A Taste of Magic (2 page)

“You’re here early,” Jon said.

I jumped at the sound of his voice and then turned to face him. “And you’re not?”

He came closer, his jeans hugging his hips like they were painted on. “I wanted to be sure you were okay.” Simple statement, but it conveyed a lot. Just like Jon.

“Of course I am.”

He gave me a look with his baby blues that shone with pity. I hated that look.

“Stop it. I’m fine.”

“No. You’re not. You should have taken the day off. For crying out loud, it’s your birthday.”

“So? You’re taking me out tomorrow night to celebrate. This is work.”

“You shouldn’t have to be here. It’s my fault we even have the order.”

And it was. Jon had only noticed the consultant’s name and the date of the wedding when the order came in. By the time I discovered the identities of the bride and groom, it was too late to pass on the job. If we had, we may have jeopardized our future business from this wedding consultant. Business was business, and A Taste of Magic was too new to chance it. Besides, we’d lost out on enough jobs lately.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” And then, to change the subject, I said, “You cut your hair. It looks good.”

Jon grinned and ran his hand over his cropped, dark blond hair. “I found this great salon in the city. You should check it out.”

“Maybe.” For some reason, my stomach roiled, and I fought to quell the queasiness. Getting sick would be bad. Jon would send me home. While part of me wanted to run and hide, another part of me was committed to seeing this through. Possibly, it would give me closure.

Okay, closure was doubtful, but it was worth a shot.

Jon glanced at the counter, his gaze taking everything in. “Want some help?”

“I’m fine right now. But if you don’t mind, how about taking over the decorating portion? I won’t be in the mood for rosettes and fondant tomorrow any more than I am today. And then I can stay home tomorrow. Is that cool?”

“Absolutely.” Jon pulled me into his arms, squeezing tightly. “You know I love you, right?”

I closed my eyes and hugged him back. My cheek rested on his shoulder, and I could smell soap, shampoo, and his newest aftershave. This man, not just my business partner, but my friend, had been my rock for the past year. “I love you, too,” I mumbled.

We stood that way for a minute. Then, we both stepped away at the same time, disengaging ourselves. His eyes held worry, but he smiled at me. “You’re not going to wiggle out of tomorrow night, are you?” he asked, referring to our plan of karaoke and margaritas after my birthday celebration with my family.

“Nope. Maddie would kill me. She’s bringing her new man for our approval.” Maddie Sinclair was my other best friend. She lived in the apartment above mine. Actually, it was because of her I’d even found my apartment. And having her so close had made the move that much easier on me.

“Sounds good. I’m going to get started on the monthly accounting. Call me if you need anything.”

“I will.”

After Jon left the kitchen, I returned my focus to finishing the damn cake, which—somehow—had become synonymous with moving on with my life. I turned on the mixer and added some egg whites, along with some milk. I tried to think of something else, tried to push back the sadness. “Snap out of it,” I muttered.

Grandma Verda asked me to think about what I wanted, so I decided to concentrate on that. If I could have anything I wanted for my birthday, what would it be?

A vacation in Maui would be sweet. Or maybe a new car, one with a functioning radio. My little Volkswagen bug wasn’t nearly as cute as it used to be.

But there had to be something better. Something bigger.

I mentally thumbed through the possibilities, and suddenly, my mind latched onto the perfect one. I wanted retribution.

“Revenge is sweet; payback is a bitch,” I said. Yeah, I wanted both. Revenge
and
payback. Closure was nice and all, but the snake in me wanted to come out. Since I had to make the damn cake, it would be nice if I could inflict some sort of legacy to go along with it.

Oh, I didn’t want to poison the bride and groom. That wasn’t me; and besides, jail didn’t appeal in any way. So totally not worth it. If I could do anything, it would have to be something personal. Something subtle. But also, something that stuck.

As I added the remainder of the egg white mix, the perfect payback hit me. Mirth bubbled up inside, and I giggled. I couldn’t help it. Wedding nights meant sex. Honeymoons meant more sex. What if Marc’s body refused to cooperate? What if—on his wedding night with his new bride—he couldn’t get it up?

See, I knew Marc inside and out. He, like most men, was paranoid about his sexual performance. I’d never complained about it, but it’s not like I had anyone to compare him to. He’d been it for me, in more ways than one. But if this happened, he’d be mortified. Tiffany would be hysterical. And yet no one would be
hurt
—not really. And the situation would be temporary. It really was the perfect payback.

Yeah, I liked the idea. A lot. It didn’t even bother me that it was the bitchiest thought I’d had in a long, long time. Hell, if I could wish that upon him—if I had any power—I’d do it. In an instant. It was subtle, but in a big—or in this case, limp— sort of way.

I increased the speed of the mixer, my movements automatic. Gradually, I added the dry ingredients I’d measured earlier, the bowl rotating smoothly.

I didn’t feel queasy anymore. Without understanding why, I whispered, “See how you like this, Marc. No sex for you until after your honeymoon, because you won’t be able to get it up. No matter what you do, no matter what your wife tries. Soft and limp. Even if you have Viagra, it will do you no good.”

I laughed again, and curiously, felt a strange buzz around me, kind of like static electricity but stronger. It bounced through me, and off me, and prickles coated my skin. A shiny glow moved from my hand to the mixer and then to the bowl. Then the entire thing lit up in faint pulsing shots of light.

“What the hell?” The lights kept bobbing around, getting stronger as the energy flowed through me. I dropped my hand and leapt back to unplug the mixer. I was pretty sure I’d been an instant away from electrocution, because nothing else made any sense.

A few seconds later the buzzing stopped, the tingling subsided, the glow faded. I examined the plug and the mixer. Both looked fine. I pulled on some thick rubber gloves and shoved the plug back in the outlet. The mixer just whirred away. No sparks, no sizzles.

“Weird,” I said.

All I wanted to do was finish up, so I got back to work. Once the batter was ready, I prepared the pans and filled them. After they were in the ovens and I set the timer, I cleaned up my area and then just stopped.

And breathed.

I looked at the mixer, anxiety churning in my gut. Jon was going to flip when I told him we needed a new one, but no way in hell was I using that one again.

As I left the kitchen, mug in hand—because I needed more caffeine—I realized something had shifted inside of me. Maybe it was my imagination, but I felt stronger than I had in a year.

Weird.

Chapter Two

“Lizzie, glad you’re here,” said my mother. Isobel Raymond stood in front of the fireplace, hands on her narrow hips, directing traffic. Her perfectly coiffed hair framed her face, and tiny gold earrings added a bit of sparkle. “Go sit next to your father.”

“Um, okay.” Obviously, something was up. I’d find out what soon enough, but for now, I was happy to be with my family. While I’d taken the day off, it had mostly been spent staring out my bedroom window in depression. Marc’s wedding was the next day, and I couldn’t seem to get my mind off it. Luckily, my mood brightened the moment I entered my parents’ house.

My dad, Marty, was sitting on the couch we’d had for a hundred years. The orange monstrosity was indestructible, and your skin stuck to it if you were wearing shorts. But my mother refused to replace anything, ever, no matter what. She figured a staple gun and hot glue could fix anything.

I grabbed the blanket from the floor and laid it on the cushion next to my dad before sitting down. Even though I was wearing jeans, the memories of raw legs were too strong to chance. Naugahyde scared me. Enough said.

“Hi, Dad.” I leaned over and gave him a smooch on his stubbly cheek.

Raising his gaze, he smiled briefly, blue eyes bright behind his glasses. “Happy birthday, kiddo.” His attention immediately returned to the sports page. That was fine by me; we never had much to talk about, but if I ever needed anything, my father would move heaven and earth to get it to me. To any of us kids.

“As soon as Scot gets here, we need to decide what we’re going to do about Grandma,” my mother announced.

My grandmother seemed to be dozing in the rocker, but with her, you never really knew. She played possum a lot.

“I already told you she can’t stay with me,” my sister Alice said.

“Wait a minute. What’s going on?” I asked. “Why does Grandma need a place to live?” As far as I knew, she was happy in her condo.

My mother crossed her arms. “If Scot would get here, I’d explain it to you.”

I glanced at Alice. She shook her head and made the crazy sign with her finger. I resisted the urge to giggle. Most people thought Alice and I were twins, as we shared the same shade of brown hair and eyes. That’s where the resemblance stopped, so those people were blind, nuts, or both. She was easily two inches taller than my 5‘6”, thinner by at least ten pounds, and younger by almost three years. I loved her anyway.

My younger brother, Joe, with his blond hair and blue eyes, was the only member of the family that resembled my father. Of course, my father’s hair had receded to the point that he was almost never without a hat.

“Why’s everyone so glum?” asked my older brother, Scot, finally making his entrance. He looked fit, healthy, and tanned. In February, that’s saying something.

“You’re late.” My mother pointed. “Go sit with Alice. We need to have a family conference.”

Scot knew enough not to argue, so he took his place as requested.

My mother strolled across the room, her navy house dress swishing around her legs. She sat down on the other side of my father and snatched his paper. “Pay attention, Marty. Everyone’s here now.”

“I’ve heard it already, Isobel. Tell them.” He retrieved the paper.

My mother stared at him. The rest of us watched. We’d seen this power play our entire lives, and the outcome could go one of two ways. After about a minute, my father released his hold on the paper. “Fine, I’m listening.”

One point for Mom.

“Thank you. You can go back to it in a minute.” Turning to us, she said, “Your grandmother needs a new place to live, and she refuses to move in here.” Her eye twitched. “She says I’ll cramp her style. That means it’s up to one of you to take her in.”

Alice pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “I don’t have room. Otherwise, I’d love to have her.”

I suspected Alice was more concerned about the man living with her, unbeknownst to our parents, than she was about finding room for Grandma Verda.

“Joe has plenty of space,” I interjected. It wasn’t that I didn’t want Grandma to live with me, but I
really
didn’t have the space. My tiny one-bedroom apartment was barely big enough for me and my unpacked boxes. Not to mention my half-finished latch-hook rugs and paint-by-number kits.

Plus, as much as I loved her, Grandma Verda had some oddities that, while endearing from a distance, probably wouldn’t be as cute up close on a consistent basis.

My mother scowled. “Joe?”

My younger brother shook his head and frowned at me. “Last time Grandma stayed with me, her cat stayed hidden the entire time. She wouldn’t agree to it.”

I’d forgotten about Shirley. Only my grandmother would name her cat after her deceased husband’s mistress—whom she hadn’t even known about until the day of the funeral.
Twenty years ago
. As she’d only had that cat for about two years, I’d say she was still carrying a grudge.

Scot stood and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Why does she need somewhere else to go?”

Ha, smart man. Changing the topic before all fingers pointed to him.

“She fell asleep the other night while heating up soup. It wasn’t a huge problem … this time. But there’s more.” Fear resonated in my mother’s voice.

I didn’t have to hear more. Grandma could stay with me. I glanced at her, and I saw her squinting out through one eye. Yep, playing possum.

My father rustled the paper on his lap. “Tell them the rest, Isobel.”

“Your grandmother has been calling 911 nearly every night. Esther, from my bridge group, told me.” She crossed her legs, bobbed the top one up and down. “Esther’s daughter works in the call center and recognized the name.” Heaving a breath, she continued, “So I called around and found out about it. In the last month, she’s called asking about the weather, for synopses of her favorite shows, and twice to inquire if an officer could bring her beer.”

Just like that, everything I’d worried about that day vanished. Was my grandmother lonely? That’s what it sounded like to me, and I hated that. Hated thinking of her alone, late at night, reaching out to strangers instead of family.

The deal was cinched. “She can stay with me.”

“Did they bring her beer?” Joe asked.

My mother huffed. “I have no idea, Joe. What does that have to do with anything?”

I stole another look at Grandma, and she was sitting upright now, eyes wide open. She winked at me. I winked back.

“So I wanted a beer, who cares? And yes, those nice fellows brought me a six-pack and a bag of Cheetos.” She stood up and put her hands on her hips, just like Mom had earlier. “I don’t need to move in with anyone. I can take care of myself just fine.”

“Mom, you can’t call 911 because you want a beer. When did you start drinking beer anyway?”

Grandma shrugged.

“I want you to stay here, with me and Marty. I’m worried about you,” my mother pushed.

Brushing at her purple sweatpants, Grandma Verda said, “Thank you, but no. It’s a nice offer, and I appreciate it.” She looked at me. “We’re here for Lizzie’s birthday, and I’m hungry.” Swiveling on her heel, she dashed for the dining room.

“We’ll talk about this later,” my mother whispered.

My grandmother had great ears. “No, we will not. The discussion is over.”

“Honey, don’t worry about it. We’ll start checking on her more,” my father said to my mother. “We can all do that.” He whipped his gaze to each of us. “Right?”

“I’m usually over by her place a couple times a week,” Joe said. He was a salesman and was on the road a lot. “I’ll start stopping in.”

The rest of us worked out a system so that someone would be calling or visiting every day. That would have to be enough for now.

After dinner and presents, I found my mother in the kitchen. She was drying a dish and to most people would probably appear calm. But her spine was a little too straight, her wiping at the plate a little too fast. “Mom, can I help?”

“Don’t be silly. It’s your birthday, no dishes for you. Do you like your gift?” She’d purchased me a year membership at a fitness club, along with the ser vices of a personal trainer.

“It’s very thoughtful.”

Snapping the dishtowel on the counter, she said, “I know what that means. If you don’t want it, give it to a friend.”

“Mom, no, that’s not it. I do like it.” I just wasn’t sure I’d use it. But, knowing my mom, it was probably a nudge to pretty up and find a man. She wanted grandbabies, and none of her kids had yet procreated. Seeing as we were all over thirty, her chances seemed to decrease each year.

Pushing that thought away, I smiled, hoping to lighten the mood. “You’re not going to let Grandma go home by herself tonight, are you? I think she should stay here, or with me, at least for a couple nights.”

“
Let
her? She’ll do what she wants. She always has. I can’t tie her up and force her to stay. Maybe you can talk some sense into her.”

“I can try.” After a moment I added, “You know it’s not you she doesn’t want to live with, right? It’s giving up on her independence.”

My mother’s shoulders sagged, and I saw defeat in her eyes. “I’m just scared. She’s eighty-five years old, and I don’t know how to handle this portion of her life.”

I gave her a hug, and the scent of gardenia she wore reminded me of my childhood. In a flash, I was ten years old again, hugging her before going to bed. “Thanks for dinner and the present. Jon, Andy, and Maddie are taking me out to-night, so I need to run home and change.”

She squeezed again, tight, and then let go. “Have fun, but don’t drive if you drink.”

“I never do, Mom.”

She turned back to her dishes, and I went to find Grandma. Only she and my father remained in the living room. “Where did everyone else go?”

My father, who was now watching the television, said, “They had dates.”

“All of them?”

“That’s what they said.”

I tried to ignore the longing that hit me, despite the fact that I was going out with friends. I wanted a date. I wanted to feel attractive to a man again. I pushed the wish aside and focused on my grandmother. “Grandma, you look tired. Maybe you should stay here tonight and go home tomorrow.”

“No.” She didn’t look at me, just sat on the couch, watching out the window. “I’m waiting for Vinny.”

“Who’s Vinny?”

“My beau. He’s taking me to the movies.”

That caught my father’s attention. Briefly. He must have thought he’d heard wrong, because he quickly returned his gaze to the repeat of
Magnum P.I
.

“Beau? You have a boyfriend?” The question barely left my mouth when I heard a
toot-toot
from outside.

Grandma Verda stood and straightened her sparkly sweatshirt. Her eyes found me. “Remember what my card said?”

“Well, yeah. You gave it to me yesterday.”

“Good. Have fun, but be careful. That’s all I have to say on that.” With another wink, Grandma Verda sashayed off, leaving a dusting of glitter in her wake.

Me? I was speechless. Quickly, I jumped on the couch and pressed my nose to the window. Yep, it was definitely a man opening the passenger door of an older model car—don’t ask me what kind—for Grandma Verda. He was elderly but in a healthy sort of way. He settled her in and helped her with her seatbelt. I was still staring out the glass when they sped off to parts, or a movie, unknown.

Maybe she wasn’t as lonely as I thought. I needed to think about this. Each and every one of my siblings had a date on Friday night. Even my eighty-five-year-old
grandmother
did. But not me.

Somehow, karaoke and margaritas didn’t sound as appealing as they had earlier that day.

When had my ass gotten so big? Or maybe it was my hips. Oh, hell, maybe it was both.

Groaning, I shoved myself harder to no avail. Now I could barely breathe. And to make matters worse, every time I pushed forward, my skirt inched down. The damn thing was caught on something, and if I wasn’t careful, not only would I be stuck, I’d be stuck without a skirt.

Pleasant thought. Anyone passing by would see my pink-pantied rear hanging out the window. My stomach twisted at that image, and I swallowed to keep from retching.

Oh yeah, in addition, my bladder was so full that I thought it would burst. Why had I had one last margarita before taking the cab ride home? Rhetorical question. I knew why— the mix of relief, celebration, and hoping for a better future. But now I just felt stupid.

I held still for an instant, using the power of positive persuasion over my bladder. If I didn’t think I had to pee, I wouldn’t have to pee, right?

Wrong. So very wrong.

I shivered as a cold breeze rolled over me, and I realized suddenly that my previous concerns were short-sighted. If I didn’t get out of there, I might actually freeze to death. It was time to figure this out, and fast.

Maybe I could back out? Hell, it was worth a try. Slowly, I eased myself in reverse and felt the wood of the windowsill scrape against my belly, but I was still wedged tight. Come on, my bathroom window was small, but it wasn’t
that
small. I might seriously have to reconsider the personal trainer and the gym membership thing.