by Savoy, Skye
“You should also know he went without a fight to protect me. Now, I’ve got a demon to catch, and an angel to exonerate and I can’t do it alone.”
My nerves fried like the butter on my stove as I waited for her answer. The burnt smell reminded me to dump the flour and herbs into the pan.
Big Mama tsked and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Avalita Mae, you never did have a bit of sense when it came to men. You know I never thought Craig was good enough for you.”
I twisted out of her grasp to stir the contents of the pot. “I know, you told me before, during and especially after we were together…”
“You didn’t let me finish. I mean, leave it to you to find true love after you die.” Her bracelets clattered as she threw her hands up in the air and down.
A snort came out before I could stifle it. I continued to stir the pot.
“You come by it honest. Billy, your daddy, was an irresponsible, no-good deserter.” Her tone softened. “He was the love of my life until he left us. The eight years we had together were some of my best,”
“Aw, damn!” The shock of her confession made me drop the spoon in the bubbling contents of the pot. “Sorry. I just never heard you say anything good about him.”
“True. He said he was moving to Detroit for a better job for our family. If I’d been able to speak low-down pig, I’d have understood he meant he was leaving for another woman and her family.” Her temper added more heat to my sweltering kitchen. “When I think about it, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t have stood up against a garden snake much less an archangel for me!”
Ah, now that was more like it. The ear-scorching tirade I was used to. Was that jealousy I heard in her voice?
“I wanted you to be happy with Craig even though I could see how much he was like your daddy. Your happiness is still what I want. Although I think you should give Stacy her body and come with me.”
My eye roll was directed at the tile backsplash behind the stove. She felt it nonetheless. “Ava, stop that.” She thumped my ear.
“Ow!” The spoon clattered into the pot again. I grabbed my ear and twirled to give her a piece of my mind.
“Oh, you’re fine.” She dismissed my glare. “You’re my girl and I’ll support you. I guess temporary happiness is better than none.”
“Thank you, Big Mama. Thank you.” I threw my arms around her neck.
I dumped the rest of the ingredients for the bisque into the pot and gave her the abbreviated version of how Suriyel obtained the spell, and how he was the only one, along with Samael who could undo it.
“Isn’t the center of the Earth hell, mama?”
“How should I know?” Big Mama didn’t bother to hide her disgust. “We try to avoid talking about that place.”
“Well, I was thinking, if we can somehow catch the demon, she could lead us to where Suriyel’s imprisoned. We can free him, and explain everything to Archangel Michael and then he can free my soul from Stacy’s body.”
“I don’t think you should take all the blame, Ava. You may be in love, but that don’t make you a martyr.” Worry lines marred her smooth complexion.
“If I know Suriyel, he won’t let me.” At least I hoped I knew him.
“You know I’ll have to pay a price for refusing to come quietly with Suriyel in the first place, don’t you?”
“The best you can hope for is the Akashic Plane like Ben, but at least I can come visit you.”
“I wonder if they’d let Suriyel visit too.” My pensive look faded to black at the thought of an immortal future spent without my fallen angel.
“Back to that demon. How you thinking of catching it?”
“There’s where you come in. I need you to use your heavenly connections wisely. There’s got to be some bargain or deal I can make with that beastie after she leads me to Suriyel.” I watched Big Mama cringe.
“You’re asking me to root around in stuff good angels aren’t supposed to root around in.”
Like she hadn‘t already. “I know, mama.”
The lid started tapping as pressure built in the pot. It punctuated the tension between us. “All right. You need to tend to your cooking, and I’ll get crackin’ to see if we can catch that demon.” Big Mama’s chair scraped the floor as she stood up.
It felt good to have her as backup. “I love you, Mama,” I said as I hugged her neck and walked her to the door.
“Where’s your limo?”
“My what? Oh, you mean my scooter?” She made a dismissive gesture with her hand. “I didn’t have time to get some all terrain tires on it. Those things don’t do good in the sand, and I didn’t want to get stuck at the luau.”
She winked and disappeared the way she came.
* * * *
Charles County’s Garden Society held its annual cotillion at the Heritage Center, a stately Italian Renaissance Revival mansion built in 1916. Ouida Severson encouraged the Society to buy the building for its gardens in the seventies when she began her reign as president.
As a child, I imagined Prince Charming carrying me through the massive oak doorway and into a life of royal proportions. Back then, the life of luxury I imagined included the prince’s undying love, an eternal supply of salt water taffy, and Bonnie Bell lip gloss, not one of hard work and heartache.
Huh. My dream life was about as improbable as getting this heavy-ass rolling cart over the uneven threshold of this creaky kitchen. Dim light filtered through with the highest windows I’d ever seen in my life. I flipped the fluorescents on. Supposedly, the kitchen was built that way to deter the servants from wasting time staring out at the expansive gardens dotted with magnolia trees.
The only one wasting time was me. I gave up my struggle, checked to make sure Mel and Mason weren’t approaching and mind-moved it into the old Butler’s Pantry. The last thing I needed to do was to upset Mason.
It took entirely too much coercion to get him to help tonight. Only a significant increase in pay enticed him to show up. Good thing it worked because the only tactic left was insulting his mother. You never insulted a southern boy’s mama and expected to live.
“Get your scrawny butt out of my way!” Jimbo ordered as he squeezed past Mason, who stalled as he tried to negotiate the bump in the doorway. “I found a bunch of pink platters in Mama’s buffet.”
“Geez, Jimbo, where’s the fire?” Mason gave the hot box a frustrated shove and sent it over the lip.
“With all that polyester he’s wearing, he’s gonna be the one on fire if he moves any faster,” Mel proclaimed as she hoisted a box of paper goods onto the closest table to the door.
Her snide comment didn’t faze Jimbo in the least.
“Let’s not talk about fire when we’re in an ancient kitchen, y’all.”
Jimbo, dressed in a toe touching pink apron, set a plethora of dishes down on the counter beside me. “Ya’ll are just jealous ‘cause none of you could look half as good as I do in an apron.”
Mason snorted and elbowed Mel. “How can you call looking like a pig in a blanket good?”
I laughed before I could stop myself. Jimbo was offended.
“They’re just nervous.”
“Yeah? Well, you try getting pink marabou out of your clothes, and see if you don’t want an apron,” he sputtered. “Don’t know what I was thinking wearing black in the first place.”
A smile played on my lips at the memory of the last time I was in his shop. It drooped into a frown when I remembered Suriyel amongst the pink poofy topiaries.
Jimbo must have mistaken my sadness for nerves. He reached to grab my hand where it lingered over a delicate pink hobnailed glass platter. “Don’t worry, dear. You’re going to be spectacular tonight.” He beamed at me.
“Thanks, Jimbo. I just want everything to be perfect.” I noticed some pink marabou waving at me from the bald spot on top of his head. I decided not to say anything in light of the pig in a blanket comment.
“It will be. You’re gonna do your Aunt Ava proud,” his v
oice waivered. “I just know it.”
With one final pat, he released my hand and made his way to the exterior door. A tent for the evening’s festivities awaited his royal pinkness.
“I can’t wait for you to see my Pink Summer Nightmare decorations. So hurry up with plating stuff, and get your fanny out here.” He called over his shoulder.
“Didn’t he mean Night’s Dream,” Mason asked with a troubled expression on his freckled face.
“I sure hope so. I’ve had enough nightmares lately.” Mel cut her eyes toward me then got busy unloading the pink paper plates, plastic cups, and napkins onto the counter.
I figured they blamed me for all the creepy craziness since the demise of my former self. I was tired of feeling guilty about it. Tonight, I fully expected the demon to show up to ruin my evening. When it did, I planned to open a jumbo-size can of whoop-ass, and smack the bitch into the ground.
Anger at Archangel Michael, the demon, and the entire situation seethed below my surface and lashed out. It caused my emergency, ten pound bag of flour to explode. Mason passed by right as it happened.
He spit the powdery gunk out and managed an, “Uh-uh! Not again,” then broke into a sprint through the door. White powder trailed behind him like smoke.
Mel fell victim to the flour, too. A thick coating settled on the back of her head. It faded her light blonde hair to white. She craned her neck and revolved like a dog chasing its tail to see the damage done to her backside.
“What the hell just happened? I tell you I ain’t in no mood for anymore demonic possessions.” The glare she sent me was guaranteed to set my hairspray on fire.
I grabbed a handful of dishtowels and rushed over to help her clean up. “Would you believe the bag was pressurized and got too hot in this old kitchen?
“No!”
I looked up from where I squatted to slap dust the flour off her black pants. “Fine. Would you just go out and make Mason believe it? I need him for the prime rib station. He can’t have gotten far. I have the keys to the van.”
She sighed, shook the flour out of her hair, and straightened her white catering jacket. “Oh, you are gonna’ owe me big time. Promise me tonight won’t be like the séance or the last event you had us help you cater. If it is, then I swear Mason and I are hotwiring the van, and leaving your ass here. Don’t think I don’t know how to hotwire a car.” She waggled her finger at me.
I nodded and crossed my fingers. I hoped only I would be caught up in any demon throw down.
Kitty limped into the flour-induced haze and greeted Mel as she slipped out. I forgot I asked her to fill-in for Stacy when I was alive. My anguish over Suriyel and the frenzy of making every pink appetizer in Paul Deen’s repertoire caused temporary amnesia.
“Stacy?” She called, waving her hands in front of her face to blow the white particles out of her line of sight.
I was right under her nose stirring the flour up again as I fanned plates to clean them off.
“Oh, there you are. These glasses I found behind Dr. Moore’s office really don’t help me at all.” She surveyed the white residue on the floor, counter, and every cranny in between. “What happened?”
“We had an incident with a bag of flour. Since when do you need glasses?” Why do you think glasses from a dumpster behind an optical shop would work for you in the first place?
“I thought I could eBay them, but I liked the frames, and decided to keep them.”
Her laidback tone reminded me of someone who had taken too many pain meds for her wounded leg. I moved to see if her eyes were dilated. “Kitty—Mama, did you take too many happy pills today?”
Kitty’s face scrunched up in disgust. “No, Stacy. You know I only take what’s prescribed.” She pried the paper plates from my hand, “I’m here now, so tell me what I can do to help you.”
“If I remember right, there should be a broom and dust pan in the closet beside the Butler’s Pantry. Do you mind getting it and cleaning the flour up?”
“Sure dear, I’ve had lots of practice cleaning up after you all these years.” Her voice was high and airy.
Mel dragged Mason in with the last of the carts from the van. White dust billowed from his clothing every time he moved. Kitty went all mother hen. “Mason Dooley! You come right over here, and let me clean you up.” She hustled him over to the sink, then proceeded to wipe him down. “That’ll teach you to be more careful when handling flour.”
Mel and I giggled at the sight of Mason as he squirmed to get away from her. It brought back memories of me as a five year old when Big Mama gave me a spit bath to make me presentable.
“Mrs. Summerlin, thank you, but I can take care of this just fine on my own.”
“There’s a bathroom right through the door to the dining room.” I suggested.
“Thanks,” he mumbled and diverted his eyes as he passed me.
Kitty waited until he was out of earshot. “Stacy, I don’t know what you see in that boy. He’s pretty hopeless if you ask me.”
“He may not be that smart, but he’s a nice guy when you get to know him,” Mel defended.
Oh, she’s so in love with him. “To be honest, Mama, I don’t think he likes me as much anymore.”
“I don’t know what makes you say that. He’s here helping you isn’t he?”
“That’s because I’m paying him and after tonight, I’m going to break up with him.” Maybe Stacy will consider this a favor when or if she returned.
A flicker of hope came to life in Mel’s eyes. “Don’t hurt him too bad. He may have turned chicken because of all the weird stuff going on, but he still has feelings for you, you know.”
“I know. I also know you have feelings for him, and it’s okay if you want to make your move.”
“You better not change your mind.” Mel hugged me so hard, my body sounded like bubble wrap popping.
“Hey, if this is some kind of love fest, count me in! It’s my fantasy come true,” said the truly inappropriate Mason.
“Ooh, gross,” Mel, Kitty, and I responded in unison.
“Sorry, ma’am.” He couldn’t hide his grin.
“I did not need that visual, Mason,” Kitty scolded. It was followed by a very forced upbeat, “Now, what can we do to help you, Stacy?”
Soon, watermelon-feta salad was spooned into martini glasses. Salmon mousse made its way into several glass bowls with accompanying gourmet crackers arranged in pink baskets. Shrimp canapés and prosciutto on figs were arranged beautifully on a few of Jimbo’s mother’s platters. Petit fours and jelly rolls found their way onto tiered pastry plates.
Mason couldn’t keep his hands out of the prosciutto and fig appetizers. Kitty shooed him away. I snatched the trays out of his reach and pointed him in the direction of the double oven. The rich aroma of meat bubbling in au jus reminded me to order him to rescue the prime rib in fifteen minutes.
Kitty and Mel in tow, I marched into the humid spring air carrying two platters on each arm. My target was an air conditioned tent past the hand laid stone fountain with its mermaid spouting water. I felt along the plastic cathedral windows until I found a split, and elbowed my way through the tent flap.
“Holy…!” All the air flew out of my lungs at the sheer magnitude of pink. I stopped in my tracks and almost caused Mel and Kitty to crash.
“If Pepto-Bismol wasn’t pink, I’d down a bottle about now,” Mel said and made a “yuck” face.
Sari fabric, striped in bold magenta, pale pink, and cherry, billowed from the ceiling. Ambient light from bronze Moroccan candle lanterns cast patterns of light down from where they hung over each table. Runners of the same fabric covered glittery pink tablecloths. I wholeheartedly approved the centerpieces—smaller versions of the pink potted puff topiaries I fondled in Jimbo’s shop.
“All it needs is some of those pink flamingos I found behind—” Kitty’s gasp pulled my attention away from the pinkness of the seating area to the center of the serving tables.
There, on
a platform swaddled by fairy lights encased in pink tulle, stood the pink Depression glass vase that matched the tray the she-demon destroyed. I applied some supernatural “glue” to piece the tray together. I looked for the vase so I could make sure the pattern lined up, but it wasn’t anywhere to be found.
Kitty’s gaze locked onto the vase. She set her platters down on the table beside it. “Did you bring the vase with you from your Aunt Ava’s?”
“Nuh-uh.” I suspected Kitty of stealing it since she lusted after everything I inherited from Big Mama.
“How’d it get here then? It belonged to Big Mama. You know your Aunt Ava got all mama’s best pieces.”
I sighed. “If I get it back in one piece, you can have it.”
Kitty clasped her hands together and squealed her approval.
I plunked my trays beside hers and ran my fingertips along the pierced edges of the vase in question. I vaguely remembered telling Jimbo he could borrow it when we worked together at Senator Thorsen’s campaign party on the night I died. When did he pick it up? Here it stood, glorified with every pink flower the Garden Society grew, arranged in all different directions. Its presence pulled the fire alarm in my head.
Fueled by the all consuming need to know, I left the trays and the girls behind in search of Jimbo. I fumbled around until I found another opening at the opposite end of the tent, then made my way out into the courtyard.
The poor mermaid spewed stale water into a fountain with pink lotus tea light candles bobbing above some disinterested Koi. I found Jimbo humming, “If Ever I Would Leave You,” from the musical, “Camelot,” as he straightened the pink fairy lights hung from the eaves of the gazebo. I stomped over to him as he fluffed the all too familiar pink potted puff topiaries on the stairs.
“Jimbo.”
He plastered a smile on his face. I knew he was nervous because of the show tune he hummed earlier. Over the many special events we’d worked together, he sang through almost all the musicals from the sixties. Thanks to him, I knew the words to songs from “Cabaret,” “Hello Dolly,” and “Fiddler on the Roof.”