“Thank you, Flora,” she barely whispered, overwhelmed by their generosity.
Flora dabbed at her nose with the powder puff and grinned. “Wouldn’t have missed it. Now, lift your chin so I can be sure I get all your angles.”
“Flora?”
“Calico?”
She smiled at Flora’s pet name for her. “Why are you powdering my nose? We’re not making a movie.”
Wait. Were they?
It wouldn’t surprise her to find Daphne had whipped up some cameras and a craft service table at this point.
“Because Miss Flora asked for a job and I gave her one. You should have your pretties just right for when Nash remembers you. It’s going to be a moment you’ll always remember, and you’ll look like a goddess,” Daphne offered.
As Flora drifted away, she mouthed a thank you to Daphne, who simply smiled. Some of her seniors felt as if they had nothing left to contribute to society, and often times, when their family members first brought them in to spend the day at the center, they were despondent.
She’d spent many an afternoon helping them rediscover their usefulness by organizing bake sales, and charity marathons, and encouraging them to attend soccer games for the children in town whose parents weren’t able to attend due to work. No one worked a pom-pom for an elementary school soccer player like her seniors.
For them to put as much if not more effort into this project than she’d been willing to attempt in the beginning because of her fear, meant they respected her as much as she respected them. It meant she was making a difference, and nothing made her happier than their success.
Greta’s sigh made her refocus her thoughts. “One more time I tell you to get down from that tree, Gus, and it’ll be the last.”
“Gus? Are you crazy? You’re going to break your leg! What are you doing?” Calla demanded.
“I’m the set grip. Grips set stuff up.”
Now they had a set grip? Next they’d have a sound guy and a set designer.
Standing, she held out her hand. “Come down from there now. You’re supposed to be at home all tucked in with The Rockford Files reruns, not out here in a tree.”
As he hopped down, he squeezed her hand, and it wasn’t a suggestive “Come on, baby, light my fire” squeeze. It was one of support. “Just doin’ my part.”
Calla pressed a kiss to his weathered cheek. “Don’t do your part in a tree, okay? Now go grab something cold to drink and put your feet up. I think it’s up to me and Nash now.”
Gus tweaked her cheek and set off to find the cooler someone had brought on this crazy journey.
Gripping Daphne’s arm as she flipped through yet more of her notes, she asked, “Hey, how’s hubby? Is he okay?”
“Oh, he’s fine, honey. This happens all the time. Whatever vision he had took its toll on him, is all. He’ll sleep it off like some drunk and be right as rain tomorrow. Don’t worry about him, worry about you. How are you?”
Despite the thick air of the night, she rubbed her bare arms. “I’m worried. Really worried. Nothing’s worked so far, and I still can’t figure out why Nash has to regain his memory today. If that’s even what Fate meant at all. What happens to him if he doesn’t get his memory back?”
Daphne’s breathing hitched. “I don’t know, sweetie. Damn, sometimes it’s so hard to be married to this man. I know it’s his job, but it kills me when it affects the people I love. I’ve been racking my brain all day while we act out this crazy look into your lives, and I just don’t know.”
Calla experienced instant regret. Everyone in she and Nash’s lives had gone to bat for them, and she wanted them to know how grateful she was. “I’m sorry. I don’t want it to sound like I’m blaming anyone. I’m grateful this happened or I might be wallowing in a bag of corn chips and watching The Notebook instead of at least trying to help him remember. Any news from Winnie?”
No one had had any luck getting in touch with Winnie, and even though Daphne and Greta and all the seniors were the most amazing entity of support, Calla really wished Winnie was with them.
“Nothing, and quite honestly, I’m beginning to wonder why the hell no one can get in touch with her. She’s never out of touch with us—especially Greta, because of the halfway house. It almost makes me think I should dig out my broom from that dusty playpen Fate calls a garage and fire up the old GPS.”
“You have GPS on your broom? Wait. Did I just say that out loud in conjunction with the word broom? You have a broom?” She wasn’t struck dumb by much these days, not with witches in the mix, but a broom made her pause.
“You bet your pert ass I do. Don’t use it much since the new Council made all these crazy PC rules about using our magic only when absolutely necessary, but there are days when I miss a good road trip on old Ozzie.”
“Your broom has a name…”