wicked witches 07.5 - christmas witch (2 page)

“Oh, whatever,” Thistle said, rolling her eyes.

Clove looked intrigued. “How did you meet him?”

“She’s lying, Clove,” Thistle said.

“Shut your mouth, Thistle,” I said, shooting her a warning look before turning my full attention to Clove. “I was up late one Christmas Eve and I happened to run into him when he was putting gifts under the tree for your mothers when they were younger.”

Clove’s eyes widened. “Did you talk to him?”

“I did.”

“What did he say?”

“He said that when girls are good they get a lot of gifts and your mothers were very good that year. They had so many presents I lost count,” I said. “He also said when girls are bad they get … .”

“Lumps of coal in their stockings, right?” Thistle interjected, cutting me off.

“I was going to say boots in their rears,” I said, wrinkling my nose. “Why are you in such a mood, little missy?”

“I’m not in a mood.”

“We’re all sad,” Bay admitted, putting her hand on Thistle’s shoulder by way of comfort. Thistle wasn’t big on displays of affection, but when Bay offered solace Thistle almost always took it. They had an interesting relationship.

“Why are you sad?” I pressed. “Is this about … ?” Should I bring up their fathers? That was a sure way to get Clove to burst into tears and Thistle to hit someone.

“We want a puppy for Christmas,” Bay answered. “We also want snow.”

“Snow?”

“There’s no Christmas without snow,” Clove whined.

I hated to admit it, but they had a point.  Even though it was cold and snow should have descended at least once on northern Lower Michigan during the month of December, we hadn’t a flake to contend with and Christmas was only a few days away. The girls weren’t the only ones missing a visit from Jack Frost. If it didn’t snow I would have nothing to plow – and no one wanted that.

“You can’t have a puppy,” I said, gearing myself up for the onslaught of whining. “We don’t have room for one. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.”

“You suck,” Thistle muttered.

I pretended I didn’t hear the snarky retort. “As for Santa Claus and snow, you guys should have a little faith. It’s not Christmas yet.”

“The weather people on the television say there’s no snow coming,” Bay argued. “I saw it this morning.”

“Those weather people are idiots and don’t know it’s raining until their feet are already wet,” I said. “It will snow. Trust me.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because if snow is what it’s going to take for the three of you to be happy this Christmas, then that’s what you’ll get,” I replied. “Try not to dwell on the negative.”

“That’s what I do best,” Thistle said.

She wasn’t wrong, and she wasn’t alone in that particular personality defect either. “You three need to get moving inside,” I ordered. “You need dinner and then you have that big school Christmas pageant tonight. Aren’t you excited about that?”

“I would rather eat Santa’s underwear than sing in public,” Thistle said.

I don’t blame her. I’m not looking forward to watching it. “I’ll see if I can arrange that,” I said. “Now, move.”

Bay and Thistle hopped to it, quickly scampering in front of me and running in the direction of the back door. Clove loitered behind, causing me to focus on her. “What do you want?”

“Did you really meet Santa?”

“I’m not a liar and I said I met him, so what does that tell you?”

“I … do you think he’ll really come visit us this year?” Clove asked, her brown eyes wide. “Do you think he’ll come even though we’ve been naughty?”

“I think he’ll come,” I replied. “You need to stop worrying about stuff like this. You’re going to give yourself an ulcer.”

“What’s that?”

“You know that big spot Lila Stevens’ mother has on her lip?”

Clove nodded.

“That’s a lip ulcer,” I said. “If you’re not careful, you’ll get one of those in your stomach.”

“How did Mrs. Stevens get that?”

“She kissed a lot of frogs … and mailmen … and bums on the corner.”

“I don’t do that,” Clove pointed out.

“Then you’ll be safe from getting an ulcer,” I said. “Come on. You need dinner and then you’re going to sing … and I’m going to wish I was deaf.”

“Okay,” Clove said, falling into step next to me. “I still think we need a puppy.”

“I think you’re going to have a marvelous Christmas even if you don’t get a puppy,” I said.

“I don’t believe that.”

“Well then, I guess I’ll just have to prove it to you,” I said.

“I guess so,” Clove agreed, slipping her small hand into mine and letting me lead her the rest of the way to the house.

Huh. Now how was I going to do that?

Two

“I love this time of year,” Winnie enthused, smiling at the huge Christmas tree in Walkerville’s downtown square. “Isn’t that beautiful?”

I glanced at the tree in question, the tacky lights and garish ornaments momentarily causing me to see double. “It’s a pine tree.”

“I noticed,” Winnie said. “Don’t you think the lights and ornaments make it beautiful?”

“I think they make it look cluttered,” I replied. “Also, what is the deal with that ghost on top of the tree? What does that have to do with Christmas?”

Winnie tucked her blond hair behind her ear and fixed me with a hard look. Of all my nieces, she looks the most like her mother. I can’t help but like that about her. That look she gives me reminds me of her mother, too. I can’t help but hate that about her.

“That’s an angel,” Winnie replied, nonplussed.

“It doesn’t look like an angel.”

“Well, it is.”

I wrinkled my nose. I loath being told I’m wrong. I’m never wrong, just for the record. Sometimes the truth takes longer to catch up to me than it should. It’s pretty simple. “Isn’t an angel technically just a fancy ghost?”

One of the things I love most in life is watching my nieces try to handle me. When they were teenagers and their mother died, I stepped in to take care of them because their father was long gone. He took the path of Jack, Warren, and Teddy, and never looked back.

I spent three years getting them through the rest of their adolescence and then set them free on the world … kind of. We were all still under the same roof. Granted, it was one I had to expand when I took them in, but it was still essentially the home my husband Calvin and I built together. The homestead on the family property has gone through many changes throughout the years and now it stands as a tall Victorian home.

I’ve heard whispers – my nieces don’t know this, but I have – and there’s talk of trying to turn it into a bed and breakfast. That’s never going to happen on my watch. Never. I don’t like people, and I certainly don’t want them staying in the same house with me. Strangers ask questions. I don’t like answering questions.

Roles have reversed over the years, and now my nieces are in charge – or at least I let them think they are. I encourage that. The more they try to handle me, the more I get away with. One of the greatest perks in my life is shirking any and all adult responsibility.

It’s fun to be the crazy old lady in the paisley crop pants and flip flops in the middle of winter. You should try it when you get a chance. People live in fear when they think you’re living in La-La Land.

“You know darned well that angels are different than ghosts,” Winnie hissed, scorching me with her best impersonation of her mother. “Don’t go telling people that angels are the same as ghosts. People won’t like that – especially around Christmas.”

I shrugged. I don’t particularly care what people like and dislike. I figure the fewer people who like me, the fewer times I’ll get stopped for inane chatter in the checkout line. “You can’t tell me what to do,” I sniffed, crossing my arms over my chest. “I’m an adult.”

“Then act like it,” Winnie said, her tone snippy. “We’re having a hard enough time getting through Christmas this year without you adding your particular brand of mayhem to the mix.”

Was that an insult? I can never tell. Whenever my nieces insult me they do it in sweet voices. I have a short attention span, so most of the time when they’re done talking I honestly have no idea what they just said.

“Merry Christmas to you, too,” I said, figuring that was a safe response.

Winnie shook her head. “Did you even listen to what I just said to you?”

Of course not. “Yes. Are you insinuating that I can’t hear?”

“No.”

“Are you trying to say I’m going senile and can’t keep up with a conversation?” When someone accuses you of something, always turn it around on them right away. They’ll be so flustered that they give up.

“That’s not what I said and you know it,” Winnie said. “You’re not going to distract me on this one so … stop right now.”

Unfortunately, when you’ve run the same game on people who have known you for all of their lives the gambit can work against you sometimes. “I’m bored. Let’s go home.”

“We’ve been here exactly three minutes,” Winnie warned. “You have hours of this ahead of you so … get used to Christmas cheer and stay away from Abigail Hobbes’ special holiday punch.”

I’d forgotten about Abigail’s special punch. The woman makes a shrew look cuddly, but her cocktail-mixing talents are second to none. “And where is the special punch going to be located this evening – just so I can avoid it, I mean?”

“Don’t even think about it,” Winnie said, wagging her finger in my face. “This night is about the girls. Don’t you want to hear them sing?”

I’ve heard them sing plenty of times. Not one of them has a lick of musical talent. They make dying cats sound musical. “Not particularly.”

“Don’t you even think about embarrassing those girls.”

“If I can’t embarrass them, why did you have them?” I asked.

“Um … because we love them.”

“If that’s your story … .” I scanned the crowd, frowning when I realized just how many of Walkerville’s finest were out and about. “Don’t these people know that we’re all going to wish we were deaf in about a half hour? Why would they possibly be here if someone didn’t force them to be – like you did me?”

Winnie made a face. “Go find something to do.”

“Okay.”

Winnie grabbed my arm before I could move too far away. “No purposely picking fights. No dosing the coffee. No telling the kids that Santa is really a blood-sucking zombie. I know you told Lila Stevens that last week. Her mother called.”

“She’ll survive,” I said. I hate Poppy Stevens. That woman gives new meaning to the word annoying.

“No giving the girls candy either,” Winnie stressed. “We’ve got a special dessert for them at home.”

“I never give them candy.”

“You bribe them with candy whenever they catch you doing something you’re not supposed to be doing,” Winnie argued. “Don’t lie to me. You forget that we share the same roof. I know all of your secrets.”

She didn’t know even half of my secrets, and the ones she did know were spoon-fed to her because I wanted her to think she knew them. She’d lock me up if she knew all of my secrets. Heck, I can’t even remember all of my secrets. “Where are the girls?”

“They’re around,” Winnie said. “If you’re bored you can go and find them. Just don’t upset them. They have it rough enough right now.”

“I never upset them.”

“I … go someplace else,” Winnie ordered. “I’ve taken about all I can for right now.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I kicked my heels together and mock saluted, ignoring the scowl on Winnie’s face as I moved toward the crowd. I fought the urge to scream “fire” in an effort to get breathing room and scanned familiar faces until I found the ones I wanted.

Bay, Clove and Thistle stood next to the hot chocolate stand, and whatever was going on had all of them staring down a dark-haired girl with an unfortunate nose as if they were about to set her ablaze. Lila Stevens. I don’t believe in the Devil, but if I did I would think Lila was the offspring of the Devil and Adolf Hitler. Yes, she’s that unpleasant.

I took a roundabout route to get to them, listening as I approached.

“You guys aren’t going to get Christmas presents from Santa because everyone knows Santa hates witches,” Lila said, bobbing her head up and down like one of those unfortunate dolls men affix to their dashboards. “It’s a fact.”

“The only thing that’s a fact is that your nose looks like a candy cane,” Thistle shot back, her hands on her hips. “Why are you even over here bugging us?”

“I’m not over here because of you,” Lila replied, wrinkling her nose. “I’m here to make sure that you guys don’t ruin Christmas for anyone else.”

“I guess that makes you the Christmas police, huh?” Bay said, her hands clasped around a Styrofoam cup of hot chocolate. “Do they give you a badge for that?”

“I’m guessing they give her a stick to shove up her behind,” Thistle said.

That was a good one! Wait. Crud on crackers. That’s what I said about Fredericka Lassiter last week when I found out she was trying to join our euchre club down at the senior center. They probably heard that from me.

“Why would I have a stick up my behind?” Lila asked. The kid was a snot, but she wasn’t worldly, like the Winchester witches.

“Because that’s what happens when you have a bad attitude and someone has to reload you of it,” Clove supplied.

“Relieve,” Bay corrected. “Someone has to be relieved of a bad attitude.”

Clove furrowed her brow. “I don’t get it.”

That was probably good. If Winnie, Marnie and Twila figured out exactly how much lingo the wee ones picked up from me we were all going to be in trouble. I still don’t understand how my nieces ended up in charge of me.

“I don’t get it either,” Bay admitted.

That was good.

“I get it,” Thistle said. “It means Lila is like a balloon and we need a stick so we can pop her.”

That was as good an explanation as any. I cleared my throat to let the girls know they were being watched. Clove had the grace to look abashed but Bay and Thistle were too angry to pay attention to me.

Lila pasted a bright smile on her face as she regarded me. “Hello, Mrs. Winchester. You look particularly lovely this evening. I just love … flip flops.”