Sparked (8 page)

“This morning. But honestly, I’m not even sure why I was invited,” June said. “Actually, no, that’s not true. I know exactly why I was invited. I’m sure my mother twisted your mother’s arm until she coughed up an invite. No offense, Clay, but I doubt we’d be a good match.”

Clayton laughed as he snatched a shrimp puff from a passing waiter. “None taken.”

“Just don’t tell my mother that. She’d blow her top.” She looked away for a moment, took a deep breath. “Say, I’ve been meaning to ask you a question.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m bored to tears. And Mom’s driving me crazy at home, as usual.” She laughed lightly, but Clayton felt like she was concealing something under that laugh. “I was wondering, well … I thought I might like to work. Have something to keep me occupied, you know?”

Her request was more than unusual. None of the women in his set had jobs—they were all aiming toward marriage and a family. And June Powell? She was smart, but the last person he could imagine as a career girl. He wondered if there was something else going on. But she didn’t seem to want to talk about it, so he didn’t pry.

“I thought maybe you might have a secretarial position available at the bank?”

“No secretarial work, no,” he said, and her face seemed to fall a bit. For whatever reason, this was important to her. “But we have been looking for a teller.”

“A teller?” Her eyebrows rose, and he couldn’t quite tell if it was out of hope or fear.

“Yes. Come to think of it, you might be perfect. We could really use a friendly face like yours behind the counter. How soon could you start?”

“Any time,” she said, relief flooding her features.

“Good. Come by Monday morning and we’ll get you sorted out.”

“Thanks, Clay,” she said, beaming. “Just, well. Thank you.”

“Clayton,” a voice called from across the room. Violet waved, then glided over to them.

Clayton couldn’t deny that she was a striking beauty. With her long wave of blond hair, classic face, and curvy hourglass figure she could easily rival Marilyn Monroe. The men in his circle often toasted her as the prettiest girl in town—though Clayton wasn’t so sure of that anymore. Her violet eyes seemed dim in comparison a certain pair of blue ones he had seen recently. If he was honest with himself, Violet’s looks had been why he had chased her in his high school years—that and the challenge of winning her over the other boys. But he had no regrets where Violet was concerned. They were both happier as friends.

He was actually surprised she had been invited. Violet wasn’t from a wealthy family like many of the women here, though you wouldn’t know it by the way she held herself. Her father owned the local movie theater, so they weren’t poor either. But it was her beauty, not her wealth, that had gained her admittance into their set. When Clayton considered it, he nearly laughed. There was a day when his parents had objected to his dating her. But perhaps at the prospect of Cora Murphy, Violet suddenly seemed like a very good option.

“What are you two talking about?” she asked with a wry smile. “You look so serious.”

“Turns out Clay’s been a bit … blindsided by this whole event,” June said.

Violet rolled her eyes and laughed. “Your life is so hard, isn’t it? Trapped inside a room full of pretty girls. However will you manage?”

He could always count on Violet for a little perspective. He was glad they had been able to stay friends after breaking up.

“I suppose I am being a bit of a beast,” he said.

They both laughed.

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Vi said.

He was almost ready to take everything in stride and try to make the best of the night. But at that exact moment he spotted his mother flitting by, looking all too pleased that he was chatting with them.

“You’ll excuse me, ladies. I need to speak to my mother.”

He followed her as she made her way toward the kitchen, but stopped her in the long hall which was currently—and thankfully—empty.

“What’s going on here?” Clayton said. 

“What do you mean?” she asked with perfectly innocent expression.

“There isn’t an eligible bachelor for miles,” he said.

She straightened his lapels and grinned. “I see one very eligible bachelor standing right in front of me.”

“Mom—”

“Don’t you ‘Mom’ me. It’s a mother’s prerogative to set up her son.”

“I don’t need to be set up.”

“You’re graduated now, Clayton. And you never once brought a girl home to visit. I don’t think you realize how small the pond gets after college.” 

“I’ve never had any trouble before.” Clayton could feel his anger building. Did his own mother think he was so helpless where women were concerned that he needed her intervention?

“I’m sure you don’t,” she said. “But the good ones won’t wait around forever and you don’t deserve the leftover scraps. There’s bound to be someone in this room you could be happy with.”

But as Clayton thought about it, he realized she was wrong. 

“There’s not. I can’t think of a single one.”

“Don’t be so dramatic. You don’t even know everyone here.”

“And I don’t care to,” he said. He knew he was just being contrary now, but he honestly couldn’t imagine starting a relationship like this. It just felt so
forced
.

“Do you want to marry, Clayton?” she asked.

“Of course I do.”

“And you mean to make a life for yourself here?”

“Yes.”

“Then how do you imagine meeting someone? You’re home now. This is how it’s done. Every woman left in Independence Falls is under this roof.”

Not every woman. Again, the image of Cora invaded his mind. Her full, velvet lips. The sound of her sigh as he kissed her.

Stop it.

This had nothing to do with Cora Murphy. This was about having a choice.

“I know it’s not the way you imagined it,” Florence said. “But does that have to mean it can’t lead to love?”

He frowned. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps he had to face facts.

“Just give it a try. For me and your father. That’s all I’m asking.”

There it was. The real truth of the situation. It wasn’t just his mother who wanted this. It was his father too.

And he wanted to please them. He did. He wanted nothing more than to be the man they hoped he could be. So why did all of this feel so unnatural?

Clayton stepped out into the garden for air. He’d agreed with his mother to make more of an effort tonight, but he needed a moment to let the embers of his temper cool.

The garden was as formal as the house, full of vine-covered trellises and ornate stone benches. There were hundreds of roses, the very best blooms cultivated by the local Sokolov family—Russian immigrants who had gained a reputation in town for their flowers as much as their suspected ties to Communism. There was even a marble statue of a Grecian goddess whose gown billowed in the wind. A filigree patterned fountain stood in the middle of it all, spouting water from the mouths of cherubs. The whole thing was his mother’s design—pretty, but claustrophobic. He felt boxed in by the hedges, bound tight by the climbing vines.

He knew his parents meant well, but honestly. If a man was to be trusted with anything, it was the woman he chose to love. The thought that they were worried he’d fail—even at something as natural as love—was maddening. Yet hadn’t he almost done just that with the Murphy girl? Maybe they were right.

He stopped in front of one of his mother’s prized rosebushes and tore a bloom off in frustration, crushing it in his palm.

A strange feeling passed through him, something akin to the vibration a bee must feel at its own buzz, or the first tremble of an earthquake at his feet.

He looked down into his palm and saw something odd. Something very odd. What he saw was so strange it made him forget the argument with his mother.

The flower began to wilt, right there in his palm—as though it was aging rapidly.

A shiver passed through his body. What was going on?

For a moment, it looked like a hundred tiny fireflies were flying out of the bud as it drained of life and turned to a husk. Fireflies or fire itself—tiny blue sparks floating, swirling together, migrating to form into one thing.

A ball of light, the size of a golf ball.

Blue light.

Buzzing and alive.

And floating above his palm.

Clayton stared into it, too terrified to move. It was pulsing, glowing, with a hard electric edge. Not quite transparent, but he could see the shape of things through it—warped and moving as though through a heat haze. 

What had just happened?

Was he going mad?

Clayton heard a gale of laughter inside and startled. He threw the ball, hard, onto a patch of grass twenty feet away. There was a zap as it hit the ground and then dissipated, disappearing into the darkness. 

He whirled behind him to see if anyone was coming, but he heard nothing, so turned his attention back to the yard. What on earth was that? Were his eyes playing tricks on him?

But no. Clayton squinted into the darkness and thought he saw that the sphere had left a mark, dark and round in the grass.

He dashed over to where it had landed. The ground wasn’t just marked, it was barren. Where there was once lush grass only dust remained. Dirt. A bare patch of dirt stared back at him. 

He reached down to touch the spot and felt only dust. No heat, like a fire would have left. Merely nothing at all.

As he pulled away, his hands were shaking. Adrenaline coursed through his body almost as fast as the questions. 

What had he done? Because he knew he had done it. He could feel it. That ball, that energy. It had been
him
who’d made it happen. There was something wrong with
him
.

“Clay?”

Someone stood at the open door. Her shapely figure was silhouetted in the bright light from the party inside. 

“What are you doing out here alone?” she asked with a curious, teasing lilt in her voice.

It was Violet.

“What’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

Clayton straightened, covering the patch of earth with his feet. No one could know about this. What would his father say if he had seen that? The thought chilled him.

“It’s nothing. I’m fine,” he said, trying to shake off this new anxiety.

She held out her hand to him. “Well, then, come back to the party. Everybody’s asking about you.”

“Of course,” he said. He took her hand and went inside, more determined than ever to comply with his parents’ wishes. Who knew? Maybe he could even find himself rekindling the flame with Violet. Many things that had seemed impossible only moments ago were suddenly very, very possible.

CHAPTER NINE

Cora

It had been three days since Cora had returned home from the hospital, and she was just now starting to feel like she had a handle on things. She’d had to cancel Mrs. Stewart's cake order—there hadn’t been enough time to bake it after she’d been released from the hospital. But Mrs. Felder had been kind enough to pay the full amount for her mending even though it was a day late. Thankfully, everyone was very understanding. The incident with the fog had shaken the town, especially losing Jan Clarkson.

Since returning home, she’d avoided Butch as much as possible. Every time he looked her way he seemed to be sneering, or sizing her up. Butch was a sore loser, always had been. And he loved getting revenge. Her only hope was to avoid him long enough for him to forget his beef with her and move on to some other battle. 

Bethany had been sticking by her side, too. At first Cora thought that she was frightened of Butch, but eventually she realized Bethany meant to protect her. Butch was less likely to attack if there was a witness. 

The whole thing made her nervous. She’d managed to keep Bethany mostly under her brother’s radar until now. Who knew what would happen if she made an enemy of Butch? Cora had taken to shoving her out of the house whenever possible.

Now, for the first time since the fight, she was finally alone. Bethany was off with her friends, and Butch and their father had somehow managed to land a job hauling junk out of a trailer home in Schmidt Park, a place most of the locals called Shit Park.

Cora cleaned the dishes from breakfast and thought about what had happened with Butch and the laundry water. The whole thing was so bizarre it was hard to believe it had happened at all. Part of her was certain it had been a hallucination born of her fear in the moment. 

Another part wondered if it was
her
. She couldn’t have sent that water flying, could she? That was impossible.

But the water had landed on Butch. That was undeniable. The tub was on the ground—and completely upright. She hadn’t tipped it. It hadn’t spilled. The thing was big. It would have been too heavy to lift even if she had tried. Something had happened. Something strange.

The more she thought about it, she came to realize the strange thing maybe wasn’t a “thing.” 

Maybe it was her. 

Maybe she could move things. Maybe she had always been able to but had never known it. She had read stories about people who could move things. Books about witches or comic books with superheroes. 

God, what was she thinking? Could she really believe she was a witch? Or a superhero?

Of course not.

Still, the thing had happened.

Cora saw someone’s leftover breakfast sitting on the counter: a dirty plate and fork and an unfinished glass of water. It wouldn’t hurt to try, would it? 

She closed her eyes and concentrated on moving the fork. But what was she supposed to concentrate on? A feeling? An image? She decided the best thing to do was to simply
want
the fork to move. That’s what had happened last time, hadn’t it? She had wanted the water to hit Butch in the face, and it did.

She stared at the fork until she had a clear image of it in her mind. Then she closed her eyes and concentrated.