Written in Stone (3 page)

When she’d finally returned home, her mother had run her a hot bath, plied her with
hot chocolate brimming with plump marshmallows, and then wrapped her in a towel warmed
by the living room fire. She’d then brushed Olivia’s hair until it gleamed a pale
gold while she sang
“Ballade à la Lune”
in French.

Standing in her bathroom, decades later, Olivia could smell the lavender of her mother’s
favorite hand cream. She could almost believe that her mother was there, an invisible
force, still promising love and protection. Love and protection. These were things,
thanks to her mother’s sudden death and her father’s disappearance a few years later,
that Olivia knew little about.

“I’ll go,” Olivia spoke to her reflection, knowing how much she favored Camille Limoges,
though her mother hadn’t lived long enough to earn laugh lines around the eyes or
a pair of parentheses around the mouth. Camille had been like Edna St. Vincent Millay’s
candle. She hadn’t lasted the night, but she’d been a beautiful light to many while
she’d lived.

Loading Haviland into the Range Rover, Olivia headed off to The Boot Top Bistro. In
the quiet, air-conditioned cabin, she sang the first verse of her mother’s lullaby.

C’était dans la nuit brune

Sur le clocher jauni,

Sur le clocher la lune

Comme un point sur un i.

Ho la hi hi, ho la hi ho

Ho la hi hi, ho la hi ho.

Haviland made a keening sound in the back of his throat and Olivia switched to English
for the second verse, which sent him into a full-fledged howl.

Moon, whose dark spirit

Strolls at the end of a thread,

At the end of a thread, in the dark

Your face and your profile?

Ho la hee hee, ho la hee ho

Ho la hee hee, ho la hee ho.

Unable to compete with her poodle’s singing, Olivia fell silent, allowing the last
two verses to float through her head in her mother’s voice, which was far more melodious
than Olivia’s.

Memories of Camille Limoges were swept aside the moment Olivia walked into the kitchen
of her five-star restaurant. Michel, her head chef, rushed to meet her, grasping a
cleaver in one hand and piece of raw chicken in the other.

“Whoa!” Olivia made a sign of surrender. “If you want a raise, you could just ask.”

Michel glanced at the cleaver as though wondering how he came to be holding it, tossed
it and the chicken in the nearest sink, and said, “You’ll never believe who called!”

Knowing Michel’s flair for the dramatic, Olivia replied, “Must be someone special
to have you in such a state.”

It wasn’t Michel’s appearance that indicated something significant had happened. The
kitchen, which Michel ruled over with an iron hand, was a mess. The worktables were
covered with fruit and raw vegetables, flour was strewn across the butcher block,
there was a tower of dirty mixing bowls and frying pans in the deep sink, and the
sous-chefs were unusually edgy. They shot nervous glances at Michel and plaintive
ones at Olivia. Her chef wanted something and he wanted it badly. If she didn’t give
in, he’d pout, rage at his underlings, or unwittingly add too much salt to the entrées.

“Someone special?” Michel scoffed. “How about an executive producer of the Foodie
Network? He wants us to act as the celebrity judges at the Coastal Carolina Food Festival.”

Olivia made it clear that she wasn’t impressed.

“That’s just the beginning!” Michel added breathlessly. “If we agree, they’re going
to tape an entire segment here at The Boot Top. Do you know what kind of name recognition
that will bring us?” He was so excited that he was speaking in a high whisper.

“It would be good for business,” Olivia agreed, and her head chef performed a little
jig of triumph. Olivia watched him in amusement. “But they’re asking us at the last
minute. Is there more to this story?”

“There
is
. They want us to step in because the original celebrity judge had a massive heart
attack and isn’t well enough to travel. I’ve shed many tears for him since I heard
the news.” The last phrase was delivered with biting sarcasm.

“Ah, the ailing judge must be the rich and famous Pierce Dumas, your nemesis,” Olivia
guessed.

Michel’s face darkened. He and Dumas had attended culinary school in Paris together.
They’d been in competition for top chef positions in the finest American restaurants
until Michel had fallen for a married woman. Despite the cost to his career, he’d
moved to Raleigh to be near her, and while he was mooning after someone who had no
intention of leaving her husband, Dumas went on to garner national acclaim for his
epicurean skills. He worked in Manhattan, Vegas, and Los Angeles and constantly appeared
in culinary magazines and on food-related television shows.

Dumas had fame, wealth, and a gorgeous A-list actress wife. Michel, on the other hand,
had been unceremoniously dumped by his married girlfriend and, battling a serious
depression, decided to relocate. During his interview for the chef’s position at The
Boot Top, he’d prepared several dishes for Olivia and she knew right away that Michel
was the man for the job. Within months of hiring him, she came to realize that he
had two destructive obsessions: married women and a deep-seated envy of Pierce Dumas.

“You haven’t mentioned Dumas in over a year,” Olivia reminded Michel. “You’re happy
where you are. Look at the result of his high-stress lifestyle. A heart attack at
his age?”

Michel smiled with delight.

“You live in paradise and have complete control of this kitchen. You’re the master
of your realm, the money is good, and you’re healthy. You’re not famous, but fame
is a curse, believe me.”

“Well, I’d like my fifteen minutes and I’m going to get it. My mind is stuffed with
menu ideas that will dazzle the producer.” Michel rubbed his hands together with glee.
“And I’ve heard Shelley Giusti will be at the festival. We met in a pastry chef class
a million years ago. I was in love with her of course, but she married some health
nut as soon as we graduated. Even back then, she was a true sorceress with desserts.”

“Was she your first crush?” Olivia asked. Michel was constantly falling in and out
of love.

“First
love
. And if she looks anything like her photo on the jacket flap of her new cookbook,
Decadence
,
then she has aged
very
well. I wonder if she’ll remember all the good times we shared. We used to meet for
drinks after class and talk about everything and anything. I remember how she’d throw
her head back when she laughed . . .” Michel trailed off, a dreamy look entering his
eyes.

Olivia was all too familiar with the signs that he was about to embark on a new infatuation.
“Does this mean that you’re not going to pursue Laurel anymore? I thought she was
the butter to your grits, the salsa to your tortilla chips, the vanilla ice cream
to your apple strudel?”

“Stop it! Enough with the food clichés,” Michel pleaded. “Part of me will always care
for Laurel. She is an angel among women and her husband isn’t worthy of her, but she
doesn’t see me as a potential lover. She never will.”

Putting a hand on Michel’s shoulder, Olivia spoke with rare tenderness. “I don’t know
why you chase people who aren’t free to love you, but you deserve someone to call
your own. You’re a fine man, Michel. You could make the right woman very happy.”

Moved by her words, Michel simply nodded.

Olivia took the piece of paper from his hand and flattened it on the nearest countertop.
“I’ll speak to this producer. I want certain things in writing before a film crew
invades my restaurant.”

Michel knew that his employer was wary of the media, regardless of what form it took.

“I know you’re doing this for me,” he murmured quietly. “Not for the business. It
doesn’t need the Foodie Network. I do.”

His eyes grew moist and for a moment it looked like he might throw his arms around
Olivia, but he recognized that she wouldn’t welcome a grandiose display of emotion.

He wiped his eyes with the cuff of his chef’s jacket and cleared his throat. “Thank
you,” he said simply. And then, unable to resist a bit of theatricality, added, “Everything
you said to me about love is true. I’m getting older. It’s time for me to have a grown-up
relationship. It’s time for me to be happy. And it’s time for you to be happy too.”

Olivia looked up sharply.

“Oh, yes,” Michel continued softly. “You’ve had enough loneliness to last two lifetimes.
Let the past go.”

Her fingertips moved to where the starfish pendant was concealed beneath the fabric
of her dress. Michel knew the history of the necklace. He knew that Olivia’s mother
had died during a hurricane and that the loss still haunted her.

Michel grabbed her gently by the wrist, preventing her from making contact with the
starfish. “You don’t need that anymore. You have a new family. Me, your writer friends,
Dixie, Rawlings.”

Olivia gave Michel a small, grateful smile, squeezed his hand once, and then let it
go. After calling Haviland, who’d been waiting for her signal by the back door, she
disappeared into the sanctuary of her tiny office.

Soon she heard Michel begin to hum a tune in a robust and merry tenor. The sous-chefs
had obviously relaxed and the rhythms of the kitchen resumed. Olivia could once again
hear The Boot Top’s unique melody: the hiss of steam, the blades of knives kissing
the wood cutting board, the entwining of Spanish, French, and North Carolina accents.

Olivia sighed in contentment. This was the music of her here and now. And it was beautiful.

Chapter 3

A town is saved, not more by the righteous men in it than by the woods and swamps
that surround it.

—H
ENRY
D
AVID
T
HOREAU

T
he little Boston Whaler bounced across the harbor, leaving a narrow trail of white
foam in its wake. Flecks of salt water speckled Olivia’s face, hair, and hands, but
she didn’t mind. Neither did Haviland, who licked at the air and smiled widely. The
poodle enjoyed a boat ride even more than a car trip because he could stand on the
deck. He was so content that he appeared to have forgiven Olivia for strapping him
into a canine life jacket.

For her own part, Olivia had refused the boatman’s offer of a life jacket. She wanted
to feel the wind ripple her clothing and gently chafe her skin. Besides, the harbor
was calm today and the man working the shift and throttle levers handled them deftly,
his alert gaze constantly sweeping from east to west in search of approaching vessels.

She’d found her ride to the creek that ran alongside the eastern boundary of the Croatan
National Forest by asking questions at the docks on Friday afternoon. After the shrimp
boats had tied up their trawlers for the day, she purchased a generous amount of fresh
seafood for both The Boot Top Bistro and The Bayside Crab House and then made subtle
inquiries on how to reach a recluse named Munin.

The shrimpers knew Munin only as “the witch” and none were interested in taking Olivia
within a mile of her swamp, but one of the captains knew someone who would.

“Fellow by the name Harlan Scott knows how to find her,” the grizzled seaman said.
“But look out, girlie. There are wild things in that swamp. Things you won’t see comin’,
things that’ll creep out of the shadows like a shark risin’ from the deep water. Bring
a big stick. Maybe even the kind that fires bullets.”

Olivia had disregarded the fisherman’s advice and left her Browning BPR rifle in the
coat closet. Instead, she’d packed insect repellant, a canteen of water, Haviland’s
travel bowl, a granola bar, a bag of dried beef strips, and something that was precious
to her into a sturdy knapsack.

Yesterday, she’d felt prepared to face the witch, but now, as the sun-bleached shore
of the parkland grew closer and Harlan eased off the throttle, dulling the motorboat’s
roar to a low rumble, she wasn’t so sure.

She and Harlan hadn’t exchanged a single word during the crossing, but Olivia suddenly
wanted to speak with her guide. She stood and moved next to him, her body close to
the steering wheel. “How did you come to know Munin?” she called over the sound of
the engine and the wind.

Harlan kept his eyes fixed on the water. “I used to be a park ranger. Knew every inch
of this place.” He encompassed the land before them with a sweep of his arm. “I was
clearing one of the trails when I lost my footing and stepped on a fallen log. The
eastern diamondback rattlesnake hiding underneath didn’t appreciate the intrusion.
He bit me twice before he ever made a noise. Couldn’t radio for help because I hadn’t
bothered to check my battery before heading out that morning. I hollered as loud as
I could, hoping against hope that someone would hear me.”

“And Munin did?”

He nodded. “She saved my life.”

Olivia hadn’t expected this. “How? I thought the venom from an eastern diamondback
was lethal.”

“She had antivenom. She’s got vials of the stuff from a bunch of different snakes.
We’ve got copperheads, cottonmouths, and rattlers in the forest. Munin milked all
of the poisonous ones and injected a bit of venom into her goat. Don’t know how that
works, but without that goat I’d be six feet under.”

“Antibodies,” Olivia murmured, impressed by Munin’s ingenuity. “The goat produced
antibodies as a response to the venom.”

Harlan shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. Anyhow, I make deliveries for her now and then and
I’ll run folks out to see her if they want to go. It’s the least I can do.”

“How often do people seek her out?”

The shore was closer now and Harlan slowed the boat until it was barely coasting forward.
Olivia could see the mouth of the creek opening up before them. It resembled a wide
river now, but she knew enough about the waterways of the North Carolina coast to
predict that the shallow banks would draw close together without warning and then
continue to narrow until even the diminutive Whaler would be unable to progress any
farther.

Once Harlan had set his craft on a course favoring the right side of the creek, he
pushed his faded baseball cap back on his head and scratched his brow. “Less and less,”
he said, answering Olivia’s question. “And they all look the same. Full of fear and
hope and a little desperation. Sometimes she has answers. Sometimes not.”

“Do I seem desperate?” She kept her tone light, but there was a hint of hesitation
in her voice.

Harlan’s gaze took in the thick underbrush of the salt marsh and the cypress trees
rising in the distance. “Everybody is at one point or another. That’s when folks seem
to need Munin most.”

His reply silenced Olivia and she felt less confident as the open water dropped away
behind them. The land seemed to be gathering them close, squeezing the small craft
deeper into a world ruled by insects and birds. It didn’t take long for the noises
of these creatures to overpower the sound of the boat’s motor. Haviland barked once
as a blue heron took flight from the creek’s edge. Otherwise, he was quiet, as if
sensing that they were heading toward a strange and possibly hostile destination.

Eventually, the water became tinged with eddies of mud, and Harlan tilted the motor
toward the boat deck and coasted toward the left bank. He waited until the bow nearly
kissed a slope of grass-speckled dirt and then jumped to the shore. A wood gatepost
had been set into the ground and he secured the Whaler’s line to it using a figure-eight
knot and then offered Olivia his hand.

She hopped onto the ground, feeling ungainly in her high waders. Haviland leapt with
more grace beside her and immediately began to track an interesting scent in a clump
of tall grass. The air was dense with the sawing of cicadas and the buzz of flies
and mosquitoes, and the ground was teeming with armies of ants and beetles.

Harlan shouldered a heavy canvas bag and then grabbed a walking stick from inside
the boat and made a final adjustment to his baseball cap. “We’ll follow the creek
for a spell and then turn inland.”

Olivia fell into step behind him, her eyes on his walking stick. It had been hand
carved and featured a rattlesnake winding along the shaft. The head formed the stick’s
handle and Harlan’s fingers fell over a black marble eye, leaving the other to stare
at the outside of his right thigh.

“Did you carve that?” she asked over the din of the insects.

He didn’t turn around to answer. “No, I don’t have the knack for it. I bought this
from a Lumbee Indian who sells his carvings to raise money for his lodge.”

“Is he local? I thought most of the Lumbee tribe lived in Robeson County.”

“They do, but they migrated from this neck of the woods once ages back. I went to
one of their powwows a few years back, but I won’t have to travel if I want to go
this year. They’re having a big one in the forest in two weeks.” He darted a quick
glance at her over his shoulder. “You should go. They sell all kinds of crafts and
there’s storytelling and dances too.”

Olivia had no intention of going, but out of politeness asked Harlan when the event
would take place.

“Two Saturdays from now. There’s some food festival going on at the same time. It’ll
be a real circus around here.”

Olivia knew about the Coastal Carolina Food Festival. “My brother signed up to run
a food tent on Saturday. He thinks it’ll bring our restaurant lots of new business.”

Harlan shrugged. “There’ll be a crowd, that’s for sure. Thank Christ I’m retired.
I’ll be at home watching a fishing show while the rangers show folks where to park
and hand out maps.”

Haviland trotted in front of Harlan and Olivia called him to heel. The grass they
were passing through had grown dense and a canopy of tree limbs shaded the ground,
creating a perfect hiding place for snakes. The trail Harlan was following had been
little used and Olivia only recognized it as a trail at all because no mature vegetation
grew where they walked.

Amazed by how quickly she felt completely removed from civilization, Olivia glanced
back over her shoulder. The water was no longer visible and she felt slightly claustrophobic
by its disappearance. “Isn’t it unusual for Munin to be living on public park land?”

“She doesn’t. A little stream runs between her place and the park. I doubt the latest
crop of rangers even know she’s there.”

Olivia wanted to pepper Harlan with a dozen questions. Where did Munin come from?
Had she just materialized in the swamp one day? What did she eat? How did she keep
clean?

But it wouldn’t be long before she’d discover these answers for herself, so she kept
quiet, watching Harlan swing his carved stick out before him, creating a steady
swoosh, swoosh
as it moved through the grass.

They kept on like this for some time. The trees grew denser, the cypress giving way
to loblolly pines, black walnuts, and red oaks. The ground was now leaf covered and
firmer underfoot and Harlan picked up his pace.

They rounded a bend and Olivia saw a narrow creek and then a building that reminded
her of a cross between a frontier cabin and a crude wigwam. The walls of the structure
were made of logs, but the roof was rounded and had been covered with pieces of sheet
metal. There was a corrugated metal door and a single window covered by a rectangle
of dirty canvas. A pair of rain barrels was positioned beneath the round roof and
a goat was standing near the open front door, as if waiting to be invited in.

“Let me go first,” Harlan said and rapped against the metal. He paused for a heartbeat
and then stepped inside. Olivia heard an exchange of hushed voices and placed her
hand on Haviland’s neck. He was staring at the goat with interest, but he didn’t bark.

Never one to remain still, Olivia walked around Munin’s house, examining a large garden
where tomatoes, cucumbers, strawberries, beans, carrots, squash, and a variety of
lettuces grew in abundance. A mesh fence formed a protective perimeter around the
neat rows of plants, and aluminum pie plates dangled from the fence top, catching
glints of fractured sunlight.

Beyond the garden was a lean-to sheltering a potter’s kick wheel and a primitive kiln
made of stacked bricks. Turned black by wood smoke, the kiln was empty, as was the
overturned produce crate used as a drying rack. A crust of clay had been left on the
wheel and a few crude tools protruded from a metal pail.

“She’s ready.” Harlan’s voice startled her.

Olivia swung around quickly, tensing. “How will you know when it’s time to take me
back?”

He held up a burlap sack. “I’m going to check on her traps. I expect you’ll be done
by the time I’m done.”

And with that, he marched into the woods, making almost no noise.

Olivia took a deep breath, stood a fraction taller, and walked toward the witch’s
house. She knocked on the metal door, received no answer, and after waiting another
moment, entered.

Her feet encountered a creaky wood stair and then another, leading her down into the
near darkness of Munin’s home. Haviland followed, his nails clicking against the planks,
nose quivering with interest. Olivia noticed how cool the air was in the dimly lit
space. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the near darkness, but she found
the scents—the rich sweetness of damp soil and of clusters of dried herbs hanging
from the rafters—most welcoming.

The witch was standing in front of a bookshelf loaded with jars, the glow from a single
candle illuminating her face. She was small framed and slightly stooped, with weathered
skin and white hair shot through with strands of black. She wore a shapeless blouse
over baggy trousers, and when she moved, the jewelry on her ankles rattled. Her feet
were bare and brown with caked mud, but her hands were clean, with beautiful, slender
fingers. Munin looked terribly fragile and incredibly strong all at once. Her eyes,
dark as a crow’s, studied Olivia in return.

Haviland approached her cautiously and sniffed at the hem of her pants. The witch
didn’t even acknowledge his presence.

“I’m here,” Olivia said, not knowing what else to say.

Munin nodded and placed a jar on the shelf. In the weak light, Olivia could see preserves,
pickled vegetables, and other foodstuffs on the middle shelves. On the top shelf,
almost out of the old woman’s reach, were jars of miscellaneous objects like buttons,
soda can tabs, nails, bottle tops, shells, beads, arrowheads, and colorful rocks.

“Where do you put the gifts the ocean sends you? In jars like these?” Munin’s voice
was low and raspy from lack of use.

Olivia tried to conceal her astonishment. Had Munin known that she kept all the sundry
items she and Haviland dug out of the sand in jumbo pickle jars neatly labeled with
the year?

The crone smiled over Olivia’s discomfort, revealing a mouthful of chipped, yellow
teeth, and said, “Tea first. Then, we’ll talk.”

She filled two mugs with boiling water from a kettle hanging over a pair of burning
logs. Olivia hadn’t noticed the hearth before. The wood was glowing orange in an alcove
of stones and a wide pipe funneled most of the smoke outside.

Munin opened an ancient tea tin and filled a steel strainer with leaves. After steeping
the tea, she opened another jar, and dropped something thick and syrupy into both
mugs.

“The bugs won’t bother you after you drink this.” With a harsh chuckle, she handed
Olivia her tea and eased her body into a lawn chair. The frayed material whined as
she settled back against the seat and gestured for Olivia to take the remaining chair.
Olivia complied and then reluctantly sipped her tea. It was strong and bitter, but
Munin had added a hint of refreshing mint and a dollop of honey for sweetness. Olivia
was pleasantly surprised by the tea’s complex flavors.