Sorcery and the Single Girl (21 page)

And we’d have to limit the children’s access to sugar. One cookie apiece, and only after the American Family sessions were over, with the little darlings back in their mothers’ tender loving care.

I stared directly at Gran. “I know what you’re doing.”

“What do you mean?” If the Academy of Arts and Sciences had been meeting in Luna Grill right then, the award for Best Actress would have been snagged for the year.

“Gran, you’re trying to make me forget about fighting with Melissa!”

“Make you? I can’t make you do anything! Clara, do you think that I could make Jane do anything that she didn’t already want to do?”

I saw the look of fake innocence that my grandmother cast toward her daughter, and I couldn’t help but laugh. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll think about it. Brownies and cookies aren’t a bad idea. Maybe we could start in November.”

“November first,” Gran said, as if we’d reached a firm agreement. “Nothing like the start of a new month for a new venture.”

The waitress came by to take our plates. I had left two slices of French toast. Clara had abandoned the vegetarian dregs of her omelet. But Gran’s plate was completely clean, thanks to all of our help. The waitress gave my grandmother a new look of respect. “Can I get you ladies anything else? Dessert, maybe?”

Before anyone could decline, I said, “We’ll see a menu, please.” After all, brunch without dessert was…breakfast.

We ended up ordering one slice of apple pie and another of cherry. At the last minute, Gran broke down and ordered the special of the day, turtle cheesecake. The waitress shook her head in obvious amazement as she wandered back toward the kitchen.

Only after we were safely ensconced with enough calories to support an entire football team did I see another meaningful glance pass between Clara and my grandmother. Gran inclined her head once, silently issuing an invitation for Clara to speak.

When only silence followed, I said, “What?”

“What what?” Clara countered.

“What are you supposed to ask me? What are you afraid I’ll get upset about?”

“I don’t know—” she began, raising her hand to the kunzite crystal she had started wearing around her neck months ago. Kunzite. Unconditional love. Family harmony.

At least she was trying.

Gran cut in. “We wanted to ask you about the Coven. We wanted to ask you if you’re continuing to see those women.”

Those women.
Gran made it sound like they were prostitutes. Or child-murderers. Or worse. (What was worse? I’m sure that suburban witches headed up some sort of nefarious list.)

I took a deep breath and held it for a count of five before daring to answer. “I have to, Gran. Clara. I’m one of them. And I’m setting the centerstone on Samhain.”

“Samhain?” Gran asked.

“Halloween,” Clara answered before I could. All her years with the New Age folks had served her well. She shook her head at me. “It’s just that the Coven causes so many ripples in the ether.”

Ripples in the ether? This was a new one, even for Clara. I tested my response in the silence of my own mind, measuring it twice before I dared to speak it aloud. “Ether? I’m not sure that I can sense the ether.”

Nope. I didn’t quite get the tone right. Clara’s shoulders stiffened, and her lips pulled into a tight little frown. Gran leaped into the breach. “The ether doesn’t matter, dear. We were just wondering if you’re working with them. If they’re being nice to you.”

Ah…they wanted to know if my playdates were working out well. If anyone had pulled my hair, or told me I was fat, or twisted my name into a taunting playground chant. “Actually,” I said, “I had a great dinner with one of them just the other night.”

And we left without paying the bill, I didn’t say. And she inadvertently taught me a Dark Magic spell that nearly knocked out my warder and made my familiar quiver in the basement with terror.

I rushed past those details. “I think that we’re actually becoming friends. We went to the National Gallery of Art a few weeks ago. Looked at the Renaissance paintings. I don’t think that I’ve done that since I was in high school.”

“That sounds lovely, dear,” Gran said. I saw the look that she flashed Clara, the silent command to accept what I was saying, to support me.

Clara swallowed hard and asked, “What’s her name? Your friend?”

“Haylee. Haylee James.”

“Isn’t she the one with the short hair?” Clara jumped on the recollection immediately. “The snooty one who’s best friends with Teresa Alison Sidney?”

I stared at the jovial sun mural on the opposite wall and took another five-count. A slow one. “That would be her. She’s actually been quite nice to me. The nicest of the bunch.”

That’s not saying much.

Okay, neither Gran nor Clara said the words out loud, but I could read their faces—printed in size forty-eight bold Times New Roman.

“Hey,” I said, anxious to change the topic of conversation. This brunch had gone too well to be sacrificed to the Coven and its politics. “Did you know that in the Renaissance, the peacock was a symbol of saintly purity, because people thought the birds’ flesh didn’t rot?”

Clara took the conversational bait. “In Eastern art, peacocks counteract venom. The birds ate snakes, so they were thought to protect people from poison.”

I actually beamed at her. She had given us a clear path out of the Coven discussion. “I’ve been learning a lot about antidotes lately,” I said. “It’s amazing the powers that people ascribe to different herbs. We might plant the Peabridge gardens differently next spring, to reflect some of the colonial beliefs that I’ve uncovered.”

And that was it. We made it through the last of brunch without another uncomfortable silence. Neither Gran nor Clara asked anything else about Haylee, or Teresa Alison Sidney, or David, or Neko, or anything else witch-related.

When the waitress brought our bill, I slapped down my credit card. It was good to be able to treat when it was my turn, good to continue this newfound family tradition.

After the meal, I walked my grandmother and Clara to Gran’s massive Lincoln. Clara opened up the driver’s door, while I walked Gran around to the passenger seat. I put my fingers on the handle, but she stopped me by settling her palm against my cheek.

“Call Melissa, darling.”

I glanced away. “I will.”

“Good friends are hard to come by. We can’t afford to let any of them slip away.”

Unexpectedly, tears rose in the back of my throat. What was up with that? After a great morning, a fine breakfast and some good conversation, I was surprised to find myself on such an emotional edge. “I won’t,” I whispered.

Gran stretched up and kissed me on the cheek. “Promise me, Jane. Promise that you’ll call her.”

Another Gran promise. Well, she hadn’t specified
when
I needed to call Melissa.

“I promise,” I said.

I just wasn’t ready yet. Besides, I wasn’t even sure Melissa would have time to talk to me. Not with Cake Walk as busy as it was. The queasiness in the pit of my stomach had to be a reaction to French toast and omelets and dessert and cups and cups of tea. What else could make me feel so miserable as I walked away from the best-looking car on the road?

I
glanced around the cottage one last time before answering the knock at the front door. It wouldn’t do to keep Haylee waiting. Not when I had barely summoned the courage to invite her into my home. Not when I was hoping she would distract me from staring at the telephone, waiting for it to ring, waiting for Graeme to announce that he was home from his business trip. Not when I had spent an hour and a half straightening, neatening, getting everything in order.

If Melissa had been coming over, I wouldn’t have cared. She’d seen me at my worst—dust bunnies under the bed, mascara streaks under my eyes, broken heart under fake smiles. But I hadn’t spoken to Melissa since she’d brushed me off in the bakery. My promise to Gran niggled at the back of my mind, of course. I would keep it—eventually. When I had time.

“Haylee!” I said, throwing open the front door.

“Oh my,” she said, stepping into my living room. “Isn’t this
quaint.
”

Quaint. Not a great word. She probably thought the place was tiny. Bizarre. Inconvenient. But as I looked around, I thought it looked like home. “I’m so glad you could come by,” I said. “It’s amazing how some evenings stretch out, with nothing to do.”

“I’m glad you phoned,” she said, with a confident smile that helped me forget that she probably had dozens of names on her dance card. After all, she was an accomplished witch and the best friend of Teresa Alison Sidney. Why
wouldn’t
she have a million plans for a crisp autumn evening?

I made myself grin and say, “I was just going to mix some drinks. Come into the kitchen?”

“Can I help?”

“No!” This was ridiculous. I was as jumpy as if this was a date. I forced myself to take a calming breath. “I’ve got everything I need. Please. Just make yourself comfortable. Tell me what you did today.”

Haylee obliged, sitting on one of my ladder-back chairs. She’d gone shopping that morning, she said, trying to find a little black dress for an evening wedding next month. She was looking for something velvet, something wintry, but something that would still be comfortable in an overheated ballroom.

I made polite listening noises as I went about my hostessing business. I found the fish-chased pitcher on the first try and almost yelped with success. What a great sign! Neko sometimes hid it, and I was reluctant to summon him upstairs, to beg for his help in any aspect of entertaining.

I reached underneath the sink, prowling through my stash of alcohol. There, toward the back, was my fifth of rum. About half a bottle was left. There was a two-liter bottle of soda water as well. Perfect. I looked calm, cool and collected. Organized. Prepared. Mojitos R Us, twinge of Melissa-guilt be damned.

And then, I opened the refrigerator.

I reached for the bowl of limes that I had left on the top shelf, but it was empty. No problem. I must have put them in one of the crisper drawers. I tugged open the fruit drawer and was greeted by one sickly lemon and some desiccated husks that might have been grapes in a former life.

Before I could question my sanity, I saw a single Corona beer, nesting in a cardboard six-pack container. Corona. Mexican beer. Most frequently served with a sturdy slice of lime. I grated my teeth and told myself that Neko would pay for his unsanctioned little Cinquo de Octubre celebration. Especially since it was already October 11.

Fine. We would have mojitos made with lemon instead of lime. A new drink. For my new friend. I reached to the back of the refrigerator, for the tall glass of water that was holding my mint and keeping it fresh.

No glass. No mint.

I had the presence of mind to wait until Haylee reached a breaking point in her story—she had found the dress she wanted, but she couldn’t find the proper heels. Everything was four inches high and slutty; she was looking for two inches and seductive. I smiled and laughed and agreed that fashion designers hated women.

Then, I politely excused myself and marched to the basement stairs. I flipped the light switch on and off twice, an agreed signal that told Neko to get his paws off Jacques and prepare for me to descend the steps.

And when I reached the foot of the stairs, it was immediately clear what had happened to my mint. “What are you two doing?” I cried.

Their faces were covered with a bright green paste. They looked like creatures from the Scope lagoon—their hair was slicked back and their eyes peered out from identical pale white circles.

Jacques barely moved his lips as he answered me. “Mees Jane! We should have saved some of thee mask for you!”

Neko nodded in cautious agreement, tilting his head back to preserve his cosmetic application. “Jacques said that these mint facials would do wonders for our pores. I can feel everything tightening up!”

I wanted to tighten
him
up. Instead, I looked over at the book stand, at a precariously balanced cutting board strewn with denuded stems of mint, and a bowl rimmed with a hardening paste. At least they’d shifted my crystals handbook to one side, closing the cover to protect the valuable parchment pages from mint facials.

No time to argue. No time to rant. Haylee was waiting upstairs. “Did you save me anything at all?”

“I think there’s still a beer left in the fridge,” Neko said helpfully. “Beer is good at relaxing people. You look like you could use a good relaxation regimen.”

I stalked upstairs before I could waste my time telling him what I thought of his “relaxation regimen.”

I forced a smile at Haylee when I came back into the kitchen. “Sorry. I thought I had more mint downstairs.”

“Oh! There’s a basement in this place?”

“It’s fully finished. That’s where Hannah Osgood’s books are. Neko stays down there, too.”

She looked doubtful. “And Neko keeps a supply of mint?”

“No,” I said ruefully. “Not tonight.” I turned back to the counter. All right. I’d already decided to make a new drink for us—it was just going to be a little newer than I’d planned. Lemon. Rum. Soda. How bad could it be?

That bad.

Haylee smiled politely after she took her first sip. But then she set her glass down on the table. Firmly.

I tried mine, to figure out what was wrong.

Nothing—if you liked watery, fizzy rum. My single desiccated lemon had added no measurable flavor. I’d tried to compensate by pouring the rum with a heavy hand, and I’d dumped in a generous amount of sugar, but the result was a cloying mess.

“Well,” I said. “At least we have something to eat.” I extricated a plate of vegetables from the fridge, pleased that I had outsmarted my familiar by choosing something healthy. “We might as well go into the living room. Make ourselves comfortable.”

And so we did. But I couldn’t really
get
comfortable. I was nervous, afraid that I wouldn’t seem witty enough, engaging enough, plain and simple
fun
enough for Haylee to bother wasting an evening in my company.

All of a sudden, I remembered Melissa’s dating strategy, the Five Conversational Topics she cultivated before each blind encounter. I should have come up with a similar list for Haylee, fallback for conversational lulls like the one we were weathering.

Maybe those Lemon Monstrosities weren’t so bad, I was beginning to think. At least they’d provide a little social lubrication. And then, the basement door opened.

“Bueno sera, muchachas!”

“What the—” I couldn’t keep from exclaiming. The creatures that sashayed into the living room had some vague resemblance to Mexican peasants—they had huge sombreros and brightly colored blankets thrown over their shoulders. But they would only be cast as Mexican peasants in a gay porn film. One that put a premium on black silk shirts open to display waxed chests. And tight leather pants. And perfectly hydrated skin, with expertly relaxed pores. “Um, hello?” I managed to squeak.

“Mi burro es muy perezoso,”
Neko enunciated carefully in a schoolboy Spanish accent.

“Mi burro es su burro,”
Jacques confirmed.

“And where the hell are you going?” I asked, not at all certain that I wanted to know the answer.

“Julio is throwing a party,” Neko said. “We’re late. We missed the first three days.”

“Days?” I asked, trying to rein in my shock.

“He’s celebrating Juan Perón’s birthday.” When I just gaped, he continued, “Juan Perón? The little Mexican man who sells coffee? Think, Jane! Why else would we be drinking Mexican beer? And wearing sombreros? And serapes?” He trilled the
r
in the last word.

I somehow managed to form an answer. “Juan
Valdez
sells coffee. And he’s from Colombia. Juan Perón was from Argentina.”

“Argentina?” Neko sounded scandalized.

I glanced at Haylee to see how she was handling this. She looked shocked, but I couldn’t tell if she was overwhelmed by Neko’s geographic ignorance, or if she was overcome by his sartorial splendor. I grimaced and said, “Juan was married to Eva.” Blank stare from Neko, and a baffled shake of the head from Jacques. “Little Eva?” I prompted. “Evita?” And I braced myself for the inevitable connection.

“Don’t cry for me, Argentina!” Neko belted out, with such enthusiasm that his sombrero tumbled to the floor.

“Argentina.” I nodded.

“Do zey drink Corona een Argenteena?” Jacques asked.

“I suspect they will tonight.” I shrugged. Nothing I said was going to change their costume. And at the tail end of a three-day birthday blast for a dead South American demagogue, who would care what country they represented? “Be careful, you two. Don’t stay out too late.”

“We weell go back to my apartment after zee party,” Jacques said. “Julio leeves right upstairs.”

Who was I to argue? I certainly didn’t relish the thought of my noisy, inebriated familiar stumbling around the house at three in the morning. “Fine,” I said, but then I tossed a last warning glance toward Neko. “Don’t forget, though. David wants to work tomorrow afternoon. I’m leaving work a couple of hours early.”

Neko tilted his sombrero to a more flattering angle. “Afternoon,” he said.
“Noche.”

“No.
Tarde.
Afternoon. Don’t keep us waiting.”

Neko frowned for a moment, but then he seemed to remember his battle against unsightly facial lines. He swooped over to me and air-kissed both cheeks before he and Jacques tumbled out the front door.

As silence drifted back over the living room, I winced and turned to Haylee. She was staring at the door with a look that could only be horror. “That was your familiar, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.” I couldn’t quite meet her eyes.

“And he goes about on his own?”

“I awakened him on a night of the full moon. I, um, didn’t know any better at the time.”

Her eyes narrowed for just a split second. “And that man with him?”

“Oh, that’s Jacques. He’s not magical. Just a friend.”

“A…friend.” She shook her head. I somehow suspected that Haylee’s familiar lived a different life from Neko’s. A very different life. Although he might not realize it, Neko had a highly vested interest in my succeeding with the centerstone.

“More carrots?” I asked brightly, desperate to change the topic.

Haylee shook her head again. “No. No more carrots.” She finally pulled her gaze away from the front door. I hoped that she could forget the image of our twin Argentine-Colombian-Mexican peasants, debauching their way through the streets of Georgetown.

“Hey,” she said at last. And her voice was the one that I remembered from Café La Ruche. Inviting. Gossipy. Friendly. “Tell me more about that guy you mentioned. What’s his name? Graeme?”

I felt that giddy crush-rush, the breathless swell of excitement that came from talking about the cute boy in study hall, the handsome captain of the football team, the dream date for prom. “What about him?”

“Why do you like him so much? What makes him different from every other bad-date single guy in town?”

“I can’t describe it.” I shrugged and tried anyway. “When I’m with him, I have this feeling that he’s paying attention to me. Like I’m as important to him as he is to me. Like he thinks about me, even when we’re not together.”

“Great,” Haylee said, scrunching her pretty face into a comic nightmare. “So he’s totally obsessed with you. Sounds like stalker-time to me.”

I thought of my magic flowing across the Potomac, washing over Graeme and me after we had watched
Romeo and Juliet.
I remembered the safety I felt when I was with him, the enveloping calmness as he placed his arms around me. I felt the spark he raised, deep inside me, with the brush of a kiss on my lips, with the fire of his palm against the small of my back.

“This is different,” I protested. “
More.
Not creepy. Besides, I haven’t even seen him in a couple of weeks. He’s been out of the country on business.”

“When does he get back?”

Busted. “This afternoon, actually. At least he was supposed to.”

“Then he hasn’t called yet?”

“No. But I’m sure he’s exhausted, with travel and everything.”

Haylee nodded, and I thought she was going to let the topic drop. Then she asked, “Have you even seen his house?”

I was immediately defensive. “No.”

“His office? Anything about his private life?”

She had no way of knowing she was touching one of my hottest buttons. The I.B. had kept his private life secret from me. Every aspect of it. Including his wife. I raised my chin defiantly and said, “He’s told me
a lot
about his private life. Haylee, he says that women in his family were witches. He’s not afraid of me. Not afraid of my powers. He
honors
me for my witchcraft.”

“Honors you?” Her smile was sly, and the knowing look on her face made me blush. Before I could retort, she said, “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“To Graeme’s house.”

“I don’t even know where he lives!” I shrieked, forgetting the power of that confession.