After running a comb through her hair, she headed downstairs with Izzy. The puppy spotted Floyd scratching himself outside the kitchen and scampered down the hall. Floyd, obviously anticipating a full-on attack from chewing puppy teeth, let out a terrified woof and dashed off, Izzy hot on his heels. A moment later, a loud bang sounded. At first she assumed it was caused by Floyd colliding with something, such as a wall. But then an unmistakable volley of curses streamed through the kitchen’s entrance.
“Oh good goddess, now what?” Steeling herself for the worst, she hurried forward. She barreled into the kitchen and gaped at the enormous orange object lodged in the center of the prep island. Whatever the thing was, it weighed enough to have buckled the metal countertop.
Gloria was shaking a wooden spoon at Peach. “I told you not to sprinkle so much growth hormone on it!”
Ms. Peach frowned at the vial in her hand. “How was I supposed to know you loaded this stuff with too much magic?”
“I did not—” Gloria growled and thunked the spoon on top of Peach’s head. Fortunately the elderly woman’s heavily shellacked perm acted as a quasi helmet, easily deflecting the blow. Tossing the utensil aside, the cook glared at the orange object. “What the hell am I gonna do with a persimmon that big?”
“Enter it in the state fair? You’d win hands down.”
While Gloria pondered Peach’s suggestion, Clarissa bypassed the two women and poured herself a cup of coffee. Gloria cleared her throat. “Uh, in case you’re wondering about the persimmon—”
“I’m not. I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical reason for a two hundred pound fruit in the middle of the kitchen.”
Both witches stared at her, momentarily struck mute. It was the most peaceful three seconds she’d ever known.
Of course it didn’t last. Peach spoke up first, spoiling Clarissa’s bubble of not-giving-a-damn. “Shit, the ETs already got to her.” She shuffled to Clarissa and squinted at her suspiciously. “Okay, I don’t know what mother ship you’ve got the real Clarissa stashed in, but boy is she going to be pissed about you invading her body.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m the only one in here.” Clarissa took a sip from her mug.
“Are you sure?”
“Quite positive.”
Peach stroked her chin. “Who’s the first boy you ever kissed? Wait, scratch that. Those ETs have detailed spreadsheets on stuff like that. Who’s the first boy I ever kissed?”
“I have no idea.”
The elderly witch grunted. “Yep, it’s you. An ET would know the answer.”
Since it would take the remainder of her shortened lifespan to decipher Peach’s off-the-wall logic, she decided to let it go and concentrate instead on more important things. “There’s a young man named Tanner who I suspect will be showing up within the next day or so.”
“Did you hire him to help with the wedding preparations?” Gloria asked, her expression hopeful.
“No. He and his mother will be living here.”
Once again, her words managed to weave a spell of silence over Gloria and Peach. She took another gulp of coffee, basking in the moment.
“Wait a minute.” Peach straightened her spectacles. “Four days ago you about blew a gasket over Izzy joining the family. Now you’re inviting the whole community to come stay with us?”
“Two people, Peach. Don’t make more out of it than it is.” Tightening her grip on the mug, she strode for the doorway. She could hear Peach whispering something about constructing tinfoil hats to block their brainwaves in case the new residents were extraterrestrials. Shaking her head, she strode to her office. “Maybe I should have warned Tanner what he was getting himself into here.”
She scooted into her chair and distracted herself for the next hour, getting her records in order so that when Fiona took over as mistress it hopefully wouldn’t be too overwhelming. In the bottom drawer of the desk, she found her personal Book of Shadows. Lugging out the large leather tome, she placed it on the desktop and ran her fingertip over the gold-leafed engraving of the pentacle on the cover. She cracked open the book and stared at the first page. Do what you will, so long as it harms none. The Wiccan Rede. She’d tried to live by its principles, but all she felt was the crushing weight of failure.
“Uh-oh. Looks like someone is contemplating a hex.”
She jerked her head up and met Logan’s mock look of fright. Her brain immediately conjured the disturbing image of Lust’s twisted impersonation of him last night. A shiver racked her body as she contemplated how easily she’d been duped. How simple it would be for Seven to fool others.
Logan frowned. “What’s wrong? Am I letting in a draft?”
“No. What are you doing here?”
If he thought her bluntness rude, he didn’t let on. “I thought I’d swing by and see if you need any help around here for tomorrow’s festivities. Plus I wanted to make sure you didn’t try to weasel out of tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Our date.”
Shit. She’d forgotten all about it. “I—”
“Not a chance, shug. You’re goin’.”
She snapped her mouth shut. Damn. Why did he have to be so bullheaded?
“So what do you need me to do, boss lady?”
Sweet goddess, she hated it when he called her that. Almost as much as she despised the way her tummy fluttered as his dimples deepened with his grin. “There’s a two hundred pound persimmon in the kitchen that Gloria could probably use some help with.”
Without batting an eyelash at the odd request, he nodded and ducked from the doorway. Rubbing her temples, she stared listlessly at the opened Book of Shadows. She slowly flipped the pages, visually cataloging the documentation of her beginning days as a witch. The first dozen entries were various spells she’d invented—some of them halfway decent, but most falling more along the lines of what-the-hell-was-I-thinking. Yeah, the spell for increasing her bust size when she’d been a gawky, flat-chested teenager? Not one of her finer moments. Smiling despite herself, she turned to the next page.
“Err…Clarissa?”
She glanced up to find Constance eyeing her warily. “Yes?”
“There’s a woman out on the porch asking for you. I’m not liking her aura. It’s mega nasty.”
A splinter of fear shafted through her bones. Had Seven reneged on its promise to leave the coven out of this? She jumped to her feet and raced from her office. Outside, she slammed to a skidding halt as she took in who was waiting for her.
“Clarissa, long time no see.”
She gaped at her mother, wishing the woman was merely a figment of her imagination. Or even Lust in disguise. But even Seven wasn’t that brilliant of a mimic to have so perfectly captured the alcohol-ravaged features of Jolene Miles—features that had once been almost too stunningly beautiful to gaze upon. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Is that any way to speak to your mother?”
“I haven’t seen you in nearly seven years. You’re lucky I’m speaking to you at all.”
Seemingly unconcerned with Clarissa’s agitation, Jolene stepped closer. “I went to see your father. Seems like he’s doing well enough.”
“He can barely remember his own name.”
“He remembered me.” Her mother’s taunt held a sickening amount of pride.
“I want you to stay away from him.”
“Fine.” Jolene’s shoulders lifted in a casual shrug.
Her unexpected capitulation stunned Clarissa. “Y-you mean it?” she stammered, almost afraid to hope. She’d been half worried that Jolene would find a way to weasel into the good graces of the nursing-home staff in order to circumnavigate the restricted list. It was exactly the kind of thing she’d do.