toward her. “Edwin, this is my ‘muse’—” He hesitated, almost like he was looking for a more precise word to describe her. “—Jilo.” Guy released Edwin, then padded forward to the head of the steps and held his hand out to her. “Or as I understand it is now, ‘Mother Jilo.’ ”
Jilo felt a wave of embarrassment wash over her.
“Yes, indeed,” Edwin said. “I was surprised enough to learn the vison in Guy’s paintings lived in my own hometown. Imagine my astonishment when I found she was also the rising star of Savannah’s magical community.”
“It’s just an act. To help make ends meet.” Jilo forced herself to look him in the eye. “There’s no such thing as magic,” she said, the well-rehearsed words shooting out like shrapnel.
Edwin, ignoring the rising bile in her tone, smiled and tilted his head to the side. “Is there not?”
