Chapter 19: Story To Be Told

"These are pre-boiled at home so I can refrigerate overnight." Vine made a little hand gesture over her potatoes set up on the table next to her. I nodded and tried to smile, glancing at the viewfinder of the camera on the tripod next to me, feeling even more disjointed than I had all along. The relief I'd experienced being saved by whatever power looked over me from the accident not so long ago had washed away as my conversation with Vine continued and I thought more and more about why I was here.

Why was I here again? Therein lay the question and the problem, really.

"Now make sure to use Irish cobblers. You can get them pretty much anywhere on the side of the road."

There was a long enough pause I realized that I should be asking questions. "You mean at a vegetable stand. Right?"

Vine laughed. Could she be more adorable and annoying and perky and irritating? Grumble, mumble. "Oh yes, of course. Not literally on the side of the road. Though farmers will plop a few bags out there with a money box. You'll see those all the time."

This place. Unbelievable. "Interesting. That would never happen in the big city." Cynical?

Yes, cynical, thy name is Reese MacDonald.

"Small community living is pretty sweet. Of course I get mine from Isobel." She winked at me like that meant something to me. "Hers are infused with just a pinch of magic."

Magic. Right. Okay then. I was going to puke and it wasn't from witches brew. I smacked myself in my bitterness with a lash of rebuke. This wasn't Vine's fault. It was mine. My failing. And it was beginning to become very clear to me I was failing. That my reason for being here was dying a slow, painful artistic demise. Forget the witches thing and the dancing around fires and all that nonsense. The longer I sat there, the more apparent it became I was lost.

Creatively lost. And that was a total bummer.

"So now you add a finely minced onion, a cucumber chopped up into teeny tiny cubes. Just about half a cup of mayo. Make sure you use the real stuff, though, not the fake kind that's full of sugar." At least she was playing it up to the camera. She was a natural entertainer, after all. But I just couldn't focus on her. I couldn't focus on anything. Except of course for this lost feeling that was taking me over more and more the longer I stayed on PEI. So strange, how I waffled between loving it here and wanting to be part of this place and just having this need to take off and get away from it before something horrible could happen.

What the hell was wrong with me?

Vine finally noticed I wasn't really paying attention, her hand hovering over some mayonnaise and a fork she was using to mix her concoction, eyebrows arching, her smile fading.

"Reese? Am I doing it wrong? I can do it better if you'd tell me what you like to see."

She was so sweet and she was so kind. They all were. And I didn't think I was in a place to give them what they needed. That really sucked. "Oh no, Vine. Sorry. No, that was wonderful. You're a natural." Wow, was I a bummer or what? Way to muster some enthusiasm.

"So what's the problem, doll?" The thing about Vine, she looked at you like there was nobody else around. Mind you, there wasn't. Still, she gave you this impression that when she talked to you she was so focused on you that you were the absolute and utter center of her attention. And that just made me uncomfortable. Especially in the mood I was dealing with right now.

"I don't know." How much could I tell her? How much should I tell her? "I've got all this footage." Okay, apparently I was about to spill everything because all the filters I'd managed to create over the years had vanished the moment I set foot in this freaking place. "And you women are all very interesting. But I'm struggling to figure out how to set this up." I was the filmmaker and she wasn't my therapist. And yet I couldn't help it now that I'd opened my mouth. It all came gushing out. "To tell your story so audiences don't think you're, you know." Was I really going to say it? "Whoo-hoo." Yup, I said it.

Vine didn't appear offended. In fact, she laughed. "Well, we are whoo hoo. Does that help?" "If I pitch this as real witches, will be laughed at of every film festival ever." And there was the problem really. My future. They were my clients, but this was my reputation on the line. When this was over and I was done playing at being one of them, when they no longer wanted me around-boo freaking hoo but the story of my life-I was the one who had to live with what I'd made. And so far it was a meandering mess of crazy and kind of boring, to be honest. "Maybe if I call it an art piece...?" Hmmm. Would they go for that? "Maybe that's the direction we need to head in?"

Vine's smile faded again, brows coming together. "But we are witches. You don't think people will believe us?"

Yes, she was seriously that deluded and innocent, and I was about to burst her bubble. "Vine..."

Hello, awkward moment. I seemed to be having a lot of those lately.

"Oh!" Vine's perkiness returned immediately as she distracted herself, whether on purpose or not I didn't know. I let her, totally wrung out from my own lack of direction and imminent catastrophic failure. "I almost forgot. The secret ingredient to the potato salad. Ready?" I smiled at Vine, at her short attention span, grateful for the distraction and nodded, watching through the viewfinder.

"The secret ingredient is one pinch of magic." Dear god, was she really bringing up that-

Um. What was that? Vine raised one hand over the food and air sprinkled something... where did those pink sparkles come from? Cascading down over the potato salad like, like some kind of...

Lens flare. It had to be a lens flare.

"There." Vine dipped into the concoction with a spoon and handed it to me. "Now you have to try it." I took the fork, hesitating, remembering the sparkles. "It doesn't matter what people think of us, Reese. In the end, we're not witches to make others happy or to have them believe in us. We just want to make the Island-and the world-a better place."

Okay, I could buy that. I still wasn't totally satisfied with the answer, and that didn't help with my how was I going to pitch this to the rest of the world question, but okay then. At least it eased the horrible weight on my shoulders a little.

And come on, what audience wouldn't fall in love with her and her wacky cast of kooks? At least this film had that going for it. Not much else. But that.

"You're too good, you know that? Maybe I can spin this as a human interest piece." That would be about as close to a compromise as I could get.

"So are you. I wish you knew how we see you." Vine's eyes glowed, everything about her glowed as she leaned closer toward me, staring into my gaze like I was some cute puppy she couldn't wait to bring home with her.

Instead of answering her I tasted the potato salad again, my favorite, but even its delightful and satisfying flavor didn't help. Knowing I wasn't going to get much more out of Vine that was helpful, I let her return to her customers. As I packed up my gear, I watched her interact, dipping out of her door to hug everyone who came to place an order. I even made a half-hearted attempt to film some of them just for the b-roll. But, in the end, depression won and I finally turned to Carol, dropping the camera bag and tripod in the back seat with an air of dejection I couldn't shake.

As I was turning back to say goodbye to Vine-surely I could muster that much courtesy-I glanced down into the passenger side and noticed something I hadn't seen there earlier. The book, the journal. The one from Isobel's. The one that smacked me in the face when I'd gone to her house to interview her. Its black suede cover was graced with a silver pentagram, and beautiful swirls that made me want to run my fingers over them. But where did it come from?

I reached for it, pulled it out of the car, dark mood forgotten in my curiosity and the soft thrill of discovery and mystery. I flipped it to the first page with fingers that trembled. But, like before, the contents were written in gibberish, as undecipherable as they were alluring. When I looked up to ask Vine if she had placed it in my car or to see if maybe Isabel had somehow popped up out of the blue with this gift, the annoying sound of a voice I recognized boomed through the irritating volume of a megaphone and ended my investigation instantly.

The sound froze me in my tracks. Made me look up. Stare. As horror grew in my heart and utter disillusionment and disappointment devoured every scrap of self-confidence that I had managed to hang onto since coming to Prince Edward Island.

"Come to the beach! Rate My Beach is here to make you a star!"

The white van with the Larry Karry logo on the side pulled to a halt next to Carol and the red bereted, sundressed, long bleach blonde haired, perfect nailed, megaphone holding form of Missy Prince popped out of the driver's side when my nemesis, my rival for Larry's attention and every job I had to fight over the last few years squealed at the sight of me, waving with great enthusiasm while her fake smile pulled at her overly done up lips.

"Reese! Can you believe this? Thanks to you running off, Larry gave me my own show!"

No. No, I could not freaking believe this at all.

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