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By Root 1153 0

’s bubble—that Garnet had actually backed away from Ginger and sat down on the plush easy chair beside Emily. For a moment, Emily had thought that her daughter was going to crawl into her lap. Then, when the twins had finally been allowed to leave the grown-ups, Ginger had started in on Emily. And she had started in with an eagerness that was downright relentless. She wanted to know whether Emily had ever gardened and what her plans were for her own greenhouse. She offered to come in with seedlings and starters for the makings of an Italian herb garden, as well as what she called the basics of a tincture patch. She said it didn’t have to be exotic at first, but—she assured Emily—it would be soon enough. She admitted that her own greenhouse lacked the powerfully healing aura of Reseda’s, though Emily had seen Reseda’s that evening, and she honestly wasn’t sure what was healing about a greenhouse filled with statues that were either frightening or freakish: A two-headed snake of some kind? A demonic-looking creature that was half man and half goat? A gargoyle clutching tiny humans who seemed to have great, leafy ivy where they should have had hands and feet? Then Ginger had gone on and on about the meadows around her house, comparing it favorably to the home in New Jersey where she and her husband had raised their sons, describing with a naturalist’s skill the occasional deer or moose that would wander along the edge of the woods here in Bethel. At one point, Ginger had pulled a compact from the pocket of her jumper and dabbed a watery cream at the edges of Emily’s eyes. “I make this myself,” she told Emily. “Makes those crow’s-feet disappear.” Emily had immediately noted Ginger’s surprisingly unlined face but still presumed the secret was Botox or a spectacularly gifted cosmetic surgeon—or, perhaps, both. When Reseda had risen, Emily had fled with her to the kitchen. Reseda seemed to understand that Ginger’s enthusiasm had crossed the rather substantial line between animated and rabid.

“She means well,” Reseda was saying, referring to Ginger Jackson. “I hope it wasn’t a mistake inviting her.”

“No, it’s fine,” Emily said. Reseda was wearing a perfectly pressed white button-down blouse, open at the neck just enough to show a hint of the lace on her bra, a black leather skirt that fell to her knees, and charcoal tights. Like Emily, she was not wearing shoes, but otherwise Emily felt underdressed beside her; she was wearing jeans, wool socks, and a blue and green Fair Isle sweater. It was a Sunday night and she had dressed casually. “But it is nice to catch my breath,” she continued. “She does have her share of very strong opinions. And she is very, very passionate about her gardening and tinctures and creams. But you all are, aren’t you?”

Reseda smiled but didn’t respond to the question. Instead she said with sisterly camaraderie, “I’ll see if I can discreetly seat you and Ginger at opposite ends of the table.”

“Or in opposite rooms, perhaps.”

Reseda nodded. “Chip seems a little better,” she observed.

“A little. But PTSD isn’t a cold. Depression isn’t a cold. It’s going to take time.” She thought again of the way he had razed that door in the basement and then how she had found him down there in the middle of the night sixteen or seventeen hours ago. She didn’t believe for a moment that he was checking the pilot light.

Reseda slid the roasted potatoes back into the oven and shut the door. “I think we’re just about there,” she murmured and then turned her attention back to Emily. “His name is Baphomet.”

“What is?”

“The creature in the fountain in my greenhouse. I rather like him.”

Emily gazed down at her drink. Had she mentioned aloud the greenhouse just now? She didn’t believe that she had.

“I bought him in a moment of minor anarchism. I knew what people were saying about me, and I thought I would really give them something to talk about.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Some people think he’s the devil.”

“Baphomet.”

“Yes.”

“And people think you do … what? Worship the devil? They think you’re a—what’s the word?—a Satanist?