The Herbalist's Healing
"Mother Sage has practiced traditional healing in Charleston for fifty years. When a pharmaceutical executive seeks her remedies, she discovers some medicines work best together."
Plants know what bodies need.
My grandmother taught me, her grandmother taught her—knowledge passing through hands. I'm Mother Sage—sixty-three, Gullah herbalist, keeper of remedies.
"I've heard you can help."
The man on my porch is corporate. Marcus Webb—pharmaceutical executive, out of place among my drying herbs.
"Help with what?"
"My company makes chemicals. I want to learn what grows." His eyes are tired. "I'm sick of synthetic solutions."
His request is unusual.
Most people want quick fixes. Marcus wants understanding.
"Why you really here?" I ask.
"Because I've spent thirty years selling pills that treat symptoms." He sits on my porch step. "I want to know what actually heals."
The lessons stretch months.
Marcus visiting weekly, learning plants, preparations, the spirit behind the science.
"This isn't something you can patent," I warn.
"I don't want to patent it." He handles a sassafras root. "I want to understand it. And you."
"Me?"
"The woman behind the wisdom." His eyes meet mine. "She's the most interesting part."
"Careful with that talk."
"Why?" He moves closer. "You've spent decades healing others. When's the last time someone cared for you?"
"I manage fine—"
"Managing isn't living." His hand touches mine. "Let me learn how to tend you too."
The kiss happens in my garden.
Between plants that heal, his mouth finds mine—new remedy.
"This is—"
"Medicine." He smiles. "The kind neither of us knew we needed."
His Charleston rental is empty.
"I haven't lived anywhere real in years," he admits.
"Then come to my place." I take his hand. "Let me show you what home smells like."
My cottage is herbal.
Bundles drying, salves warming, the air itself therapeutic.
"Heaven," he breathes.
"Just living right." I face him. "Stay tonight. Let me show you what healing feels like."
He undresses me carefully.
"You're the remedy," he whispers.
"I'm just a woman—"
"You're everything good distilled." His mouth traces my skin. "Let me absorb you."
His hands learn my body.
Like learning plants—where to touch, how long to linger.
"Marcus—"
"Show me." He settles between my thighs. "Show me everything that needs tending."
When he enters me, we're creating something.
"So good," he groans.
"More. This is the dose we need."
"Every day. For the rest of our lives."
Afterward, in my herb-scented sheets, he decides.
"I'm leaving the company."
"What?"
"Thirty years is enough." He pulls me closer. "I want to learn from you. Properly. Maybe create something that bridges both worlds."
"Marcus—"
"Marry me, Mother Sage. Let me be your student, partner, everything."
The herbal institute opens two years later.
His business knowledge, my healing wisdom, training a new generation.
"To the woman who showed me real medicine," Marcus toasts at the opening.
"To the man who wanted to learn," I counter.
The wedding is in the garden.
Surrounded by everything that heals, we make vows.
We kiss while the herbs witness.
Some healers work alone.
Some find apprentices who become partners.
And some herbalists discover that the best medicine is love that grows where you plant it.
Rooted deep.
Blooming bright.
Forever growing.