Panicking, I picked up the envelope. “Chancellor, eh? Don’t they have a harvest festival at this time of year? Why don’t I take the signs over? I’ll grab a pumpkin spice latte or something.”
My dad pushed his glasses back up his nose then ran his hand through his hair. Was it my imagination or did his hair look whiter? His face was certainly more drawn. He must have shed twenty pounds from his already thin frame. Mom’s death had hit us both hard. It was just manifesting differently. Dad was running thin, and I was running scared. I didn’t want to waste my life following the dream Mom had lain out so neatly for me. My real passion had always lain in the kitchen. Fondant. Buttercream. Meringue. Ever since I got my first Easy-Bake Oven, I knew what I wanted to do, who I wanted to be. My dream, however, had never jelled with what Mom had wanted. And as much as it hurt, Mom was gone. I could keep going to college for her, but that didn’t feel right. I needed to do something. Something needed to change. And in the meantime, I was failing my classes.
“Walk around the campus while you’re there. Check out its vibe. See if you like it.”
“Or not,” I said absently. The last thing I wanted was more college: more homework I couldn’t get myself to complete, more classes I couldn’t get myself to go to, more anything.
“You know, they also have a culinary program,” my dad said carefully. “A letter came from your college’s advising office. It said you’re failing all—”
“I…I know,” I stammered, standing. “Can we talk about it tonight?”
He nodded. “I love you. We’re both just trying to manage here.” He lifted a macaroon then looked from it to me. “The culinary program. Mom and I always disagreed...tonight, let’s talk. But you’re making dinner.”
“Of course. It’s pizza night! I bought portabella mushrooms, arugula, and goat cheese.”
“You had me at portabella,” Dad said with a chuckle. “Anything would be better than those damned frozen dinners.”
“Dad! You can’t eat that garbage.”
He shrugged. “What can I say? I don’t have time to cook. Speaking of which, did you know it only takes five weeks to get a real estate license? Without your mom, I could use the extra help,” he said then patted the massive stack of inspection reports, loan documents, and other paperwork that was my dad’s—and had been my mom’s—life’s work, “and a home cooked meal, on occasion.”
I picked up the envelope then kissed my dad on his balding head. “Home cooked meals I can handle.”
My dad patted my hand.
“Take the cookies out when the timer goes off?”
“Of course. I’d never let a Julie Dayton cookie burn. Too precious a commodity.”
I wrapped my arms around my dad and hugged him tight.
“Love you,” I said.
“Love you too, Julie bean,” he replied.
Letting him go, I grabbed my purse and keys and headed off to the witch’s cottage.
Chapter 2: Horatio
“Fabulous event, Horatio,” Mrs. White, the wife of the President of Chancellor College said, shaking my hand as she left the pristine white tent situated on the small public beach at Chancellor Park.
“Thank you so much. It was a pleasure to see you and President White again.”
She smiled nicely then headed to the parking lot where a limo waited to take her and her husband, who was also shaking hands as he made his way to the limo, back to the college.
I inhaled deeply and looked out at the lake. The morning sunlight was shimmering on the dark blue waves. There was a chill in the air, but it wasn’t too windy yet. I had pulled it off. When my sister, Viola, had volunteered me to organize the annual charity breakfast and fundraiser for the Chancellor Arts Council, I wanted to kill her. But the champagne breakfast had gone off without a hitch, and we’d raised more than two hundred and fifty thousand dollars that morning for youth arts programs.
“I don’t want to say I told you so, but I told you so,” a soft voice said, followed by a playful punch in the arm.
I opened my eyes and grinned at Viola who looked, admittedly, very pretty in her Merlot-colored “Hillary Clinton”—as she had called it—suit. Her dark hair glimmered in the sunlight, reflecting tints of blue.
“I just got a bunch of old broads liquored up on mimosas and begged for money for kids. Nothing to it.”
“Shut up. You know Mrs. Kline only raised fifty-thousand last year. Your speech was awesome. The event was awesome. The silent auction was genius. I even won something!”
“Won is a matter of perspective,” I replied. “Let me guess, the beach glass necklace?”
“How did you know? But did you see that thing? It was gorgeous. I think The Glass Mermaid, Kate, donated that. I love her shop.”
I nodded but got side-tracked when Professor Lane emerged from the tent, her arms already outstretched, her velvet cape with its swinging tassels hanging like bat wings from her arms. Before either Viola or I could say another word, she’d crushed us into a bear hug.
“Horatio! Viola! Your mother would be so proud. You fully funded the summer theater program. I don’t know how I can ever thank you,” she gushed.
“Can’t. Breathe,” Viola whispered.
“Oh, Viola, you were always too dramatic,” Professor Lane, who’d been one of my mother’s dearest theater friends, said.
Viola opened her mouth to protest but just laughed instead.
“I need to head over to the theater,” Professor Lane said, kissing us both on both cheeks as she spoke. The heavy scent of vanilla perfume swept off her. “We have Sleepy Hollow this weekend, you know.”
“I have tickets for Saturday night,” Viola told her reassuringly.
“Horatio. I want to talk to you about the renaming ceremony,” she said then, taking me firmly by the arms. I stared into those same blue eyes I’d been looking at since I was a kid. Just being around her reminded me of Mom, and nothing could have made me feel better in that moment. “You need to arrange the event. This morning was fabulous. It’s your calling, dear. That speech. I wept. Say yes.”
“I’d really love to, but my father has me so busy—”
“Pshh,” Professor Lane said, waving her hand to dismiss the idea that I actually already had a job, and my father, the land baron of Chancellor, as Viola and I called him behind his back, was not the kind of boss you wanted to displease—nor the kind of father. “Tell him you’re doing it for Eleonora. He’ll keep quiet. Wonderful job this morning,” she said again, pinching my cheek with her jeweled fingers. “You know, the Chancellor Arts Council is looking for a new Executive Director. Just a thought. Bye, loves,” she called then headed off, her dyed-red hair, practically cherry-colored, shining in the sun.
“There is no way Dad will let me work on another event. Not with Falling Waters about to open.” The massive Hunter empire was about to take on yet another venture, an upscale restaurant located at a converted—well, partly-converted—location downtown. Dad had insisted I work with him on the project, even though I also seemed to be failing him at every turn.