“Give me a minute,” she said, getting up. She left us alone in the overdecorated sitting room.
Zoey turned to me and whispered, “She's probably getting us a potion. She told me on Friday night that she's really into potions.”
“The kind that turns people into toads? Or more like love potions?”
Zoey gave me a serious look. “She makes a sandwich spread that tastes exactly like mayonnaise but has zero calories.”
“You're pulling my leg.”
Zoey wrinkled her nose. “She says there are side effects. You have to go to the bathroom within five minutes of eating it. She says she'll iron out the wrinkles eventually.”
“Good to know. If she offers us any sandwiches, I'll politely refuse.”
“You could use your magic to scrape all the witch-mayo out of your sandwich.” She sighed.
I leaned over and gave her knee a loving squeeze. “Zoey, be patient. Your magic is coming. Mine probably came on fast because it was sixteen years overdue. We'll keep trying together, okay? We're in this together.” I squeezed her knee again. “Everyone else comes and goes, but you and I are forever.”
Zinnia returned with a book in her hands. “That's right,” she said. “Family is forever.”
I patted Zoey's knee one last time before folding my arms across my chest.
“Maybe not all family,” I said coolly. “Just the ones who are truthful.”
“Let me explain about the letter,” Zinnia said.
“Nobody's stopping you,” I said.
She fidgeted with the big, old-looking book in her hands. She sat in a tapestry-upholstered chair across from us and folded her hands on top of the thick book. I leaned over, trying to get a peek at the spine, but I couldn't see a title. The brown binding appeared to be leather, wrinkled and cracked with age.
“I've known your boss, Kathy Carmichael, for years,” Zinnia said.
Zoey interrupted, “Is she a witch, too?”
Zinnia laughed. “Not everyone in this town has supernatural powers.” She pursed her lips and tucked a strand of dark red hair behind one ear. “Kathy noticed that one job applicant had an unusual name that was similar to my own, so she asked if we happened to be related. That was when I seized the opportunity to put in a good word for you.”
I gave her a suspicious look. I was still feeling distrustful of my aunt, but not too distrustful to help myself to a few more cookies. Just like levitation magic, being suspicious burned up a lot of calories.
Zinnia smoothed her hands over the ancient-looking book in a bewitching, delicate gesture. “Have I convinced you?” she asked, arching her fine red eyebrows. “Or do you still want to waste time accusing me of being a liar?”
Her voice betrayed her hurt feelings. She was sixteen years older than me and far more worldly, but she was on her own. I sensed her desperation, all at once. The flowers and feminine furniture—they all filled the rooms in her house to compensate for a lack of family or friends. Zinnia was lonely. She needed us more than we needed her.
“No more accusations,” I said.
Her eyebrows continued to climb. “Are you certain? If you look closely enough at any yard of fabric, you'll find a loose thread. Examine any human heart and you'll discover imperfections.” Her lips pursed into a tightly wrinkled heart. “Especially your own.”
“Auntie Z,” my daughter said gently. “Nobody here thinks the Riddle family is perfect. We're here because we want to get to know you. The real you.”
Zinnia nodded slowly. “You're here because you want magic. Let's not beat around the bush.” She held up one hand, palm out. “Please, don't embarrass us all by pretending otherwise. I know I haven't yet earned your trust. For tonight, however, please humor your dear old aunt.”
Zoey and I exchanged a look. “Sure,” we both said.
My aunt's chair creaked as she leaned forward and held the book out toward me. “Take this, Zara, and open it to a random page. Completely random.”
I took the tome, which was even heavier than it looked, and flipped it open at approximately the one-third mark.
Before I could even look at the ornate script or drawings on the page, Zinnia snatched the book away again.
“It worked,” Zinnia said, leaning over to study the page.
“We're both novices,” I said. “You're going to have to explain to us what you're talking about.”
She smiled and held up the book to show us an ornate page. Then she flipped the page to show the next one in the book. It was blank. So were the following dozen pages that she flipped through.
Zoey gasped, “It's a magic book! The text only appears when you need it.”
“Our youngest novice catches on quickly,” Zinnia said proudly.
“What about the page I picked?” I asked. “Did it fill up with a message just for me?”
She held up the book, flipped back, and let me look at the open pages. The swirling words seemed to move, swimming before my eyes.
“This tells us you are Spirit Charmed,” she said. “Zara, you are charmed against harm by ghosts, and you can communicate for them.”
“Like The Ghost Whisperer?” I turned to Zoey and explained, “That was a TV show I used to watch. It's not on anymore. Maybe they'll reboot it for your generation and you guys can pretend it's brand new, like you do with everything else.”
Zinnia said, “You won't learn anything about your skill by watching that show, but I admit I do enjoy programs about witches. Even though they get absolutely everything wrong.”
“My favorite is Wicked Wives,” I said.
Zinnia's face twitched. “Well, you might learn a thing or two from that one. We think one of our own must have consulted in some fashion.”
I slapped both of my knees. “No kidding!”
She nodded down at the book. “Stay on topic, Zara. A witch who is Spirit Charmed will become a magnet for lost souls caught between worlds. This witch doesn't communicate directly with the spirits, but they can do things through her.” She scrunched her face and scratched her head. “Those things don't usually include electrocution by toaster.”
“A toaster is how she died,” I said. “Apparently, she loved heating up Pop Tarts while she was in the bathtub.”
Zinnia blinked. “I can't tell if you're joking.”
“I wish I were,” I said. “A guy who lives nearby told me all about it. Oh, and the neighborhood kids call our place the Red Witch House. How's that for keeping a low profile?”
“You should paint the house,” Zinnia said. “Try yellow.”
I bounced up and down on the tufted and tasseled settee. “Great minds think alike. That's exactly what I was thinking.”
Zoey leaned forward, reaching for the book. “What about me? Will the book say anything about my gifts?”
Zinnia handed her the book. “Let's find out.”
We all held our breath as Zoey opened the book.
The pages she revealed were, alas, blank. She audibly choked back her disappointment. I moved over on the sofa to be next to her, and I rubbed her back.
“Your page is still unwritten,” I said. “That means you have unlimited potential.”
“You're only saying that because you're my mother, and you have to inspire me.”
“That doesn't make it any less true,” I said.
“The magic works in mysterious ways,” Zinnia said. “The magic has a mind of its own. It's why you applied for a job in this town, and why you went to the shoe store the same day I did. Some people call these things coincidence, but we witches are smarter than that.”
“Hold up,” I said. “If magic brought me here, that means someone cast a spell on me. I thought witches couldn't do that?”
“I told you,” Zinnia said, sounding frustrated. “Magic has its own mind.”
“Is that an expression? Like how God works in mysterious ways?”
She scrunched up her face. “You'll catch on eventually.”
Zoey sighed. “Eventually.�
�
Zinnia gave her a sympathetic look. “Your gift might be delayed to give us all time to adjust to Zara's gift.”
“Assuming I ever adjust,” I said. “And if these spirits supposedly love me so much, why did one try to electrocute me?”
“They're terrible at communicating.” Zinnia rolled her eyes. “Worse than trying to get some men to talk about their emotions.” She quickly added, “Notice I didn't say all men. I'm not sexist.”
“Why are they so bad at communicating?”
Zinnia rolled her eyes again. “They think it's a sign of weakness.” She put her hand to her mouth. “Wait. Did you mean men, or ghosts?”
“Ghosts. And if I'm supposed to have some special powers, shouldn't it be easier for me to know what they want?”
“Ghosts aren't people,” she explained. “They come from people, but they're more like recordings.”
“You lost me,” I said. “Recordings?”
Zoey jumped in. “She means they're similar to holograms, like the ones in the original Star Wars movies from the seventies.”
Zinnia gave my daughter an appreciative look. “Not bad. You're certainly insightful, and once your powers kick in, you'll be unstoppable.”
Zoey beamed.
My stomach growled. “Aunt Zinnia, do you mind if we order some pizza, or move this conversation to somewhere with pizza?”
“I've got plenty of food in my kitchen,” she said, leaning forward to stand.
“Stay where you are,” I said. “I'll whip something up. Other than your mystical mayonnaise, is there anything else I should steer clear of?”
“Don't touch the jar of white things that look like eyeballs,” she said.
“Is it something gross?”
“It's eyeballs,” she said.
“This is incredible,” Zinnia said, waving to the appetizers I'd whipped up.
My daughter said to her, “It's a new skill she's acquired since moving to Wisteria, and it's the strangest thing. Back home, we joked about her burning ice cubes.” She held one hand alongside her mouth and stage-whispered, “Which is a thing she actually did once.”
“I heard that,” I said as I set the tray of food on the room's coffee table.
“These culinary skills are part of your gift,” Zinnia explained. “You take on the special life skills of any ghost who gets attached to you.”
“Attached?” I looked over one of my shoulders and then the other. “I've got a ghost stuck to me?”
She took a deep breath. “I'm afraid you do. Winona Vander Zalm must have attached herself to you the moment your powers kicked in. That's why you were sleeptoasting every night. She had to communicate with you in her convoluted ghost manner. By the look of those fancy appetizers, she's still attached to you.”
I made an unhappy noise and swiped at my shoulders like it was Flying Ant Day and I was covered in strawberry jam. “Where? Ew! Get if off me!”
Zinnia barked sharply, “Grow up! Get a hold of yourself. You're a grown woman, not a sixteen-year-old girl. You need to get control so you can help your daughter, who actually is a sixteen-year-old girl.”
I slumped into a tasseled, floral-covered chair. “Tell me what to do.”
“Talk to your ghost,” she said. “Start a dialog. Once her resonance is comfortable with you, things will get easier. Then, after she's fulfilled her mission, she'll go away.” Zinnia waved her hands like bird wings.
I hugged my arms around my chest. “Where will she go?”
“Away,” Zinnia said. “Where we all go, once we've found peace.”
“What if she can't fulfill her mission? What if her mission is to be alive again, living inside her Red Witch House and throwing elaborate dinner parties?”
“Is that what you think she wants?”
I scratched my ear, which had a tickling feeling inside the ear canal. Was that Winona, whispering her wishes to me? I tried listening but heard nothing but the faintest rustling.
Zoey gave me a big-eyed look. If I had to guess what she was thinking, it would be that we should tell our aunt about the investigation Chet was conducting.
I gave her a tiny headshake. No. We couldn't trust Zinnia any further than we could throw her. What if she was the one behind the bird attack in the forest? Or what if I blew Chet's secret-agent cover and ruined his whole life?
Zinnia leaned forward and looked into my eyes. “Are you having a vision right now?”
“Maybe,” I said. “What are your plans for Friday?”
“That depends,” she answered tentatively. “Will you be throwing any small appliances into water that night?”
I patted my left shoulder, where I imagined a ghostly hand resting. “That's the old, misunderstood Winona Vander Zalm. She and I are taking our relationship to the next level.”
I turned to Zoey. “Get your party face ready, because we're throwing a housewarming party. We'll have to put both extensions in the dining table. Let's invite everyone we know!”
Chapter 17
By the time Friday came around, I was buzzing with excitement about the dinner party. The only thing that wasn't falling into place was a guest for the tenth place setting. I told Zoey to invite a new friend from school, but she insisted she had “too many” and couldn't possibly narrow it down to one. I suspected the number of new friends she'd made over the past two weeks was closer to zero, but I kept any potential snark to myself. She was already self-conscious about fitting in. I knew—based on my previous sixteen years of living with the girl—that pushing her for details or nosing my way in would help neither of us.
So, before the guests arrived, I reconfigured the table to seat nine, magically moving all the chairs and place settings without lifting a finger.
Zoey saw me and said, “Show-off.” She leaned over the table and carefully straightened the silverware, which I'd shifted in a haphazard manner. “Your accuracy could use some work,” she commented. “Have you been practicing writing on a chalkboard like Auntie Z suggested?”
“Boring,” I answered.
She muttered under her breath, “Magic is totally wasted on you.”
She stretched to reach across the table, revealing a gap between her jeans and shirt where the top of her underwear was visible. I twitched one finger and gave her a hands-free wedgie. As repayment for her sass. And also just because.
She howled indignantly, “You're the worst mother in the world!”
“Second worst,” I corrected. “Remember, your grandmother kicked me out of the house because I chose to give birth to you. She gets the crown title.”
Zoey spluttered, “You… Uh…” She put her hands on her hips and glowered at me furiously. She was justifiably upset with me for the wedgie, but when I'd mentioned the sacrifices I'd made to give her life, I'd taken the wind out of her sails. I wasn't proud of my devious motherly manipulations, but I sure was good at it.
The doorbell rang.
“Ding-dong,” I said. “That'll be the doorbell.”
She continued glaring at me with teen angst. “You're the ding-dong.”
“According to Aunt Zinnia, we're both ding-dongs.”
The doorbell rang again.
“Doorbell,” I said.
She gave me one big huff before turning and going to answer the door. Sometimes it was more trouble than it was worth to get her to answer the door. Doorbell duty was one of her official jobs as a member of the household. When she was younger, I'd read a book about parenting, and a couple of tips had stuck with me. One of them was about empowering your offspring to carve out a place in the world by giving them ownership of a specific task. It was also a great way to trick her into doing chores.
On second thought, I probably should have aspired to something grander than doorbell duty.
Our housewarming party had begun.
The Moores arrived first, and soon the conversation flowed. We would have such a wonderful mix of guys and gals, young and old. You'd have thought an expert entertainer or two
had orchestrated everything!
Handsome Chet did not show up in his furry shifter form, but he did wear a dark gray suit and a yellow tie featuring foxes hiding amongst trees in the woods. I couldn't take my eyes off the tie, which seemed to be a flirty reference to our adventure in the forest.
We hadn't interacted much since the attack on Tuesday. He still seemed sore about my suspicions, and I was annoyed that he wouldn't tell me more about his employer. We'd left the supernatural stuff unspoken and only chatted a few times over the fence about the weather and this party.
He caught me staring at his tie and said, “You like my foxy tie.”
“I like your foxy everything.” I smiled at him, feeling unsteady when he locked those handsome green eyes on mine.
“I'm not half as foxy as you,” he said.
I felt my cheeks flush at his flirtation. This playful interaction felt wonderful. Apparently he had forgiven me for my paranoia earlier in the week. It must have upset him when I suggested his son was behind the attack, but he'd had time to realize it wasn't a crazy idea and I wasn't his enemy. Our relationship was evolving, deepening with trust.
Or maybe nothing at all had changed, except the introduction of a glass or two of wine, which was also fine by me.
The eldest of the Moore family, Don, began negotiating for forbidden foods as soon as he arrived. “Is that ham? I can smell honey-glazed ham. Two slices?” He held up two fingers and looked pleadingly at Chet.
“The slices are quite thin,” I said.
Chet smiled again, catching me in the tractor beam of his glittering green eyes. “If Zara wants to give you two thin slices, then it's fine with me.” He winked at me.
I winked right back before turning to make sure Corvin also felt welcome.
“So glad you could make it all the way over here,” I said to the boy.
Corvin looked me right in the eyes and said, “We live next door, dummy.”
I gave him the plastic smile that I used to let Zoey know she was treading on thin ice. “Aren't you adorable,” I said. “How old are you? Five?”
Corvin narrowed his eyes at me. “I'm ten! You're a dummy!”
Don nudged his grandson. “Don't call people names.”
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