Foxy led the way inside, her platform sandals tapping against the linoleum floor until reaching the back room. With one glimpse of the closed-in space, she claimed it as hers. The guys placed the trunk in the corner and headed out to continue unloading the van. It was slightly musty in the house from being closed up for the better part of a year, but as soon as she opened the lid of the trunk and rested it on the clapboard wall, the room took on a spicy scent that reminded me of the aroma from her fortune-teller tent last fall.

She knelt beside it and began sifting through tiny glass jars and metal tins. “This is what you need.” She handed me four mesh pouches filled with yellow dried leaves.

I held the pouches to my nose and sniffed. “It smells like flowers.”

“Because it is. It’s evening primrose tea. Steep it just like a cup of hot tea and sip it before bed.” She pulled out a glass bottle of clear liquid. “And this is witch hazel oil. Dab it on your pimples to help clear them up. Don’t go mashing them.”

I studied the bottle in one hand and the tea pouches in the other. “Are you a, uh . . . witch doctor?”

Foxy let out three quick sniffs, her lips turned up, amusement squinting her onyx eyes. “You make me out to be so much more interesting than I am.” She took the bottle of oil and showed me how to apply it to my face. She seemed no more motherly than me, but there was care and attention in her actions. It was the first time in six months that someone had taken care of me to any degree. I’d forgotten how wonderful that felt, and it almost had me finding my tears.

I told the young’uns earlier that I hoped a remedy had arrived in that van. Sitting on the floor beside Foxy’s trunk of potions, I was pretty sure I’d been right.

“How do you know how to make this stuff and what it’s used for?” I held the pouches a little higher before lowering them to my lap.

“Back home in New Orleans, my grandmother was big into natural remedies. She grew her own herbs and plants. I was probably about your age when she began teaching me her craft. Some swore she was a witch doctor.” Another laugh-sniff. “But there’s no hocus-pocus about it.”

Foxy could brush it off all she wanted, but I was downright impressed and quite curious about all the trinkets and bundles of herbs she filled that little room with —even more so after using the witch hazel that made my pimples magically disappear.

Too bad by the time summer came around, the folks of Magnolia had formed a strong, less impressed opinion about Foxy and her herbs.

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