Macy Beckett - Make You Mine

“Maybe don’t mention the penis cookies.”

That earned a small laugh. “I need to get my shit together—to buckle down and set goals.”

“You can do it,” Allie said with an encouraging smile. “And I’ll help.”

Dev took a deep breath as if to steel herself. Then she flashed a palm. “Maybe we should wait until after Vegas, though.”

“Oh, totally. The road to hell is paved with tequila shots.”

“And we’re going to travel it well,” Dev said. “But after our wild weekend of sin, I’m turning over a new leaf.” She nodded firmly. “For real this time.”

“I’ll hold you to it.”

“And even though you don’t believe in the curse,” Dev said, “I’m going to help you break it. It’ll be the first useful thing I’ve done in years.”

“Thanks, baby.” Allie squeezed her sister’s hand. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

For both of them—she had a good feeling.

That good feeling was still lifting Allie’s cheeks a few nights later when she passed the WELCOME TO CEDAR BAYOU sign and turned down the pockmarked road leading to the heart of her hometown. The setting sun sluiced through the windshield, blinding her to a new traffic light at the intersection of Fifth and Main that had just flashed from yellow to red.

How long had that been there?

She skidded to a halt halfway through the intersection, then backed up and hoped the deputy wasn’t hiding in his usual spot behind the Frosty Queen drive- thru. Otherwise she’d get the wrong kind of welcome home. The eighty-five-dollar kind. Her voodoo heritage had kept half the town at bay, but it’d never saved her from a ticket.

Go figure.

Devyn reached over from the passenger seat and flipped down Allie’s sun visor. “If you keep squinting like that, your crow’s-feet will be as bad as mine.”

“Only you,” Allie said. “I almost ran a red light and you’re lecturing me about wrinkles.”

Dev swept a hand toward the adjacent street, populated by a handful of birds scavenging bits of discarded hot dog bun from the sidewalk. “Who would you hit?”

“With my luck?” Allie asked. “A troop of Girl Scouts. Walking puppies.”

“Nah. We haven’t had a Girl Scout troop since that unfortunate archery incident in the town square a few years ago.” Devyn grimaced. “Now the mayor walks with a limp and I buy my Thin Mints in the next parish.”

Allie stifled a laugh. “Poor Mayor Bisbee.”

“He doesn’t get much sympathy around here these days.” Dev pointed at the traffic light, which had turned green. “Not since he put the kibosh on Tad Miller’s shine operation.”

“A lot’s happened since I moved away.”

Allie continued down Main Street, but nothing looked different since her visit at Christmas. The last freestanding video store in the known universe was still in business, a testament to the lack of technology in this tiny parish. Right on cue, Allie’s cell phone beeped to announce an interruption in her signal.

“Scientists can clone mammals,” she complained, “but they can’t bring cell service to Cedar Bayou. How backward is that?”

“Preach it, sister.”

But despite her complaints, Allie turned a loving eye to the honeysuckle bushes lining the St. Mary’s churchyard. She rolled down her window and let the sweet breeze toss her curls as she pulled in a lungful of clean, bayou air—the kind you couldn’t get in the city. She passed other childhood haunts, like the corner grocery, where fifty cents would buy a Drumstick ice-cream cone and two pieces of Dubble Bubble.

She drove onward, toward the edge of town where modest single-family starter homes replaced businesses. Overgrown lawns littered with bikes and plastic toys turned her thoughts to Marc, who’d said he wanted to move back here someday. Allie wasn’t quite ready for a family, and neither was Marc, but she couldn’t help feeling a rush of excitement when she imagined buying a little fixer-upper with him and filling it with memories of their own. And, someday, children.

If Devyn’s plan worked, their future would begin tonight.

Candles, trinkets, and herb bottles clattered together in their box on the backseat—supplies for the mock cleansing ceremony she hoped would release Marc from his psychological barriers to intimacy.

Dev’s thoughts must have traveled on the same wavelength. “You nervous?”

“Not really,” Allie said, and meant it. “Marc’s totally committed. He did everything we asked of him, and we ran that poor boy all over New Orleans.” After he’d extended the olive branch to his pawpaw, she’d sent him hunting down gifts for Memère—everything from her favorite candy to the skin cream she’d used, which was only available in antique shops. “I even told him we needed eggs as a symbol of rebirth.”

“Eggs?” Devyn asked. “Those aren’t hard to find.”

“Snake eggs.”

Dev shook her head appreciatively. “Nice one. You’re a harsh mistress, little sister.”

Allie shrugged. “I’m not trying to be mean. The harder he works, the more invested he’ll be during the ceremony.”

“Well, sounds like he bought in, so that’s good,” Devyn said. “It’s the first step toward that ‘purest faith’ he’s supposed to demonstrate.”

“That’s the key,” Allie agreed. “He has to let go of everything he’s lived since childhood and understand that we can be together.” A shiver of unease trickled down her spine. Was she delusional to think his superstitious belief in the curse outweighed generations of poor role modeling?

No negativity, she chided herself. Have a little faith of your own.

Dev gave her a condescending pat on the shoulder. “Whatever you say. I’ll be focused on the real issue keeping you two apart—dark magic.”

Allie suppressed an eye roll.

They drove in silence until Allie spotted Marc’s truck parked across the street from the St. Bartholomew Chapel. It was dusk now, the sun reduced to nothing more than a smear of pink against the sky, casting the cobbled stones of the church in a romantic glow.

But that gentle bathing of light was deceptive, much like the rite Allie was about to hold in the graveyard behind the chapel. There was nothing romantic about this crumbling ruin.

Centuries of floodwaters and neglect had eroded the house of worship, giving it an eerie, sagging appearance, like the face of a weeping crone. Allie wished the parish would demolish it. She usually loved visiting historical landmarks, but for some reason, St. Bart’s had always made her skin prickle and her arm hair stand on end. When she stepped out of her car, she recoiled at the heavy odor of mildew thickening the air.

She whispered to Devyn, “I can’t believe I let you talk me into having the ceremony here. This place gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

“Where else would Memère’s spirit be strongest?” Dev asked. “Her tomb is here. And this is where she cursed old man Dumont.”

“It’s hard to believe they were supposed to get married that night,” Allie said as she faced the chapel.

Two oak doors, splintered with age and hanging from their hinges at awkward angles, guarded the sanctuary entrance. How long had Memère stood in that doorway and watched for her lover before learning he wouldn’t come? She must have been crushed—all her dreams severed in the blink of an eye, and in such a cowardly, public manner. Was it any wonder she’d lashed out the only way she knew how?

Allie shook off a chill and pulled the box of supplies from the backseat, then tucked it against her hip while she and Devyn strode toward the cemetery behind the church.

When the crooked iron gate groaned on its hinges, Marc caught Allie’s eye and stood from the bench where he’d been waiting. He offered a grin and brushed off his backside, hoping he hadn’t gotten too messy.

She’d asked him to wear white tonight to symbolize pureness of heart, and she matched him in an ivory cotton sundress that brushed her ankles. The sight of her took his breath away. Together, they almost resembled the ill-fated bride and groom who rested here among the dead, their stone tombs facing each other across a gravel path in an eternal standoff.

“Hey,” he said, glancing up at the swollen moon. “Nice night for curse breaking.” His words teased, but Marc’s stomach was in knots. He needed this ceremony to work.

“The best,” she agreed. She balanced a box of supplies on her hip, and Marc took it from her and asked where she wanted to set up. She scanned the dim graveyard, then pointed to a stone altar near the church’s rear wall. “Over there.”

“Wait,” said Devyn, joining them from behind. She reached inside the box and pulled free a small crystal dish. “We need dirt from Edward and Memère’s tombs,” she said. “Blended in here to heal the rift between our families. I’ll get it while you two dress the candles.”

Marc wasn’t sure what dressing candles entailed, so he tagged along with Allie and helped her clean off the limestone slab. They arranged an assortment of thick, white candles along the surface, and Allie dabbed them with scented oils that reminded him of medicated ointment—eucalyptus, maybe.

Next, she placed a framed photo of Juliette Mauvais in the center of the altar, adding to it a small statue of a dark, horned man.

“Who’s that?” Marc asked.

“Legba,” Allie explained. “He’s an ancient spirit who’s considered an intermediate to the world of the dead.” She lit a single yellow candle and said it would help in seeking Legba’s guidance. The candles illuminated Juliette’s portrait, almost as if announcing her presence, too.

Despite the headdress concealing the woman’s dark curls, the resemblance between Juliette and Allie was striking—right down to their mismatched eyes. But there was something else behind those eyes, a cold edge that raised Marc’s hackles. She was a beautiful woman, but not someone he’d trust with his heart. He couldn’t understand what his great-great-grandfather had ever seen in her.