After a single bite, Nora was a college sophomore again. It was December, and she was moping in her dorm room because the major essay she’d worked on for weeks had been turned in late. Out of sheer bad luck, Nora had fallen on a patch of ice on her way to class and twisted her ankle. A maintenance worker had driven her to the infirmary, and by the time she’d been examined and treated, her class was over, and her professor had gone home.
Nora had thought all was lost. Even with a note from the infirmary, she believed her professor would grade her essay more stringently because of its tardiness. He hated tardiness and had made it clear that the only excuses he deemed acceptable were serious illness or death. A twisted ankle was neither.
Upon hearing her roommate’s sorry tale, Bobbie had gone out and bought two boxes of chocolate rugelach from her favorite bakery.
“Roo-ga-lah,” Bobbie had said, holding up a pastry that looked like a mini croissant. “Means ‘horn’ in Yiddish. They’re Professor Howard’s kryptonite. Swing by with a box during his office hours tomorrow, and he’ll accept your excuse with minimal grumbling.”
Bobbie’s prediction had been correct. Professor Howard had accepted the treats and Nora’s excuse. Brilliant, generous, wonderful Bobbie. How many times had she made Nora’s life better?
“You’re a million miles away,” June said, startling Nora from her reverie.
“I was back in college. With Roberta Rabinowitz.” Ashamed, Nora lowered her head. “When Bobbie showed up in Miracle Springs, it really knocked me for a loop. The old me—the me I never wanted to be again—came bubbling to the surface the second I saw her. F. Scott Fitzgerald was right. We’re all boats, borne back ceaselessly into the past. I was an idiot to think I could hide from it forever.”
She went on to tell her friends about her evening with Bobbie, including the fact that she and her college roommate had shared two bottles of wine.
“Did Bobbie know your ex-husband?” Estella asked.
Nora gave a little half shrug. “They only met twice, but she contacted him after I fell off the radar in hopes of finding me. I don’t know if they’re still in touch, and I don’t want to know. But I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you the truth about Bobbie before now.”
“Honey, you have nothing to be sorry about,” June said with feeling. “And I want you to know something. The woman that Bobbie loved sounds just like the woman we love, so I guess you carried the best parts of you from one life to the next.”
Nora was about to tell her friends how much they meant to her when her phone lit up. It was in the middle of the table, which meant everyone could see that she’d just received a text. It was from Bobbie.
Hester pointed at the phone. “Does she know about Celeste?”
“No.” Nora opened the message. “She just got an email from someone interested in buying the Potion Page. He wants to see it in person and offered to bring cash to the meet. His username is Monkshood81. Bobbie recognized the name from her years working with herbals. They’re old books explaining how to use herbs in food and as cures. Oh, God.”
“What?” June demanded.
“Monkshood is another name for wolfsbane. That’s all Bobbie wrote. Estella, since you’re right there, can you look up wolfsbane on my laptop?”
Estella’s nails clicked over the keys. Suddenly, the color drained from her face. “Aconitum or aconite, also known as monkshood, wolfsbane, devil’s helmet, and the queen of poisons is a genus of flowering plants,” she said, her eyes locked on the computer screen. “In North Carolina, the plant is rare. It grows in the mountains, particularly in wooded thickets, damp slopes, and brook banks. It’s been spotted in thirteen counties, including ours. It looks like all the counties right around us have more than one species. Someone hiking the AT took this pic of a southern blue flower, and a gardening enthusiast spotted this trailing variety with white flowers while staying at the Bear Creek campground. That’s one town away.”
Estella turned the laptop around so that her friends could see the photos.
“The blue flower’s beautiful,” said Hester.
“Beautiful and deadly. This is the femme fatale of flowers.” Estella rotated the computer again. “If ingested, wolfsbane causes burning in the face and throat, vomiting, paralysis, slowed heart rate, and delirium. From that point, you either recover or you die. You’re not even supposed to touch this plant because the toxins from the roots might be absorbed through your skin.”