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her straight hair shining like wheat in the sun.
    Dr. Cureux regarded him curiously, glanced at the departing woman and then looked back at Graham. “What’s this about a show? Your show?”
    “She’s going to be on it to offer dating advice.”
    Surprisingly, the physician snorted.
    Graham blinked at him, startled. “What?”
    David Cureux shook his head and rose wearily from his chair. “I will leave you to go back to your writing, Graham. Thank you for the refreshment.”
    “You’re welcome,” Graham replied, wondering if his neighbor knew something about Mary Anne that he didn’t know.
    Myrtle Hollow

    M ARY A NNE ONLY wanted to see Clare Cureux again to emphasize that, well, she wasn’t the kind of woman who bought love potions or used them. She wanted to show Clare Cureux the real Mary Anne Drew. But as she parked by the cabin alongside two other vehicles that hadn’t been there the first time she visited, she considered turning around and driving away. She could write her essay without speaking to Clare Cureux.
    And what if the woman mentioned the love potion in front of the other people who were inside?
    Briefly, Mary Anne studied the cars. One was an ancient navy-blue Volvo station wagon bearing two bumper stickers, one supporting the Logan County Women’s Resource Center and the other suggesting that none of the current candidates for president was conservative enough.
    He put it on there to annoy his mother, Cameron had said. See what I mean about mother issues?
    Okay, so that was Paul Cureux’s car. Mary Anne had met him, through Cameron, with whom he seemed like a bad older brother who lured his sister into stunts that would get them both into trouble. The other vehicle contained two children’s car seats and an assortment of pro-children, pro-home birth, anti-immunization, pro-vegetarian bumper stickers.
    Mary Anne placed the car with a face. The dreadlock woman. Oh, good grief—Clare Cureux’s hippie daughter, Bridget—Paul’s actual sister. Mary Anne couldn’t help wondering if her bumper stickers had been chosen in part to annoy her father.
    She was thinking of backing out again, driving away, escaping, when Clare, herself, appeared on the porch.
    Too late to flee now.
    Mary Anne got out, dragging purse and notebook after her and speaking before she even reached the porch. “Hi, I hope it’s not a bad time. I’m writing an essay on a hundred years of birth in Logan County.”
    Clare said, “The wrong person drank it, didn’t he?”
    How had she known? Only Cameron knew…Telegraph, telephone or “tell Cameron,” Mary Anne thought in annoyance.
    “You must have spoken to Cameron.”
    “Who? No. Haven’t seen her. Why?”
    Mary Anne said, “It doesn’t matter. It was just something we thought we’d try for fun.” She hoped she wasn’t insulting the woman.
    Clare, however, did not look insulted. She looked as if she knew absolutely everything that was going on inside Mary Anne and was slightly amused that Mary Anne should be pretending things were…
    Well, so what? thought Mary Anne defensively. It was something she’d agreed to do just for fun. Sunday, she’d thought that Jonathan had finally noticed her, but when she’d arrived at the station to talk with him about her being on Life—with Dr. Graham Corbett she’d found Angie and one of her bridesmaids there as well, talking about bands and reception venues.
    “I really wanted to speak to you about your experiences as a midwife.”
    “Well, come in then.”
    The cabin smelled like baking pie, and Clare’s dread-locked daughter and two small dark-haired children, one still with baby hair and the other with a Mohawk, sat at the table snacking on various things and critically scrutinizing the face drawn on a gutted pumpkin. Paul Cureux held the carving knife.
    Both Paul and Bridget Cureux had their mother’s dark eyes. Bridget’s seemed all the darker for the contrast of gold-streaked, albeit matted hair. Paul’s hair