The Jodi Picoult Collection Read online

  “No.” Embarrassed, Jack busied his hands with a rack of dry glassware. “I’ve just heard of it.”

  Addie crossed the kitchen until she was a few feet away from where Jack stood. “I told Stuart that you were the one who was worried about him. You did a kind thing, Jack.” She reached out and touched Jack’s hand with her own.

  He froze in the motion of unloading another tray of dishes. “Please . . . don’t.” He pulled away, breaking eye contact. “The cow,” Jack said, leaping into the silence, desperate to keep Addie from speaking. “Who’s taking care of the cow?”

  She cursed under her breath. “That’s right. I need to find someone who knows how to milk by hand.”

  “Don’t look at me,” the cook said. “All I know about cows is that one day I’m going to be able to braise, stew, and fry them.”

  “Oh, come on, Delilah. You know everyone in Salem Falls. Isn’t there someone in this town who—”

  “Yes,” Jack said, looking nearly as surprised as Addie to hear his voice. “Me.”

  Starshine, the proprietress of the Wiccan Read, fixed a smile on her face as the tiny silver bells strung over the door signaled the arrival of a customer. A quartet of girls entered the occult bookstore, their laughter twining around them. The one with the greatest aura of energy about her was Gillian Duncan, the daughter of the most prosperous businessman in the county. Starshine wondered if he knew his daughter wore a small golden pentagram tucked beneath her shirt, a symbol of the pagan religion she embraced.

  “Ladies,” she said in greeting, “is there anything in particular I can help you with?”

  “We’re just looking,” Gillian said.

  Starshine nodded and gave them their space. She watched them move from shelves crowded with grimoires—spell books—to the small vials of herbs—wax myrtle, mandrake root, boneset, joe-pye weed.

  “Gilly,” Whitney said, “should we get something to help Stuart Hollings?”

  “Yeah. For a healing spell.” Chelsea smiled at Starshine. “It looks like we do need your help, after all.”

  Meg hurried over, clutching a six-pack of candles. “Look! Last time we were here, the red candles were back-ordered!” she said breathlessly, then realized that her friends were choosing among the herbs. “What’s up?”

  “For the guy who had a stroke,” Chelsea said. “We ought to do something.”

  Starshine began to empty a small quantity of something that looked like tea leaves into a tiny Ziploc bag. “Yerba santa,” she suggested. “And some willow. A nice piece of quartz couldn’t hurt, either.”

  She handed one of the girls the bag and went in search of quartz, only to realize that she had lost sight of Gillian Duncan. Frowning, she excused herself for a moment. Once, a teenage witch had shoplifted an entire vial of hound’s-tongue.

  She found Gillian behind the silk curtain that divided the store from the private area, where stock was kept. The girl sat cross-legged on the floor, a heavy black book cracked open on her lap. “Interesting stuff,” Gillian said, looking up. “How much for the book?”

  Starshine grabbed the volume and shoved it back into the shelf. “It’s not for sale.”

  Gillian got up, dusting off her jeans. “I thought there were rules about those kinds of spells.”

  “There are. An it harm none, do what ye will. Witches don’t curse or make others suffer.” When Gillian’s expression didn’t change, Starshine sighed. “These books are back here for a reason. You aren’t supposed to read them.”

  Gillian raised one brow, so confident that it was impossible to believe she was only seventeen. “Why not?” she said. “You do.”

  “I know,” Jack soothed. “I’m going to make it better.” Milking by hand was not something they’d done at Grafton, but the twins who ran the barn had given him a lesson once. Now, as he curled his fingers around the teat and rippled them downward, a sweet stream of milk shot into the pail.

  “Look how much better she feels,” Addie murmured. If there was such a thing as an expression of relief on a cow’s face, this one wore it now. Addie could remember nursing Chloe; how sometimes she’d be delayed for a feeding and would come to her baby, full and wet, certain she would die if not for the touch of Chloe’s bow mouth.

  It surprised her to see Jack’s obvious enjoyment in something as simple as being close to the heated hide of the cow or skimming his hand up the smooth, pink udder. She realized that Jack, who could not bear to be touched, craved physical contact.

  “You grew up on a farm,” she said.

  “Who told you that?”

  “You did. Look at how easy this comes to you.”

  Jack shook his head. “I grew up in New York City. This is an acquired skill.”

  Addie sat down in the hay. “What did you do in New York?”

  “What any kid does. Went to school. Played sports.”

  “Your parents still live there?”

  Jack hesitated only a second. “Nope.”

  “You know,” Addie said facetiously, “that’s what I like about you. You’re so naturally talkative.”

  He smiled at her, and for a moment, she could not catch her breath. “What I like about you is how you so fiercely guard someone else’s privacy.”

  She blushed. “It’s not like that. I just . . . well . . .”

  “You want to know where I came from before I walked into your diner.” He let go of the teat and stood up, maneuvering the stool to the cow’s other side, so that Addie could no longer see him while he spoke. “You already know a lot, actually.”

  “That you grew up in New York City and could give Alex Trebek a run for his money?”

  “Your dad could tell you some things.”

  “Like?”

  “Like I don’t squeeze the toothpaste tube in the middle.”

  “Well, that’s good to know. I wasn’t able to sleep at night because—”

  Suddenly his head rose over the bulk of the cow. “Addie,” Jack said, “shut up and get over here. You’re about to have your first milking lesson.”

  The cow bellowed, and Addie shied back. “She likes you.”

  “Her brain is the size of a clam. Trust me, she couldn’t care less.” He nodded toward the udder again, and Addie reached down but could not draw forth any milk.

  “Watch.” Jack knelt in the hay and took two udders in his hands. He began to pump rhythmically, milk raining into the bucket. Addie marked the synchronic motion and then lay her hand over Jack’s. She could feel the flex of the tendons and the muscles tightening as he froze; she looked back to find Jack’s face twisted in either agony or rapture at the simple fact of a human touch. He opened his eyes and locked his gaze on hers.

  The cow’s tail slapped him hard across the face, damp and reeking. Addie and Jack jumped apart.

  “I think I’ve got it now.” When she tried this time, a small squirt of milk came from the teat. She continued to focus her attention on the cow, embarrassed now that she had seen Jack with his guard down.

  “Addie,” Jack said softly, “let’s trade.”

  They were inches apart, close enough to breathe each other’s fear. “Trade what?”

  “The truth. You give me one honest answer,” he said, “and I’ll give you one back.”

  Addie nodded slowly, sealing the bargain. “Who goes first?”

  “You can.”

  “All right . . . what did you do?”

  “I was a teacher. At a private school for girls. Coached soccer there, too.” He rubbed the flat of his hand along the cow’s bony ridge of spine, the protrusions of her hipbone. “I loved it. I loved every minute of it.”

  “Then how come you—”

  “Now it’s my turn.” Jack moved the pail from beneath the cow. The milk steamed, fragrant and fresh, its heat rising between them. “What happened to Chloe?”

  Addie’s eyes swam. Jack’s fingers grasped her upper arms. “Addie—” He broke off, following her stare. To his hands. Which were touching her. Of the