Broommates
Book 2 Kentucky Witches
Rebecca Patrick-Howard
Chapter One
Liza Jane, Kudzu Valley’s resident witch, regarded the eight boxes of frozen cookie dough with optimism; she wondered if there was a spell in her Nana Bud’s Book of the Dead that would let her eat them without harvesting the calories. Or the fat.
The colorful boxes were spread out on her dining room table, mocking her with their assortment of chewy goodness: M&Ms, walnut, peanut butter, chocolate chip, chocolate chunk, sugar, double chocolate, and coconut. She didn’t even like coconut, wasn’t sure why she’d ordered it, but right now she thought she could eat the whole three pounds of it in thirty seconds flat.
She shouldn’t have bought so many, shouldn’t have bought any at all. But the little girls standing outside the Dollar General, selling them for Kudzu Valley Elementary School’s new gym floors, had looked so hopeful. And when they’d pointed out that they wouldn’t be able to attend the sock hop unless they made their quota, Liza had buckled.
“I am such a sucker,” she sighed.
Besides, when had schools started pushing child labor, telling kids they couldn’t party unless they sold expensive crap from glossy magazines? That didn’t seem quite fair to those kids who didn’t have large extended families to hit up and guilt trip.
Now, in hindsight, Liza wondered if they’d made the sock hop part up.
Liza Jane was a good witch, and getting better at her skills every day, but she wasn’t a magician. No amount of witchcraft would get rid of the pounds she’d pile on from eating the nearly five-hundred cookies the boxes assured her she could bake.
It was definitely time to call in reinforcements.
“Yo yo yo, wuzzup my homey?” If Filly was going gangster again it had to mean that she’d been overdosing on caffeine again. Finals were coming up, after all.
“Okay, so you know how I was signed up to bring spinach dip to the house?” Liza Jane asked, eyeing the colorful array before her. “Uh, I’m going to have to change that to cookies. You all like cookies, right?”
“Uh, yeah,” Filly snorted. “Although I have cheerleading camp in three weeks so I have to stick to low-fat stuff.”
“I have coconut,” Liza said. “It’s a fruit. That’s as healthy as I get.”
“Works for me!”
Liza’s boyfriend, Colt Bluevine, was known for his good looks, southern charm, beautiful landscaping accessories, and his three crazy sisters–all named after horses: Filly, Bridle, and Mare. She’d been dating Colt for only a little over five months but was now so ingrained within his family that she might as well have been a cousin–a distant cousin, that is. Nothing weird. Despite the fact that she’d moved to Kudzu Valley on her own, after a disheartening divorce, and had been a bit of a mess at first, his family had taken her in like the stray puppy she felt she was.
Liza Jane did, of course, have a family of her own. It wasn’t like she was cruising to hone in on someone else’s. She had a mother, sister, and stepfather back in the northeast. It was just that here, in Kudzu Valley, Kentucky, she was on her own. Since her family was originally from there she was sure she had some distant cousins, some twice-once-removed or whatever that nonsense was, but if she did she’d never met them. When her father died, and later her grandparents, she’d lost the only family she knew in the small eastern Kentucky town.
Liza’s own sister, Bryar Rose, was a music producer and lived in New York City. She worked with the hottest acts in hip hop, which meant virtually nothing to Liza Jane who had listened to what Bryar deemed “yuppie music” when she was married to Mode and now tuned into outlaw country. It just went better with her new pickup and cowboy boots she was trying to break in.
Liza Jane liked to look the part.
(And, she was happy to admit, she actually really, really liked country music–new and old.)
Bryar and Liza might have been sisters and shared the same general genetic makeup, but Bryar had been born with just a little more eyeliner and rouge. She was a hurricane to Liza’s hot summer day.
Unlike most producers, Bryar wasn’t as behind-the-scenes as the music industry was used to. Indeed, with her supermodel good looks, exuberant personality, and penchant for dating some of the most famous (and richest) men in the world, her face was as well-known as many of the artists she worked with. Not only was she talented, but she boasted the novelty of being one of the few female producers in an industry that favored men (at least on the business side of things). Bryar would be quick to point out, however, that the novelty aspect was only for those who didn’t really know her–she was as talented and skilled as any man when it came to the recording studio.
As his longtime producer, and current girlfriend, Bryar was also scheduled to present an award to Kraz-e Jayze on an awards’ show in a couple of nights. Bryar was never the type to bring a boy home to meet the family and Liza had no idea who the Jayze person was, but Colt’s youngest sister, Filly, had almost fainted on the spot when she’d told her that she was practically his sister-in-law.
“Oh my God!” she’d squealed, as only a nineteen-year-old who wanted desperately to be an adult but still slept with a teddy bear, could.
When Filly had found out about the awards’ show, she’d pestered Liza to watch it with her. It was a live television broadcast. Liza Jane couldn’t be there in person, and it wouldn’t have even crossed Bryar Rose’s mind to invite her since their worlds ran parallel but never crossed, but she and Colt’s sisters and mother had scheduled a little party of sorts. They all planned on taking over Colt’s living room (sending him out to his barn to do manly things) and eating junk food while they watched Bryar sashay across the stage in some kind of fabulous outfit none of them could ever hope to afford.
Liza Jane was looking forward to it. She hadn’t had girlfriends in years, not when all her spare time had been invested in keeping her dough-brained ex-husband happy–this was like being back in college again.
Bryar, on the other hand, was nervous.
“I don’t do so well on the spot, Liza,” she’d admitted the night before. The worry in her voice had, for a moment, made her sound like the little girl Liza remembered.
She’d been expecting her call. Liza had known something was up when, around 9:00 pm, she’d had a cold patch appear on her left shoulder. That spot was reserved for Bryar and her occasional meltdowns. Sure enough, within fifteen minutes her phone was playing Bon Jovi, Bryar’s ringtone.
“You’ll do fine,” Liza had tried to reassure her. “Don’t they make you read something from one of those computers anyway?”
“The teleprompter?” Bryar supplied. “Yeah, but that brings on its own challenges. What if it stops working? What if I have to adlib?”
“You’ll be okay. Everyone loves you!” Liza had tried to put reassurance and enthusiasm in her voice but it fell flat. And, at any rate, Bryar could read her mind. She’d know if Liza were lying. Liza Jane could commiserate with her sister; she would’ve been terrified–those bright lights, those people, and all the things that could go wrong…
In high school, Liza had been in a Drama Club production of “Hurricane Smith and the Garden of the Golden Monkey.” She’d battled nerves, and an upset stomach, in the days leading up to her big debut. She’d zapped every ounce of fun from the experience with her constant worrying about screwing something up. Liza had tried managing the tummy part with Imodium but it had only stopped the diarrhea, not the actual upset.
Her stomach had rumbled during th
e entire production, gurgling and cramping to the point that the stage manager found her doubled over behind the curtain between scenes.
It had finally started settling after intermission and Liza began feeling more self-assured, more confident that she had things under control. She’d returned to the stage feeling good about herself, pleased with her mad acting skills. She’d even managed a small wave to her Nana Bud and Grandpa Paine who’d flown in from Kentucky for her big debut and were sitting proudly in the front row.
During her big monologue, however, right at the moment when she paused for dramatic effect and the entire auditorium was hushed and expectant, she’d ripped the biggest one she’d ever heard–in front of her entire school. Not only was it loud, even the people in the back had tittered, but her co-star had taken a step back and scrunched up his face from the pungent odor.
With extra sympathy for her sister, Liza promised to do a good luck and protective spell for Bryar Rose and her primetime debut.
Chapter Two
The Healing Hands was Liza Jane’s business. She’d opened it in late fall and now it was May. She, herself, had only lived in the mountainous Kentucky town of Kudzu Valley for a little over six months. She was still the “new girl”, especially since nobody else had moved in after her and allowed her to relinquish her title.
Of course, she and Bryar Rose had both been born there. Her parents were from the town and she was currently living in her grandparents’ farm house. But since she’d technically moved away as a child, after the death of her father, and possessed few actual memories of living there when she was younger, she didn’t feel like a local. Not yet.
The people of Morel County had been slow to accept her, not quite sure what to make of the prodigal daughter who was not only a single divorcee, but a witch.
It had been one thing for her grandmother, Rosebud, to possess powers. Rosebud had lived in Kudzu Valley all her life. Her parents had lived there before her. Rosebud was a valued member of the community–she’d attended church, volunteered putting together pamphlets for the historical society every Saturday, belonged to the community choir, and was president of the Morel County Mushroom and Agate Hunters’ Club.
That she could also give you charms to boost your love life and supply you with a little healing cream to get rid of toenail fungus had been added perks.
Liza Jane, however, was a beast of a different color.
For one thing, she was young–barely thirty-years old. People were suspicious of a young, single woman who lived alone. Even more suspicious was when the young, single woman moved into an old, spooky farm house–despite the fact that half the town had been inside said farm house at one time or another and nobody had ever thought it spooky until Rosebud died. (Every town has to have a haunted house, though, and there were no better alternatives.)
Then she’d opened her business, an alternative health center where she offered massages, facials, and homemade soaps infused with essential oils.
Once the women of the town had been absolutely certain that it wasn’t one of those kinds of massage parlors, her business had picked up.
Of course, she was still working out some kinks. She occasionally brought in an acupuncturist and had to ensure folks that the needles they used could not transmit HIV, nor were they gateways to heroin.
But then Liza had started dating Colt Bluevine, local Christmas tree farmer, and his mother had made it known that she approved of the matchup.
That had done far more for her reputation than being cleared of that pesky murder charge. In fact, once she started dating Colt, people didn’t even seem to care whether she was guilty or not. She’d risen in their esteem.
“You’re crazy for living there,” Bryar had admonished her on more than one occasion. “How can you live in a place that doesn’t even have a Wal-Mart? If you stand on any street in town and throw a rock, you’ll either hit a Dollar General or a church.”
“And if you throw one just right you’ll hit both at the same time,” Liza had retorted. “And anyway, quit knocking the dollar store. I bought some sandals a few weeks ago and they’re super comfortable. And they’ve started carrying good ice cream!”
Liza wasn’t sure if her sister’s quick intake of breath meant she was more appalled by buying food or clothing at the discount store.
Now, as Liza let herself into her building, she smiled remembering the last time she’d spoken to her mother. “Just don’t expect me to make any grand homecoming,” Mabel had warned her. “I was glad to escape that place and I have no desire to return.”
Mabel was safely tucked away a few miles outside of Boston, happily bossing around her second husband and saving up for an Alaskan cruise they planned to take in August. (She was secretly socking cash away for the vacation by selling off some of his baseball cards–a fact he’d yet to notice.) Mabel hadn’t visited Liza since she’d moved down after her separation from her ex-husband, Mode.
Liza loved her business. She loved that it was clean, that it was orderly, that it was successful…that it was hers.
Still, it was a lot of work. Mare, Colt’s sister, had been working part time for her to help take the load off. She was also planning on hiring a college girl for the summer, just someone to work the desk while she was giving massages and facials and Mare couldn’t be there. It wasn’t Mare’s only job; she was also a realtor.
For the time being, Liza was alone in her business. She stood in the middle of the floor, hands on her hips, and surveyed the space. She was loving the new paisley curtains Colt had hung for her. She was also loving the Boho area rug, small seating area, and fringed lamps she’d picked up at a local flea market. The bright colors and mix of classic antiques and Bohemian touches made the place cheerful and fun–and totally her.
Because she didn’t open for another hour, Liza walked upstairs to her office and rummaged around in some drawers until she found the items she needed. She always kept a few supplies at work, just in case she needed a little extra help here and there.
With the early morning sunlight streaming through the windows and washing over her desk, she dutifully set out the black, orange, and gray candles in a neat little row in front of her. Using a small wooden bowl, she ground up a clover and cabbage leaf while she waited for the hot water to warm in a nearby electric kettle.
When the kettle was singing and the leaves had been ground to a coarse powder, she sprinkled a little around a chamomile tea bag she submerged in a chipped, floral mug.
When the tea was ready, she cleared her mind and then focused it on her sister. Liza visualized Bryar, the upcoming awards’ show, and her sister’s duties. As she lit the candles before her, she imagined Bryar’s face and a cloud of black energy around her. With the act of lighting each candle, she saw that cloud getting smaller and smaller, until it had vanished completely and, in its place, was an arch of pure, white light.
Then, with the flickering lights dancing in the pale sunbeams, she chanted:
“Goddess of luck, grant me your guiding hand for Bryar Rose to succeed. You are a glory, the maker of luck. Favor her, though I do not deserve to be in your presence. SO MOTE IT BE.”
However, as she lowered her face to take a sip of the tea, the final step in the ritual, the murky waters cleared and for a fraction of a second she saw Bryar before her. Bryar’s face was streaked with tears that masked something akin to horror. Bright lights flashed one after another, blinding her and making her beautiful, modelesque features fade in and out. Her blond hair was on fire.
“Oh!”
The scene lasted only for a second, but it was enough to startle Liza. She quickly shook her head to clear her mind of the image she’d just seen and took a sip, the hot liquid burning her tongue.
The black candle’s flame shot up into the air, nearly a foot high, and sizzled. A cloud of filthy black smoke drifted upwards in a thin, sensuous curl.
In response, the smoke alarm shrilled, filling the old building with a piercing scream.
Welcome to Monday morning.
* * *
“JUST A LITTLE ONE?”
The tiny girl in the black yoga pants, knee-high brown leather boots, and oversized buttoned-up men’s flannel shirt sprinted across the room to keep Liza Jane’s pace as she pushed a Swiffer Wet Jet across the hardwood floors.
Liza sighed, trying not to look as exasperated as she felt. She was used to the young girls coming in, and sometimes the older ones, looking for the same thing.
“I told you, Chloe, they don’t work the way you think they will,” she repeated for the umpteenth time, hoping there was some semblance of patience in her voice.
The younger girl blew a stand of stringy black hair from her eyes. It amazed Liza how much time and consideration the young people were putting into a look that made them appear as if they’d just rolled out of bed.
“But–” she started to argue, her eyes flashing brightly.
Liza reached out and patted a bony shoulder. “Trust me. You might end up with something you don’t want.”
Under the stark florescent lights, Liza could see that Chloe had slathered on the cheap foundation from the local pharmacy like lotion. It had cracked and flaked in places, and now angry red bumps peeked out from under the discolored spots of concealer that was two shades darker than its base. Her convenience-store mascara and eyeliner were jet black and already smudging; her eyes looked like she had dark circles under them. She’d eaten her lipstick off. All that was left was the dark lip liner. A fever blister was either coming or going in the corner of her mouth.
Liza Jane couldn’t be paid enough money to be a teenager again.
“Why do you need a love spell, Chloe?” she asked, pausing in her sweeping to give the young woman her full attention. It wasn’t unusual for people to come to Liza for matters of the heart. In fact, they flocked to her at work and at home–young, old, men, and women. Love knew no discrimination; everyone wanted help.
Broommates: Two Witches are Better Than One! (Kentucky Witches Book 2) Page 1