“You didn’t know that already?” I teased.
Caleb was home from UC Santa Cruz, where he had started his college career. Even though the school was right over the mountains from Oakland, I still missed that kid like crazy. But tonight he had joined us, and I watched as he stood there looking like a grown-up, standing tall, complete with whiskers, his neck thickening and shoulders broadening in that way of boys becoming men.
We weren’t actually finished with our renovation—I still had a punch list longer than my arm of items to attend to, so it would be several more months before the general public was allowed into the theater, but tonight we were enjoying a special evening to thank all of those who had helped us get to where we were.
I tinked my glass to get everyone’s attention.
“A toast to the Crockett Theatre, and to everyone who has poured their heart and soul into keeping the demolition crews at bay, to redoing all the finishes, and draperies, and upholstery—”
“And the ladies’ lounge,” said Tierney.
“And to the ladies’ lounge,” I said, “though the gentlemen’s room is nothing to sneeze at.”
“Hear, hear!” called out the crowd.
Stipulated in the negotiated settlement with the Xerxes group was that they would forfeit the theater to Skeet’s estate, repay the city funds, and pay a hefty fine on top of it. Skeet turned around and sold the Crockett for a tidy but not exorbitant sum to the city, with the stipulation that the remodel continue. With the tax funds, the Xerxes fine, and continued fund-raising—Coco Stapleton had kicked her efforts into high gear and was working with Alyx and Ringo to produce a burlesque show to raise money for the Crockett—we were able to make it work. Turner Construction didn’t see as much profit as we had originally been promised by Xerxes, of course, but everyone involved volunteered part of their time, and the results were gorgeous.
Gregory Thibodeaux had turned out to be something of a dupe himself, not realizing the full extent to which the Xerxes Group had been misleading investors, appropriating funds, and allowing buildings to be demolished. Or so he claimed. He never did regain his memory from the night he hit his head, and my best guess was that he had, indeed, seen a ghost that night and fainted at the sight. I noticed he remained wary of going back into the theater, not venturing beyond the main lobby. He had declined the invitation to join us tonight, to everyone’s satisfaction.
Several of the old movie posters were framed, and they now decorated the walls of the back hallways. A few others had been auctioned off, with the proceeds benefitting the theater. There were several art installations throughout the building, from local artists and also the squatters who had chosen to work with us: Tierney and Mitch and Liam and Alyx. Isadora’s candy-wrapper collection—sans original candy—had been arranged in a nice display and hung by the concession stand, along with a photograph of Isadora dancing.
In fact, Isadora still occasionally danced upon the stage at the Crockett Theatre. I saw her there from time to time, after hours, when I was locking up after the crew had gone home. One night I took a seat in the front row and watched for nearly an hour. As she danced her graceful swoops and dips, I thought of the young woman who had turned her back on easy wealth and fortune to follow her creative dreams.
She was going to turn me into a modern-dance fan.
One night I found Harold Hancock, the ghostly usher, sitting next to me. He turned to me with the saddest eyes in the world and said: One shouldn’t play with guns.
I nodded. He still gave me chills down my spine, but he wasn’t a bad guy.
“Very true, my friend,” I said. “One should never play with guns.”
And then he and I lingered, watching Isadora dance together. Her dancing was full of sorrow and joy both.
“Congratulations, Mel,” said Dad. “Keep up this sort of thing, and you’ll charity us all the way into the poor house.”
“You’ve been threatening me with the poor house since I was a child, Dad,” I said with a smile. “When am I going to actually see it? I’ll bet it needs a little sprucing up. Maybe I’ll volunteer a little renovation work.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, but granted me a smile.
“Anyway, the Crockett is now a nonprofit theater, remember?”
As I looked out onto the assembled workers and their families gathered around the food and seated at the little tables we put out—Mateo with his wife and baby, Jeremy, Waquisha and Jaime and Tyrone and Paul and Dave and Steve with their partners and families—I knew we were doing the right thing. We made payroll every two weeks, and the partners in Turner Construction—Dad, me, and Stan—made a respectable living. We would not be buying powerboats or grand old movie palaces of our own anytime soon, but we did okay, even when we devoted some of our time to charity work.
Also invited tonight were Josh and Braden from Avery Builders, along with some of our other construction friends, as well as Ellis Elrich and Alicia, Annette, Olivier and Dingo, Stephen and Trish and Victor, and of course Skeet and his entire extended family. People from the neighborhood, and the Crockett Caretakers—sans Baldwin, of course—were also enjoying the evening, as well as Renata and a few others from the city-permit department, and even the mayor herself.
Last I saw her, Luz and Victor had cornered madam mayor to discuss ideas to address the issue of homelessness in San Francisco.
The extraordinarily wealthy Ellis Elrich in fact offered to fund a community theater in an area of Detroit that needed help, along with some seed money so the squatters could create their own creative community. Some of the former squatters had taken him up on the offer. Others turned it down, but at least they had an opportunity to form their own special society, if they were willing to relocate from the wildly expensive Bay Area. It wasn’t an easy choice, but at least they had options.
A muted pinging invited us all to take our seats in the theater.
“Shall we grab a seat?” asked Landon. “Better to be safe than sorry.”
I smiled, handed Landon a tub of lavishly buttered popcorn close to the size of a beer keg, and grabbed my Red Vines and wine, and we proceeded into the main theater. Happily, the ghostly audience members were not occupying the seats this evening—as far as I knew I was still the only person who had “seen” them, but their occasional frigid presence played havoc with our heating bill. Coco once told me her worst fear of being onstage was that the audience would simply give her vacant stares or even jeer. Olivier, who was still studying the SIM card I had given him for tangible proof of a haunting, suggested the spirits might be manifestations of the stage fright attached to so many actors that had set foot on the Crockett’s historic stage for over a century.
But at the moment, the only ones occupying the theater were entirely human and alive. Flanking the stage, the red eyes of the golden icons gleamed, and overhead hundreds of “stars” lit up the deep blue ceiling, while gilded lions crept along the moldings. I thought about coming here with my mother and my sisters that one time, so many years ago, and wondered if my mother had somehow reached out from beyond the veil to help Hildy.
When I went back to the attic to explain to Hildy what had happened with her daughter, she replied: “Yeah, I seen her here, tried to watch over her. The Jeffress family was real nice folks; they even kept all my dresses, even the one I had on that night! Anyways, they took care of my little Darlene. That’s one reason I was hanging around . . . but then she left, and a time later there was another little girl.”
“I think that was my mother.”
“She was a real sweet little girl. We used to sit and talk, and she liked trying on my dresses.”
I explained to Hildy that Darlene had had a son, named Skeet, who had a big, close-knit family and grandchildren. And that he’d finally inherited the Crockett Theatre, after all this time, and been able to retire in style.
Hildy seemed pleased at the news
, but remained in our attic. I still heard her bumping around overhead occasionally, and when I was alone in the house, I often heard the radio play and the sound of Hildy’s heels tapping loudly on the wooden floors while she danced.
“I do believe I’ve come up with a name for our new home,” said Landon, looping one arm lightly around my shoulders as we settled into the plush red velvet seats. An old cartoon came on the new big screen: Roadrunner. Afterward, we would watch several vintage short films, including The Little Tramp and The Heiress. “Don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.”
“Really?” I whispered, reaching for a fistful of popcorn. “What is it?”
“Hildy’s Haven.”
“Of course! That’s perfect.”
Landon had never “seen” Hildy, but he heard her from time to time, and he remained remarkably sanguine about her presence. Unfortunately, the construction project had hit a few snags with a prickly City of Oakland building inspector, so the renovation had been delayed. It was frustrating, but I really didn’t mind spending a few more weeks in my dad’s house; I cherished the day to day with him and Stan, knowing it would soon come to an end.
Also, Landon and I had managed to maintain, and even deepen, our relationship—and our senses of humor—despite the extended remodel. An excellent litmus test.
“And I’ve been thinking, too . . . ,” I said. “Maybe it’s time we set a date. Why don’t we get married at Hildy’s Haven, as soon as we finish with the renovation?”
“That sounds perfect, indeed.”
Landon and I, at long last, had gone through the boxes in the attic and found some treasures to keep in the house: old books and photographs, a few decorative tchotchkes. I offered Skeet the childhood portrait of his mother, Darlene, but he suggested it stay in the house. I left it out on a table in the attic, by the old radio, so Hildy could see it whenever she wanted.
We left the closet, with all of its dresses, intact. Maybe Hildy would move on; maybe she would stay. Perhaps she would find a way to move back and forth, between this world and the beyond on the other side of the veil.
But I found myself hoping she might remain.
After all, every great old home needs a ghost or two in the attic, right?
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BEWITCHED AND BETROTHED
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A salty, heavy shroud of fog obscures the night.
Frigid waters close over my head. Sparks of silvery moonlight dance on the surface of the bay, calling to me. I flail and kick, struggling to lift myself, to breathe sweet air, my arms and legs numb with cold and exhaustion. The cheerful lights of San Francisco peek through the fog, tantalizingly far away; the island behind me is closer, but gleams and pulsates in the light of the full moon like a living, malevolent thing. The Golden Gate is the third point on the triangle, and I am in the center.
A foghorn sounds in a mournful cry.
Strong currents wrap around my legs, tugging at my feet, pulling me toward the Golden Gate and out to the vast Pacific Ocean. Lost at sea. Lost forever.
I can’t go on.
I fear drowning, but remind myself: Witches don’t sink.
At least I don’t. I had been in the bay once before and popped up like a cork. But . . . what about now?
Icy fingers grip my ankles, drawing me down. The water closes over my head again, and I try to scream.
“Mistress!”
I struggle toward the surface. Fighting, flailing. I have to.
I have to.
“Mistress!” a gravelly voice called again. “Are you all right? Why are you all wet?”
I opened my eyes. I was in my own home, in my own bed. Safe.
Oscar, my ersatz witch’s familiar—a shape-shifting cross between a gargoyle and a goblin—perched on my brass bedstead, leaning over to peer at me. His fearsome face was upside down and his breath smelled vaguely of cheese.
Soaked and shivering, I let out a shaky sigh. I wasn’t sweaty from fear, but dripping wet—and smelling of brine—as though I had, indeed, just emerged from the San Francisco Bay.
“I had a nightmare,” I said.
“Yeah, no kiddin’. That’s one heck of a nightmare if you’re manifesting in your sleep. Were you swimming or something?” Oscar waved a handful of travel brochures under my nose. “Hey, check these out. I think we should go to Barcelona first, maybe.”
“Oscar, I cannot discuss my honeymoon plans with you at the moment.” My brain felt fuzzy. I sat up and glanced at my antique clock on the bedside table. Its hands glowed a mellow, comforting green that cut through the darkness. City lights sifted through my lace curtains, but even raucous Haight Street was hushed at three o’clock in the morning.
“But it’s the witching hour,” Oscar whined.
“Ideal for spellcasting, not for making travel plans.”
Oscar cocked his head. “What better time is there?”
“In the morning. After coffee. When normal people are awake.”
“But we’re not ‘normal people’—like we’d even want to be, heh!” He chuckled, a raspy sound reminiscent of a rusty saw.
I’m Lily Ivory, a natural-born witch from West Texas who wandered the globe for years, searching for a safe place to settle down. On the advice of a parrot named Barnabas, whom I had met in a bar in Hong Kong, I had come to San Francisco—specifically, to Haight Street—where a witch like me could fit in.
I love it here. For the first time in my life I have friends, a community, a home.
If only the beautiful City by the Bay weren’t so chock-full of murder and mayhem.
Oscar was right, I thought, plucking the soggy nightgown away from my skin. It was unusual to manifest during a dream, to bring a physical object—in this case, water from the bay—from the realm of slumber into the waking world.
I shivered again.
“Just saying, we’re both awake right now,” Oscar continued. “And not for nothing, but you might want to dry off and maybe put a towel down before you ruin your mattress.”
Throwing back the covers, I hopped out of bed and headed to the bathroom to take a shower. Washing away the waters of the bay with lemon verbena soap, I lingered under the hot spray until warmth settled down deep in my core.
I emerged from the bathroom to find that Oscar had gone. He had left the travel brochures fanned out in a semicircle atop my comforter, and on the nightstand was a steaming mug of chamomile tea. He had also managed to dry the bed, somehow, and to make it up with fresh sheets.
Oscar might not be a typical (read: obedient) witch’s familiar, but he definitely had his moments. Not to mention he had saved my life on more than one occasion.
I sat on the side of the bed, sipped the tea, and picked up a brochure with a glossy photo of Barcelona’s famous Sagrada Família. The next brochure featured the Eiffel Tower, and the last the Voto Nacional de Quito, in Ecuador.
I had promised Oscar he could tag along on my honeymoon so that we could search for his mother, a creature suffering under a curse that transformed her into a gargoyle. The problem was he had no idea where she might be, only that “gargoyles live a long time.” I reminded myself to discuss this with my fiancé, Sailor, so that we could come up with a targeted approach before Oscar whipped up an entire world tour for us. Recently it had been difficult for Sailor and me to find the time—and the peace of mind—to talk about much of anything, much less gargoyle-guided tours.
I yawned. Speaking of honeymoons, I had a bucketload of decisions to make before the wedding, and more than a few wrinkles to iron out. My grandmother’s eccentric coven had recently arrived in town; I was about to be married to a beautiful but secretive man—an attachment to whom, I had been warned, might weaken my powers. Oscar kept disappearing to search for his mother even though he was supposed to be helping secure the perf
ect venue for my upcoming wedding, and recently I had come to realize that instead of one guiding spirit, I had two, and they weren’t getting along, which was messing with my magic. And finally, my beloved adopted city of San Francisco was facing a frustratingly nonspecific existential threat that primarily involved a cupcake lady named Renee.
I took another sip of tea. I also still needed to find just the right vintage bridesmaid dresses for my friends Bronwyn and Maya. Under any other circumstance I would have said “Wear what you like!” but the style editor for the San Francisco Chronicle was planning to do a feature on our antique bridal wardrobe, which would be great publicity for my vintage clothing store, Aunt Cora’s Closet.
I may be a witch and a soon-to-be bride, but I’m also a small-business owner vying for customers on increasingly competitive Haight Street. I needed the exposure.
I also needed some rest.
Grabbing an in fidem venire praesidii amulet off the dresser mirror, I held it in my right hand and walked the perimeter of the bedroom in a clockwise direction, chanting:
I have done my day’s work,
I am entitled to sweet sleep.
I am drawing a line on this carpet,
over which you cannot pass.
Powers of protection, powers who clear,
remove all those who don’t belong here.
As I lay back down and switched off the light, waiting for sleep to take me, I couldn’t shake the sensation of the waters closing over my head.
It wasn’t like me to have a nightmare. Much less a manifesting nightmare.
It was enough to worry a weary witch like me.
About the Author
Juliet Blackwell is the pseudonym for the New York Times bestselling author who writes the Witchcraft Mystery series and the Haunted Home Renovation series.Together with her sister, Juliet wrote the Art Lover's Mystery series. The first in that series, Feint of Art, was nominated for an Agatha Award for Best First Novel. She is also the author of the novels The Vineyards of Champagne and The Lost Carousel of Provence.
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