by Meg Muldoon
I drifted off in the chair to the relaxing sound of the surf, a gentle breeze blowing into me.
But when I opened my eyes, I let out a gasp.
Aunt Viv stood there with a steaming cup of tea, her brows pushed together, her eyes big as plates.
“Sorry to interrupt, Ginger Marie,” she said as she stepped closer. “You okay?”
I sat up and she handed me one of the lavender-colored mugs that she made in her ceramics class the month before. It had imprints of different seashells she had found along the beach.
“Thanks,” I said, taking the tea and putting it down on the table. “But I’m still working on the Pinot Grigio.”
“Nope, hon, that was gone about half an hour ago,” she said, picking up the bottle and shaking it. “You need to drink all of this tea right now. I brewed this one cup especially for you.”
I did what she said and took a sip of the bitter ginger tea, trying not to spit any of it out.
“This has one heck of a kick,” I said gulping hard and trying not to make a face.
“Double strength. You need it after what you’ve been through tonight. Finish it up as fast as you can, hon. It’ll calm you and help you sleep, better than that Honeycutt quack.”
I wrapped both hands around the hot teacup, blowing on the surface and inhaling the steam before drinking it down as fast as I could.
“Good girl.”
She took the mug back.
“Do you want to talk about it more?” she said. “I can bring out another chair.”
I shook my head.
All I wanted to do now was forget about those papers.
“Well, don’t stay out here too long. It’s past midnight, and you should get to bed. I’m just finishing up a chapter. I’ll come back out and check on you when I’m done.”
I didn’t know where she got all her energy. During the day, Aunt Viv worked at the Farmer’s Market, held workshops on gardening and cooking, spent time up in the woods collecting herbs, and played poker. She had also taken to writing her memoirs at night, calling them A Witch’s Tale. She had plans for self-publishing the book under a pseudonym when she was done, and also had plans to use the money to fund her gambling exploits down in Lincoln City.
She pulled off her shawl, and draped it over my shoulders.
“Things will get better, hon. And if you want my two cents worth, I say put down your John Hancock and send those papers back first thing in the morning. There are other fish in the sea who would appreciate your… sass.”
I furrowed my brow, thinking I misheard her.
“My what?”
“You know, your sass – your essence and uniqueness. Find a man who loves you for exactly the powerful, beautiful witch you are. Elixirs, potions, spells, and all.”
It always bothered Aunt Viv that Steve never fully embraced my witch side. Sure, at the beginning, he was intrigued. And then he was excited because he got it into his head that I could use my powers to help him in his business deals. But when some of his requests crossed a line into black magic territory, and I told him I couldn’t do it, his enthusiasm waned. In the last few years, a decidedly resentful look came over his eyes whenever I mentioned anything about my side business.
That was another crack in our marriage I’d somehow missed.
“Thanks again for the tea.”
Aunt Viv looked up at the wall behind me, and then ran her fingers over a particularly gnarly section that was peeling.
“Would it be so hard for this paint to just hold out for one more season?”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I have a plan to get the house painted by the end of summer.”
I didn’t exactly have a plan, but if I had to get into a pair of white overalls and paint this monster of a house myself, I would do it. Keeping up with a 114-year-old Victorian wasn’t easy, and I told Aunt Viv that since I’d moved back home, one of my jobs would be to help out with its maintenance. She gladly agreed, mostly because the Historical Society was harassing her, wanting to declare the house a historical landmark in Broomfield Bay. If Aunt Viv allowed that, the society would pay for painting, plumbing, landscaping and even the taxes. But doing so came at a price – a price that Aunt Viv wasn’t willing to pay.
“Good. Because no way will I turn this house over to the society so that they can open our doors to boatloads of tourists with wandering eyes. They’ll have to pry the house keys from my dead hands before that happens.”
Aunt Viv was exaggerating, but she had a point. Because of her reputation as a witch, along with the old Victorian’s reputation for being haunted, opening the house to the public would be the same as opening the house to witch-haters, religious fanatics, and ghost-hunters. I was sure in her mind that if the Historical Society was successful in taking over the house, it would only be a matter of time before a mob came a calling with pitchforks, torches, and cameras in tow.
“Well, hopefully it won’t come to that,” I said.
The problem was that the Historical Society was tightening the screws trying to make it come to that. They had even gotten the city involved, claiming that the house in its current condition was an eyesore and that the city should force her to let them take over in July. The mayor’s office was considering the request and had put together a committee to assess the problem.
It was all just small-town politics. But sometimes, those politicians got the support they needed and got what they were after.
“Too bad none of the good spells have worked so far,” Aunt Viv said, smiling.
“Yeah.Too bad.”
For the last year, we had tried a series of spells to get the house painted. But so far, nothing had come of them.
“Of course, we could do more powerful spells,” she said.
And looking at her face there in the moonlight, I could see that she was considering it. But like she had taught me, witchcraft like that always had a hefty price attached.
“Well, it hasn’t come to that yet,” I said. “Let me see what I can do.”
“Two witches and five hundred dollars in the bank between them. What’s wrong with this picture?” she said with a laugh.
“Not one darn thing, as far as I can tell,” I said, patting her hand.
A yawn suddenly overcame me.
The tea was working. I could barely even remember the house problems, the divorce papers, or anyone named Steve.
“Get some good sleep, hon,” she said, taking the yawn as a cue.
“Night Aunt Viv,” I said. “We’ll get the house painted. Don’t worry.”
“I never do, Ginger Marie.”
Chapter 8
But as much as I was ready to sleep the sleep of the dead, it would have to wait.
The sound of tires on the gravel road and the hum of a small engine roared over the crashing waves below.
I stood up and peered down at the headlight that was slowly making its way toward the house.
There was only one person that I knew who would show up unannounced at half past midnight. One desperate person who also happened to be an insomniac, and who had a magical knack for always steering the conversation back to himself.
I was sure that Christopher Mann was here to talk about love, which was more than a little ironic given the evening’s events.
Love elixirs were my most-requested service, and were also the most difficult to make. And yet, even with the complexity and lower success rates, they still continued to be the most popular. People were in love with being in love. They couldn’t get enough of it, whether it was from afar, up close, or around the bend. Most didn’t even care who it was they were in love with. They just wanted to experience the fluttering heart, the tingling hands and feet, the obsessive thoughts, and the wild fits of passion. Love was a drug, and people were willing to pay ridiculous prices for just a small taste of it.
Because they were so in demand, I had five different love elixirs in my cache, all very potent. My friend Christopher had gone through four of them, wi
th no results. I wasn’t sure how this was happening because before I ever agreed to help someone, I vetted them carefully to make sure the magic would work. I didn’t give my elixirs to everybody – if I didn’t have a good feeling about the client, I told them I couldn’t help and sent them on their way. I had disappointed some people in the past with this policy, our former mayor included, but like Aunt Viv always told me, ‘If love isn’t in the cards for somebody, any witch worth her salt won’t force it.’ Magic like that was just bad business all around.
But Christopher, whose moped was now parked outside the house, was someone I was happy to help. He really did seem to love Lilliana Marsh – a beautiful widow who was an administrator at the Broomfield Bay Public Library. Christopher had first met her at my café, of all places.
I leaned over the railing three floors above the balding head getting off the moped.
“Ging!” he rasped when he noticed me standing there. “I’m so glad you’re here! I really need to talk to you.”
“I’ll be right down,” I whispered. “But I only have a few minutes.”
Lines had to be drawn in the sand with Christopher, otherwise, he’d talk my ear off until the sun came up. He didn’t seem to understand that not everybody had insomnia.
“You don’t have any brownies in the kitchen by chance, do you?”
I didn’t answer. I went inside, pulled on my robe, and wiggled my feet into a pair of slippers.
I had known Christopher ever since he came to town five years ago and opened up his small florist shop – Fabulous Floral – across from Ginger’s Café. His flowers were beautiful, and there was a real elegant, artistic touch to his arrangements. He was older than me, just shy of 40, and a little on the short side. He used his face stubble as a fashion statement, and he had moved here from Austin to “escape the hipsters,” as he put it. He had a biting sense of humor, and seemed to love anything that I took out of the oven.
But Christopher was also temperamental, self-centered, and he often put his foot in his mouth. He told me that while he loved growing and selling flowers, his customers drove him crazy and were responsible for the 20 pounds he had gained since moving to the beach. He especially got annoyed at the people who had summer weddings, the demanding “city slickers” who came from Portland and Seattle, wanting that iconic beach wedding with an abundance of white roses and gardenias. Their demands kept Christopher in the black, and on some level I was sure he was grateful, but it stressed him to no end. Most days, to relax, he put “closed for lunch” on the front window of his shop at noon and wandered over to the café to drown his frustrations in coffee and Raspberry Ginger Bear Claws.
He was wound pretty tight.
I headed downstairs, grabbed a few spice cookies and a glass of milk in the kitchen, and then went outside.
“Christopher – do you have any idea what time it is?”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” Christopher said, taking the milk and cookies from my hand. He studied one intently before shoving it in his mouth. “I stay up this late all the time. I’m not big on sleep. Hey, thanks for the midnight snack.”
I shot him a disapproving look.
“Oh, you mean…. Gosh, Ging. I hope I didn’t wake up your aunt. I just figured, you know, you were probably up after everything that happened tonight and you wouldn’t mind a little company.”
I pulled my robe tighter around my waist.
“C’mon,” I said, nodding to the old porch swing. “Let’s talk.”
We took a seat.
“Wait a sec,” I said. “What do you mean by everything that happened tonight?”
“You know, getting the papers. The big “D” looming. I thought to myself ‘Christopher, your friend down the road is not going to have an easy night. She could probably use someone to talk to.’”
I let out a whale spout’s worth of air.
Big D?
Maddy was right – everyone was listening all the time here in Broomfield Bay.
“Broomsticks and hawthorn! Why does the whole town know my business as soon as I do?”
“Not the whole town, Ging. Just me. Oh, and Maddy. She wanted to send you flowers tomorrow to cheer you up.”
I pushed my slippers against the weathered porch floorboards and sent us gently swinging in the damp night air.
I supposed they would have all found out sooner or later anyway.
“Sorry about Mortgage Man,” he added, using the nickname he always used for Steve. “But you know what, lady? I say good riddance. He was never good enough for—”
I held up my hand.
I appreciated his support, but I didn’t think I could stomach talking or thinking anymore about Steve tonight.
“How about we talk about why you’re really here,” I said. “What’s going on?”
He looked out into the darkness, his eyes fixing on the lights of a distant ship on the horizon.
Then he pouted, letting out a dramatic sigh.
“You know I love you, Ginger,” he said. “But… it’s your elixirs. I don’t know… I think you gave me another bad batch, or something. None of them are working!”
I followed his gaze out into the black waves.
That was one of my fears, if I was being honest.
With all of my own love problems, maybe I was the very last person who should be whipping up love potions.
Maybe that was why every one I had made for Christopher wasn’t taking.
Maybe that’s why my own love potions – the ones I’d been taking these last three months as a way to bring Steve back to me – were failing miserably, too. I was on number four, just like Christopher. None of them were working.
“Did you drink the entire cup?” I asked.
“Every drop,” he said.
“And you’re sure… you’re sure that your intentions and love for Lilliana Marsh are true?”
I hated asking, but I had to. Barring my own personal problems tainting the brew, the problem would have to be on Christopher’s end. Or, it could also be on Lilliana’s end. Perhaps the widow wasn’t ready to move on just yet, and she was ignoring Christopher’s newfound allure.
Christopher snapped his head back and gave me an offended look.
“Of course I’m sure my love is true! She’s all I can think about day and night! I have to have her, Ging. Please help me! I’m desperate, and you’re my last hope.”
I felt a series of shivers work their way through me, remembering that those were the exact same words Mayor Penelope Ashby had said to me a week and a half before.
Why did love do this to people? Why did it make them go crazy?
I wasn’t going to tell him what I was thinking. At least not tonight. But sometimes even when everything looks to be a go, something in the universe says no.
It had only happened a handful of times, when my spells should have worked, but didn’t. One was a love elixir for a woman who lived in Brandon Bay, and the other was for a local actress who wanted to win a part in a movie. Both fell through, but the universe in all its wisdom knew what it was doing. The first client found her real soulmate a few months after the failed spell, and the actress ended up getting a better role in a blockbuster. Her career had been sailing ever since.
“Lilliana belongs with me,” Christopher said. “Please, you gotta help with this.”
“Okay. Briefly, let’s go over this once more. Tell me again – how do you know she’s the one?”
“She just is,” he said, looking up at the stars scattered across the inky sky, a dreamy expression on his face. “When I see her, my mind freezes and I can’t think and my heart starts pounding in my chest. The air disappears when she walks in the room. There is like this real energy, this glow that shines around her and I live to swim in it. I do! I really do! You must know what I’m talking about, right? Mortgage Man must have wooed you in the beginning, I’m sure.”
“Well, yeah. I mean, sort of.”
I loved Steve, but I’d never had those kinds of wild e
motions when it came to him. Not even at the beginning, when everything was daisies and sunshine.
Love was different for different people, I supposed.
Nonetheless, I did know what Christopher was talking about.
“Okay,” I said. “Look. I have another elixir, Christopher. But I’ll need some time to make it.”
“Time?” he screeched. “I don’t have time! I need it tonight! I’m dying here.”
I crossed my arms, shooting him a hard glance.
“I can’t make this one in an hour. I’m sorry, but it needs to sit under the light of a full moon for an entire evening. Really, you’re lucky because you only have to wait a week.”
He groaned.
“Well, all is lost!”
In the dim light of the porch, I saw his eyes well-up with tears.
I liked Christopher, but he was definitely not the easiest customer. And I was wondering whether I should have ever taken on this little project for him. If my elixirs didn’t bring Lilliana Marsh to him, it seemed that he might not ever forgive me.
Maybe he was too nervous and desperate. He could be gripping too hard, wanting her too much, and not letting love grow naturally.
“What if she finds somebody else while I’m waiting for this full moon potion?” he asked.
“Why do you think that? Did she say something?”
“No. But… call me crazy – I get this feeling lately that she’s slipping away.”
I turned toward him.
“Look, I think you’re getting a little paranoid. Why don’t you take a break from having lunch at the café for a couple of days? Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”
After initially meeting Lilliana at the café and being completely smitten at first sight, Christopher had started becoming a regular. More than that even. He visited twice a day, always eating his lunch there the same time that Lilliana walked down from the library to get her usual coffee, salad, and scone. Christopher would sometimes try to talk to her, but for the most part, he fumbled over his words.
“Or what about sending her some flowers at the library?” I said. “Maybe it’s time you stop waiting for her to come to you. Women like a man who takes initiative.”