I still didn’t understand the name. Two Broomsticks. It was witchy, which was a great benefit given the overflow of tourists flocking to Hemlock Cove, but it seemed out of place for the years before witches were a thing. I’d asked my grandfather about it a time or two, but he always shook his head and turned dark when I brought up the topic.
“Ask your great-grandmother.” That’s all he would bark. This year, when she finally showed up for her visit and upended our lives, I would ask her. I honestly cared enough to hear the answer.
I was just about ready to call it a night and turn in early — after the past two nights, a full ten hours of sleep sounded heavenly — but a hint of movement near the storage building caught my attention.
My first reaction was fear as my heart lodged in my throat. After a few seconds of watching, though, I realized that whatever was down there was too small to be a threat. Even if it was a rat, it was hardly something to fear.
The creature finally darted out into the alley under the streetlight, allowing me to get a gander. My heart pinched for a different reason this time. It was a kitten. A very tiny kitten.
I put my hands on the balcony railing and leaned over, looking for an adult cat. I knew there were a bunch of cats that hung out in the woods behind the storage building. They liked to forage the dumpster. Some of them were quite fat because they lived the high life here. Of course, some of them died horrible deaths because they were feral and had to survive winters.
I watched the kitten play a full five minutes before I made up my mind. It seemed happy chasing bugs in the darkness, but I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I didn’t at least try to do something. The alley behind the restaurant was busy and those big delivery trucks wouldn’t stop for a small animal.
I used the external steps to approach the kitten. I expected him to take off in the opposite direction when he saw me. He’d probably scatter for the woods the second he noticed me. Instead, he merely stared, as if daring me to approach.
“Hey, buddy.” I flashed a smile even though it was a wasted effort. It’s not as if the kitten could read facial expressions. “What are you doing out here?”
The kitten batted at my hand when I reached out to scoop him up. It wasn’t much of a fight. When I grabbed him on the second attempt, he shot me a dirty look — until I started scratching behind his ears. Then, suddenly, he was all cuddles and purrs.
Crap. Most feral cats — even tiny kittens — hated humans. This one seemed to crave human contact.
“Do you belong to someone?” I stared into the kitten’s eyes. His fur was matted, but he looked relatively healthy, other than being a bit thin. I knew I couldn’t leave him out here. I would have to hold onto him for the night and then take him to the animal shelter the following day. At least then he would have a chance at a home.
“Well, I have some tuna upstairs,” I said uncertainly. “How about some food and a place to sleep for the night? I’ll help you move along the chain tomorrow.”
The kitten licked my chin, melting my resolve a bit. “I’m not keeping you,” I warned, deadly serious. “My grandfather will never let me have a cat above the restaurant.”
A noise over my left shoulder caused me to jerk, clutching the kitten closer to my chest. When I peered in that direction, I found nothing — and yet I felt something. There were eyes on me, and they didn’t feel like they were of the feline variety. In fact, I was positive it wasn’t an animal watching me. The pricking on my skin made me feel something bad was about to happen.
“We’ll keep talking about this upstairs,” I reassured the kitten, scurrying toward the steps that led to the balcony. I didn’t know why I was suddenly so fearful, but every fiber in my being was screaming for me to find safety.
I tripped twice going up the stairs but managed to keep hold of the bundle of fur pressed against my chest. Once inside, I locked the sliding glass door and shoved the sawed-off broom handle that was always propped against the wall into the track so nobody could pull it open if the lock failed.
I stood there a good ten minutes, watching the darkness.
I didn’t see anything.
I didn’t hear anything.
I felt something, though, and it was evil.
13
Thirteen
The kitten slept on my head. My dreams were convoluted, more darkness and whispering voices — many so snarky that they made me laugh, even though it felt invasive, as if I was listening to other people’s private conversations — but I woke well-rested.
Then I remembered the feeling from the previous day.
The kitten padded out into the kitchen after me. He appeared ready for more tuna. I fed him and drank my first cup of coffee in front of the sliding glass doors. In the bright light of day, there was nothing amiss. I still couldn’t completely shake the remnants of fear that seemed to want to cling to me like lint.
I didn’t have a litter box. I told myself that it was a waste of money because I had no intention of keeping the kitten. I dragged one of the rectangular flower boxes from the balcony into the kitchen. There were no flowers — apparently I was expected to provide those myself if I wanted floral decorations on the balcony — but there was dirt.
“You’re to do your business in here,” I explained to the kitten as he studied the box with disdain. “Don’t go anywhere else. My grandfather will not be happy ... and he eats kittens for his third breakfast.” I laughed at my own stupid joke, but the kitten didn’t seem impressed. “I’ll take you to the shelter when I’m done with my shift.”
As if understanding, the kitten yawned and walked away from the flower box. I followed him and watched as he climbed into the bed, nestling among the pillows. He was already half asleep.
“You’re not staying,” I warned him. “I can’t have a cat. Cats live forever and I don’t plan on being here more than a few months. A year at most.” Even as I said the words, they seemed improbable. There was no way I would be able to build my bank account in a few months. I was here for at least a year, maybe longer if I couldn’t get my act together.
“You’re definitely not staying,” I repeated as I headed into the bathroom. “Even if I wanted to keep you — which I don’t — my grandfather wouldn’t stand for it. He hates cats.”
“I DON’T HATE CATS,” GRANDPA ARGUED when I told him about my feline guest. He was prepping the kitchen for the breakfast rush when I descended the steps. I was ten minutes early this time, so he didn’t give me grief. I told him the story of the kitten to fill the silence.
“Yes, you do.”
“No, I don’t. Why would you think I hate cats?”
“Because ... well ... because you’ve never had one.”
“I’ve never had a horse either, but I don’t hate horses,” he pointed out. “I have no problem with cats, other than they’re sneaky. I just prefer dogs.”
“Are you saying I can keep him?” The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind other than in a far-off reality where I liked the idea of having something to devote my attention to.
“Why not?” Grandpa had his practical face on. “Cats are easy compared to dogs. You don’t have to walk them. Feed them. Clean their litter boxes. That’s it. Cats are easy.”
“I guess.” I remained unconvinced. “I don’t know that I want a cat, though.”
“Why?” Grandpa’s gaze was piercing. “Are you saying you can’t take care of a cat? If so, you definitely shouldn’t have one. There’s nothing worse than a person who takes on the responsibility of an animal and then refuses to follow through. If you think you can take care of the cat, what’s the problem?”
I didn’t immediately answer. I couldn’t. There was nothing I could say that wouldn’t make me look bad or launch a debate I had no intention of getting into.
“Ah.” Grandpa bobbed his head after watching me futz with the coffee filters for a few moments. “You don’t want a cat because you expect to pick up and move again the second you manage to write a book someo
ne wants to buy.”
That was insulting — mostly because it was true. “I just don’t know where I see myself landing,” I argued. “I mean ... can you see me spending the rest of my life here?”
He shrugged. “Why not?”
“Because ... .” I didn’t want to insult Shadow Hills. He was loyal to the town and didn’t like when others weren’t. Still, he couldn’t possibly overlook the town’s deficiencies.
“Because you want to live in the city,” he surmised. “You might as well come out and say it.”
“I might want to live in the city,” I confirmed. There was no sense in lying. He knew me too well.
“Why?”
“I like the city.”
“Do you?” He looked dubious. “As far as I can tell, you’ve spent the last six years of your life living in ten cities. Ever since you left college, it’s been city after city. Have you loved any of them?”
“I loved New Orleans.” That was true. I’d found true inspiration there. I’d also found humidity headaches because I was there in summer and so many annoying tourists that I lived in a perpetual state of annoyance.
“Can’t you visit New Orleans?”
“I ... .”
When I didn’t finish my response, he barreled forward. “It seems to me that you can live almost anywhere if you get this book thing off the ground again. Why do you have to live in a city?”
I swallowed hard. “I guess I don’t. It’s just ... I can’t stay here.”
“Why?” He held up his hand before I could answer. “Let me guess. You can’t be close to Hunter.”
I wanted to strangle him. “Not every decision I make is because of Hunter,” I shot back. “You need to stop saying that.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s not true.”
He folded his arms over his chest and pinned me with a pointed look. “Why really?”
“Because it bugs me,” I hissed, letting my temper get a foothold. “You have no idea how much I hate hearing his name ... and so relentlessly from practically everyone I come in contact with.”
“Then do something about it.”
“Like what?”
“Like tell him how you feel.”
“And how do I feel?”
“You know how you feel.”
Honestly, I didn’t. My heart and mind were mired in an endless tug of war where Hunter was concerned. I was over this conversation, though. “You’re right. I do know how I feel. I’m annoyed that people keep bringing up my high school boyfriend as if he’s somehow relevant in my current life.”
Instead of being impressed with my straightforward argument, Grandpa snorted. “Please. You still have feelings for him. You might’ve buried those feelings, but he’s always been at the back of your mind. Have you ever considered that you self-sabotaged as a way to get back here — to him — and that’s why your second book didn’t sell?”
That was the biggest load of horse-pucky I’d ever heard. “That is not what happened. I was dating another guy when I was writing the book.”
“Oh, really? What was his name?”
“Tim ... or Tom. It was one of those.”
“That’s what I thought.” Grandpa looked smug. “You don’t have to wedge yourself into one life, Stormy. You can make your own life ... and Hunter can be part of it. If you give him the chance, that is.”
“He has a girlfriend.”
“He has a shield.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“She’s a shield,” Grandpa repeated. “That’s how he wields her, anyway. He doesn’t care about her. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’m sure he doesn’t want anything bad to happen to her, but he’s not emotionally invested in that relationship. He only keeps her around because she makes a convenient obstacle for you.”
I worked my jaw. He wasn’t the first person to suggest something similar. “I don’t know that I want to stay here for the rest of my life. I mean ... it’s tiny. There’s not even a Starbucks.”
“And I’m happy for that,” Grandpa fired back. “You don’t have to spend the rest of your life here. You can have a life that involves travel ... and Hunter ... and cities ... and those trails by the river that you love walking so much. You can design your own way.”
He was making far too much sense for me today. “I need to wipe down the tables in the front,” I muttered, increasing the distance between us. “By the way, when can I start working later shifts? I’m not a morning person. I think I would be better handling lunch and dinner hours.”
Grandpa rolled his eyes. “Fine. Run away from the conversation. That’s what you always do.”
“I’m not running. I’m genuinely curious.”
“You can start working later shifts when you’re off probation.”
“And when will that be?”
“When you stop showing up late for work.”
“I was on time today.”
“And when you stop running from questions.”
He was nothing if not persistent. “I think I have answered all your questions.”
“As long as you think that, you’ll be lost. You need to get it together, kid. You’re not a teenager any longer. You’re an adult, and everything you want is here. You just have to see it.”
I hated it when he sounded reasonable. “I’m going to check the front.”
I heard his sigh from behind me. “Stormy, the world isn’t against you. You only think it is.”
“It doesn’t feel that way.”
“Then you need to change your way of thinking. There’s a whole world out there just waiting for you to take control. Do it. Embrace who you’re supposed to be.”
He made it sound so easy. “Maybe I don’t know who I’m supposed to be.”
“You do. You’re just afraid to admit it.”
THE MORNING RUSH WAS A BLUR. WE WERE especially busy thanks to an influx of tourists from Hemlock Cove. Apparently there’d been an incident the night before. The women who took over most of the cafe section couldn’t stop talking about it.
“There were lights over the trees,” one of them enthused. “One of the witches set them on fire ... and there was a wedding ... and I think there was some weird bird attack. It was amazing.”
I smiled as she recounted her adventure. “Can I get you anything else?”
“We’re good for now.”
When I turned back to the coffee counter, I was surprised to find Hunter perched on a stool. He was positioned in the spot I’d left Grandpa in only twenty minutes before.
“Hey.” I automatically poured him a mug of coffee without asking. Much like me, he needed caffeine poured directly into his veins until noon to make it through the rest of the day. “Do you want something to eat or are you just here stalking my grandfather again?”
Hunter’s smile was rueful. “I’m a great multi-tasker.”
“You always were,” I agreed, handing him a menu.
“Can I still get breakfast?” he asked, gripping the laminated page without glancing at it.
I shifted my eyes to the clock. “It’s after eleven.”
“I know, but ... .” He looked like a puppy begging for food. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” he reminded me.
I glanced over the swinging doors to see who had taken over grill duty. David was there, so I nodded. “Yeah. You can have breakfast. Don’t tell Grandpa I bent the rules for you.”
Hunter’s grin was warm and wide. “Thank you.”
“French toast?” I already knew the answer. It was his favorite.
“Do you have that cinnamon bread I love so much?”
“Of course.”
“Then give me a double helping.”
My eyebrows hiked. “Hungry?”
“Let’s just say I think it’s going to be a long day.”
“Monica or my grandfather?” The snarky question was out of my mouth before I thought better about asking it.
He didn’t appear insulted
on his girlfriend’s behalf. “Yeah, um, I’m sorry about her.”
I wasn’t expecting such a genuine response. “It’s fine.” I averted my gaze.
“It’s not fine.” He was firm. “She was rude to you. It’s not fair. She shouldn’t be making you feel guilty for accepting a ride in the middle of a storm.”
He seemed to be in an open and giving mood today, which made me want to grill him about Monica. That would likely spoil the truce we were enjoying, so I managed to curtail my baser urges. “It honestly is fine.” I flashed a genuine smile before taking his order into the kitchen. “This is for Hunter,” I told David pointedly.
David glanced at the ticket and nodded. “I won’t tell Grandpa.”
“I’m not afraid of him,” I shot back.
David snorted. “Right. None of us are afraid of him.”
Rather than comment further, I left him and took the pot of coffee around the restaurant, topping off cups. When I returned to the cafe section, I found the corner table had been snagged by a familiar face.
“Vera,” I noted as I returned the pot to the warmer and inclined my head in that direction.
Hunter lifted his chin and stared. “She’s been out quite a bit since Roy died.”
It was a statement, not a question. “Do you suspect her?”
“The wife is always a suspect.”
“That wasn’t really an answer.”
“No,” he agreed, rubbing his chin as he watched my cousin Annie approach Vera. “It doesn’t look like she’s alone today.”
My eyes shifted to the man walking through the door. He was distinguished, dressed in a relatively expensive suit, and he made a beeline for Vera. He didn’t greet anyone else in the restaurant, which was practically unheard of in town where everyone pretty much knew everyone else. I didn’t recognize him. “Who is he?”
“Barry Buttons,” Hunter replied with a grimace, distaste evident.
“I need more information than that,” I prodded.
Hunter slowly dragged his eyes back to me. “You don’t remember Barry? He was your basketball coach when you were in seventh grade.”
Sinfully Delicious Page 13