The Seventh Witch by Shirley Damsgaard Page B

feed and the aroma of herbicide mixed with wood smoke hit me. A Ben Franklin stove sat in the middle of the large room, dividing the store into two parts. On the right, housewares and canned food lined the high shelves. On the left, farm and gardening supplies. Wooden barrels filled with peanuts and root vegetables sat on the floor next to a long counter stretching the length of the building. Near the antique cash register, similar to the one Abby used in her greenhouse, sat large glass jars with pickled pigs’ feet and hard-boiled eggs swimming in brine.
    Several women dressed in jeans, with baskets on their arms, milled up and down the long counter, visiting as they looked over the wares. Another woman stood in front of the bread rack, squeezing loaves of bread as she tried to find the freshest one. Toward the back, two women fingered the bolts of bright cotton print, plain muslin, and polyester.
    Cousin Lydia led us up to the counter. “Miz Abernathy, I’d like you to meet my cousins from up North,” she said to the stick thin woman standing behind the counter.
    The woman settled her thick glasses on her nose and looked us up and down.
    “This is Mrs. Margaret Mary Jensen, Abby’s girl, and her daughter Ophelia,” Lydia said pleasantly.
    Mrs. Abernathy focused on me. “Not married, are you,” she stated.
    “Ah, no ma’am,” I mumbled, surprised at her forthrightness.
    “Following in the footsteps of your Great-Aunt Mary, heh?”
    My surprise turned to shock. I was nothing like Great-Aunt Mary. Great-Aunt Mary was spooky and struck fear into the hearts of small children. That was not me . Shooting a stricken look at Cousin Lydia, I silently pleaded for her help.
    Chuckling, she took a step closer to me. “Why Miz Abernathy, things are different now days, especially up North. Women don’t marry so young.” She turned and gave me a big smile. “And besides, Ophelia isn’t on the shelf yet.”
    Mrs. Abernathy switched tactics and turned her attention to my mother. “Miz Jensen, is your mother visiting, too?”
    “Of course,” Mom replied in an easy voice. “We’re all here to celebrate Great-Aunt Mary’s birthday. Why do you ask?”
    Mrs. Abernathy crossed her arms over her thin chest. “I’m surprised your mother came, that’s all.”
    Mom’s face tightened. “And why is that?”
    Mrs. Abernathy’s eyes darted to Cousin Lydia then back to Mom. “Well, after Miz Annie died, your mother never seemed to have much use for family ties.”
    Uh-oh, I sensed a battle brewing as Mom’s shoulders went back and I could almost see her hackles rise.
    “Excuse me for contradicting you, Mrs. Abernathy,” Mom said with bite in her tone. “Family’s always been important to my mother and—”
    The tinkling of the bell over the door interrupted her as Mrs. Abernathy’s attention shifted to the person standing in the doorway. Her face washed white, and to my ears, it seemed the chattering in the store suddenly stopped.
    “You’ll excuse me,” she said quickly, “Janice needs my help with the material.”
    With that she hustled down to the end of the counter and the women looking over the bolts of fabric, leaving Cousin Lydia, Mom, and me standing alone.
    In fact, everyone seemed to withdraw from us.
    Confused, I turned to the woman still standing by the door. Tall, thin, and about my age, her dark brown hair framed a face with prominent cheekbones—she was pretty in an exotic way. Our eyes met and hers flamed with anger as a sneer curled her lips.
    What’s up with her? I thought, my eyebrows knitting together. I’d never seen her before in my life, so why was she pissed off at me?
    Cousin Lydia, tugging on my arm, broke into my thoughts.
    “Come on, let’s go,” she hissed at me.
    Before I could reply, a man strode up to the woman.
    “Sharon Doran, you can tell that no good uncle of yours I don’t appreciate him cheating me,” the man spat out at her.
    As he spoke, I felt the room swamp with