Mindy swept her dark eyes over Sarah’s lavender blouse, black skirt, and sensible shoes. She glanced at the countertop in the breakroom. Sarah mentally cringed; she had forgotten donuts.
“I’ve never been so disappointed in you,” said Mindy. “We’re finished.”
Sarah used her lunch break to run to Natick Mall and get the cookie store to frost Cinderella mice onto a large chocolate chip cookie cake. She rushed back to work, located Mindy’s cubicle, and opened the box to display the treat.
Mindy raised her eyebrows. “I was joking about fucking you. I didn’t mean to get your hopes up.”
“I figured.”
Mindy shut the lid on the box. “Sorry. I’m not sharing my rat cookie with you. No offense, but you’re getting fat.”
Sarah made a mental note to find something in Aunt Lily’s closet that Mindy could wear.
FOR THE FIRST time ever Sarah’s work day dragged. Despite the dozens of texts Sarah sent to Paul’s phone, he only responded to one.
Sarah: What do you want from Olive Garden for dinner?
Paul: I cooked.
Did that mean he’d cooked for himself? For her? Since there were no groceries in the house Sarah considered stopping and getting herself something, then worried that he’d eaten Cream of Wheat all day. Maybe I should get him something anyway. No. He said he’d cooked. In the end she figured they could always make her frozen pizzas and went directly home.
It rained on the drive home, the kind of rain that blew down in sheets and nearly pushed her car off the highway. The kind of rain that swallowed umbrellas and turned them inside out, and followed Sarah to her doorway, spilling water down the back of her blouse, daring her to cast it away like all the Archer women had done for centuries. Sarah endured it and reached the front door feeling like a martyr, put upon and angry at the universe for making life so damn difficult.
The front door was locked and the key under the mat gone, which pissed her off. She had to dig through her purse and find her house key because kicking at the base of the door and swearing didn’t make Paul open it. Did the moron have no clue how impatient a witch was? A variety of minor but amusing spells flitted into the back of Sarah’s mind.
Make him speak in Pig-Latin for a day.
Or force him to walk everywhere like he’s on a balance beam.
Maybe the talk like Bob Dylan thing. Aunt Lily loved to do that to guys. She was so good at it that Sarah used to think that Bob Dylan might have been her aunt’s first victim.
Fortunately for Paul, once she got the door open the smell of homemade lasagna wiped away every trace of annoyance. Paul met her in the vestibule wearing a pair of blue gym shorts and a navy t-shirt, more of his ship tattoo visible on his thigh.
“I hope it’s okay that I used dried herbs. You said no fresh.” He took her dripping pocketbook and hung it on a hook. “Are you cold? Come into the kitchen and stand by the oven. I’m a thirty-bowl cook, as my momma says. I’ve been cooking for hours and it’s hot as hades in there.”
Sarah followed Paul through the clean vestibule, kicking off her damp shoes. All her bags of stationery had been unpacked and the supplies were stacked neatly on a bureau next to the coat rack. She could smell lemon oil and vinegar beneath the delicious layer of Italian cooking.
Steam seemed to cloud the kitchen, and dishes and pots crowded the sink. The first thing to draw Sarah’s attention was the fresh breeze blowing through the room with the scent of basil on it.
“You opened the windows!”
“Don’t tell me that’s a rule too? This place needs fresh air. It took hours to clear the cobwebs and dust out of this room.” Paul opened the convection oven and took out a loaf of bread.
“You made bread? You shouldn’t make bread here!”
“Oh, come on! That’s a rule? You said I could cook.”
“Yeah. Not bake.”
“I made chocolate lasagna too. It’s in the fridge for dessert.”
No, sir. Seriously. That has to be the most sexually attractive sentence in the history of mankind. It made Sarah’s mouth water, but only for food.
“It’s as good as it smells. One thing I can get right is dinner.”
Sarah’s gaze swept the kitchen countertops. Piles and piles of cash covered them. Paul had set crocks on some of the stacks to keep the cool breeze from blowing money around.
“Please tell me you didn’t rob a bank.”
He chuckled. “I know you had to bail me out of jail, but I’m not a criminal. I’ve been in jail a couple times, but definitely not prison.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Please! Yes. Jail is for mistakes, prison is for criminals. What’s the story with all that cash? I found it everywhere. My room had it stuffed into practically every drawer. There’s probably ten thousand dollars in euros I counted jammed in the cubbies of the coffee table in the living room. I found Canadian money too, and what’s the old Greek currency? Drachmas? All sorts of Asian types. There’s close to a hundred thousand in American. I hope you don’t mind I spent some on groceries, but I paid for the taxi to bring me back from the store.”
“I didn’t realize that was here. You can use it for taxis or whatever you need. You can have it.”
Paul frowned at her and turned the oven off. Using pot holders that looked new, he took lasagna out of the oven. The glass dish it sat in looked new too.
“You went to Target.”
“Yeah, I have a credit card there. I couldn’t find any pots and pans that weren’t crockery. You didn’t say not to use crockery, but I had a feeling maybe you meant to.”
“Thank you, I did. Paul, you seem to have a sensitivity. Does your family dabble in the craft?”
He set the dish down and turned to look at her. “You’ve got to be joking. The Longfellows are staunch Methodists. You should hear them making excuses just to open a bottle of wine. If any of them even believed witches were real they’d think you’re a bunch of Satan-worshipping lunatics.”
It occurred to Sarah that Paul’s sensitivity and intuition might have nothing to do with magic. Maybe he was simply a nice guy, like he’d said. Witchcraft would have been easier to deal with.
She helped carry food to the kitchen table, thankful he hadn’t set the dining room. That room had too many memories for her to enter, but they’d rarely sat at the kitchen table. Paul had set it with new yellow and blue stripped placemats beneath old white plates that only looked vaguely familiar. Large glasses of iced tea floated slices of lemon and spearmint leaves. Her eyes went directly to his.
He scratched the back of his neck. “Is the spearmint too much? I know you said no herbs, but, Sarah, it seemed a crime not to make it right. It’s not from your garden though. I bought it at the grocery store.”
Unable to resist, Sarah took a sip and melted into her seat. Sweet, peach and Ceylon. The mint made it. She blinked back tears. It made her homesick for her family. Paul scooped lasagna onto her plate with a side of cucumber and tomatoes. It looked and felt new. It might have been the first big Italian meal ever cooked in the Archer house. None of it tasted of the dark side; it tasted like the other side. Good. Except it didn’t burn her mouth.
There were things that needed to be said. “Is it okay to talk witch weird now? I don’t want to stress you out.”
Paul scooped lasagna onto his plate. “I have good days and bad. Today’s a good day and to be honest I’m curious. Other than the house, you seem pretty normal.”
“Thanks, but I’m not. For the record I’ve never known a witch who worshipped Satan, or anyone other than themselves. I told you before; it’s more a matter of light and dark. We have an innate pipeline to dark matter. It’s like Amazon Prime to the universe without a credit limit and not only can you have stuff, but you can have everything go your way too.”
His dark eyes swept her face as he put the plate in front of her. “That sounds dangerous.”
“And it feels good when you place an order. No, not good. F
ucking great. I mean better than sex—not that that’s much fun for witches anyway.”
Paul lifted his brows but didn’t comment.
“The thing is, once you start getting what you want you tend to want more and more. After a while you change and nothing is enough. Eventually dark matter uses you up.”
He nodded.
“That’s why I’m trying not to cast. It’s so easy to slide to the darkness. I’ve watched people go there, and am trying to figure out how not to do it myself.” Sarah took a bite of lasagna and closed her eyes to chew.
“What did you come up with?”
“Hmm.” She swallowed and looked at him. “I’ll have to get back to you on that. I do know that it’s an all or nothing thing, and that I suck at self-deprivation. Did you really make chocolate lasagna?”
By Friday Paul and Sarah had a routine that involved an almost unrecognizable dust-free downstairs and no takeout for dinner. Friday night’s dinner almost disappointed Sarah when Paul set a simple bowl of soup in front of her, but the Pasta Faggioli and homemade cheese bread made up for its looks at first bite.
“I like being here with you, Sarah,” Paul said.
She put her spoon down.
“Don’t get worked up. I still don’t want you any more than the blonde who works in the bakery at the supermarket. Actually less. You know what? The more time I spend with you the more I like you, but the less I want to—you know.”
“Thanks.” Although she had to admit to herself she felt the same. “Do you mind if I cast in a small way? It won’t do anything weird to you.”
Paul chewed on his bottom lip, narrowing his eyes at her. “What about the dark matter deal?”
“Oh, nothing like that. I mean I can do plenty of stuff without pulling more dark matter in.”
“Really? Like what?”
Sarah shrugged. “Like everything I did that day I showed you fire. Plus.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Just a little thing to see if I can figure out what we are to each other.”
“We’re friends, Sarah. It isn’t hard to understand.”
Sarah turned her head to hide sudden tears.
“Haven’t you ever had a friend?”
Taking a quick breath, she shook her head and blurted, “You know, not really I don’t think. I mean I’ve loved people, don’t get me wrong. My aunt and my mother. They died.” She swallowed. “There’s a lady at work—I think we’re friends, or we will be someday. Do you have lots of friends?”
“No. Not anymore.” They died too slipped unspoken from his mind to hers, and she thought he felt it go because he stopped looking into her eyes.
“Okay, lick your spoon. By lick I mean suck it and leave some spit on it,” Sarah instructed.
“You know that’s gross.”
Nodding, Sarah shoved her soup spoon into her wide mouth and sucked on it. This would be erotic if she was to do it with any other guy. Paul sat catty-corner to her, his fit legs spread in torn jeans, and his horse tat sticking out of his tight grey t-shirt, yet all she could think was that he looked adorable with a big spoon jutting out of his mouth. Not hot guy adorable, but Aw! Cute! How sweet! I’d like to pin this on Pinterest next to a Beagle or kitten picture.
He yanked it out of his mouth the same time Sarah did, only his had a line of spittle attached.
“You’re vulgar. That’s perfect.” Sarah knocked the back of their spoons together and allowed a small whisper of a question to race through the room, through the house, through the ceiling and attic and up into the September sky. When it seemed enough time had passed, she mentally tugged the question back. A faint silver light shimmered above the spoons, like starry dust motes joined together. Sarah stared at it for several moments, her heart thumping erratically in her chest. Could it mean something else?
“Do you see something I don’t?” said Paul. “Because I only see dust.”
“Yeah, a unity symbol. I don’t get it. Everything still points to us being bound in love—except the part where we’re not.”
“Is that the whole deal? We’re not going to suddenly take flight are we?”
“That’s it.”
Paul rolled his eyes. “After that big build up, I thought you were going to do something interesting, like you’d conjure up a rabbit or cat or something impressive.”
“No. For starters I can’t just conjure anything. I live in the same universe you do. If I could conjure anything at any time I wouldn’t be into Las Vegas Magic. I’d get some gourmet brownies and inhale them every night before I went to bed. That’s when I’m at my most impulsive,” Sarah confessed. “I’d probably die of brownie poisoning by the time I’m thirty.”
“You can’t get brownies? Not even with dark matter?”
“Oh, hell. I could get all the brownies I wanted, but not without following the usual rules.”
Paul grinned. “What are the usual brownie dark matter rules, Sarah?”
“Well. I could make someone go get me brownies, or make me brownies. I could allow dark matter to lead me to the best brownies on earth, and once I got there I could make everyone give them to me and crown me Queen of all the brownies if I so chose to do it.”
“But then you’d die of brownie poisoning?”
“Not if I put some effort into it. I could—if I was really pulling from dark matter—make it so it didn’t hurt me right away. I could even not get fat if I worked that angle. Think plastic surgery with your mind, and the dark side as the doctor. But, and here’s the kicker, once I started, eventually I’d need those brownies. And conjuring them and eating them would be better than the best sex you could imagine. It would be great. I mean every single bite, even the smell, would be nirvana. I’d be the gorgeous brownie-eating queen of the world. Then one day I’d need more dark matter to hold my crown. Then the next hour, more. Then the next second, more. It would start to fall apart, but my desire wouldn’t. All the dark matter I’d used would demand more of me. You have to pay the dark side, and eventually it takes everything and leaves you dying for a brownie fix and no way to get it.” Sarah shoved down an inappropriate urge to cast on Paul so he’d make her some brownies right now.
“Sounds like drugs. What is dark matter’s currency?”
“Us. Me. Oh, at first it would take cats, or puppies, or other people. It’s just like in old stories. It eats life, essence, blood, energy. Sooner or later it comes for everything you’ve got though. A witch’s ability to increase dark matter is finite, whereas dark matter is infinite. At least I think it is. In some ways my plan not to use it is both ludicrous and hopeless. ”
“God. I’m never going to eat another brownie.”
Sarah threw her napkin at him.
“Let me take you to the movies,” Paul said with a smile. “Not Netflix. Let’s go to the theater and see that new Marvel one. I have enough of my own money left to buy you a Cherry Coke too.”
FOR THE FIRST time in her life Sarah sat inside a real movie theater, complete with stadium seating and large reclining chairs. Paul made good on his Cherry Coke promise, and bought himself a Dr Pepper. Sarah insisted on a large buttered popcorn to share, and felt guilty when he had to hand over his last twenty to cover it. She’d have to find a way to give him money. Just because she wouldn’t spend Archer money didn’t mean Paul couldn’t.
He had seemed okay using the haul he had found his first day cleaning, but only for groceries and household purchases, which this week had included ordering new locks for all the doors. But when she had suggested he get some new jeans at True Religion, he’d acted scandalized and insulted.
Paul crossed one leg over a knee of his ancient holey jeans. “I love these movies,” he said over a mouthful of popcorn. “Did you see the last one?”
Sarah had to admit she’d never seen any. During the previews anxiety crawled through her stomach and dark matter gathered in her peripheral vision like living dust motes, awaiting opportunity. Scenes of mindless violence flickered
across the screen and in the dark Sarah could see dark matter swirling around the heads of people in the audience.
Once the movie started, Sarah relaxed into her cushioned seat. The violence seemed cartoonish and the characters made her laugh. Dark matter receded as though growing bored, drifting outside her line of vision. Several times Paul leaned close to whisper backstory into her ear, and Sarah poked him on occasion to hiss questions.
It didn’t occur to her that they were bothering anyone because the theater erupted into comments and laughter and protests from time to time. The interactive feel of the audience made it more fun than sitting at home and watching a movie alone, and Sarah was glad they’d come. She poked Paul’s leg during a fight scene and whispered, “Who’s the blue guy?”
A teenager in front of them stood so fast she startled. He shouted at her, “Bitch, really?”
To her amazement, easy-going, polite, Oklahoman Paul Revere Longfellow nearly shot over the seat to get in the kid’s face. “After the movie, little boy. Outside!”
The stupid kid with glazed eyes and flecks of dark matter roosting in the irises pounded his chest like an animal in the zoo and said, “Why wait, asshole?”
“Because I’m watching the movie, Opie,” said Paul, settling back into his seat as people called for them to settle down.
“Yeah, that’s right. You sit down with your dumb-ass who’s-the-blue-guy-dumb bitch.”
Paul shot out of his seat so fast clouds of dark matter parted and swirled. He grabbed the kid’s long pale hair, hauled him half over the back of the seat and punched him squarely in the jaw. Sarah felt the blow land as dark matter flowed from the air around them, taking form in Paul.
“No!” She grabbed onto his elbow but he pulled free, landing another punch. “Paul.” She allowed power to slide into her next word. “Stop.” His fist froze in mid-swing, and he glared at her with an expression not his own. Sarah recognized the look of disappointed dark matter roosting there. She pushed him back into his seat.
“Yeah, you better stop, motherfucker!” the kid wheezed, regaining his footing.
Bitch Witch Page 7