by Deanna Chase
It was a damn good-looking tart, if I did say so myself.
Melissa returned the ingredients to their respective cupboards, and I moved on to the peanut soup. I sautéed celery and onion in a stockpot, marveling that my kitchen—my kitchen—could smell like a real home. In a bowl, I combined milk and flour to make a slurry that would thicken the final soup. I added chicken broth to my savories and let it come to a slow boil, and I scooped a cup of chunky peanut butter out of its jar. When I had finally scrubbed the excess peanut butter from my knuckles, I set the entire project aside; I’d finish it at the last minute.
That venture went so well that Melissa let me mix the spice rub for the lamb on my own. I read the recipe three times before I measured out the ingredients. Salt, of course, and fresh ground black pepper. Fennel. A pinch of cinnamon, which would have been a treasured rarity in colonial times.
I took the fat chops out of the refrigerator and rubbed in the spice mix. I kept getting distracted by the burgundy polish on my fingernails. Burgundy polish. My nails. Almost like I was a grown-up.
The whole time that I was working on the lamb, Melissa kept reading from the witchcraft book, which she had carried upstairs with her. “You can use this thing to clean earth from surfaces.”
“Pity we didn’t have it when we were cleaning this place the first time.” I returned the spices to the cupboard, trying first the top cabinet, then remembering that I’d chosen to keep them next to the stove. Easy access. It all made sense, if I could only remember my rules.
“And you can freshen the air to make it healthful.”
“Great. Just think if that book got out in public. Glade would be right out of business.”
“You’re not taking this very seriously.”
“I am,” I said, frowning. “I’ve seen exactly what I can do. Did I tell you that Harold has taken to laying out the newspaper for me in the mornings? He has it waiting at my desk, all neatly turned back to the engagement announcements.”
“No!”
“And he stops by at least three times every day. Sometimes, I worry that he’s going to wake up from his trance, and he’ll just stare at me with horror.”
“You’re not fair to yourself. Spending time with you wouldn’t be so horrible.”
“I worry that I’m getting used to having him there. Just the other day, he diagnosed a computer problem—one of those blue screens of death. He walked me through some weird menus that he got to through the function keys.”
“Good man to have around.”
“Yeah. Right.” I looked at the production I was putting on for Jason, and I felt a little guilty. I still hadn’t found a counterspell for Harold. But I hadn’t looked that hard, either. I’d been too busy playing Colonial Martha Stewart. Besides, Jason was smitten with my spell as well. Jason, and old Mr. Zimmer, and a dozen other men who frequented the library. If I liberated Harold, would I have to liberate all of them? Including my Imaginary Boyfriend?
Squelching an icky feeling in the pit of my belly, I glanced at my cooking notes.
Peanut soup—done, except for the last minute pulling together.
Lamb chops—ready to broil.
Peas—ready to cook in a small saucepot, while the lamb finished in the oven.
Pear tart—stunning, if I did say so myself.
“Hey,” Melissa said. “I think this is actually going to go okay.”
“You say that as if you had doubts.”
“Um, you? Cooking? Colonial fare?”
I started to splutter, defending myself, but even I couldn’t make the argument sound real. Melissa laughed and walked into the living room, collecting her jacket from the couch where she’d thrown it upon her arrival. “Going so soon?” I asked her.
“Soon? It’s almost 7:00.”
“Yikes!” I had completely lost track of time. As had Neko. I was certain that he’d stopped by Roger’s. I started to mutter under my breath, but Melissa read my mind. “Don’t worry. He’ll be home soon.”
“How do you know?”
“The salon closes at seven on Thursdays.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Neko told me, the other day. I guess he didn’t mention it to you? He decided to have Roger over tonight.”
“He what?”
“Don’t worry. He said they’d stay in the basement. He said you’d never even know that they were here.”
I was torn between tearing out my hair by the roots and screaming at the fates. Everything was going to go wrong. I just knew it. “Relax,” Melissa said.
“Easy for you to say. You wouldn’t be quite so content if you were suddenly planning on entertaining your Imaginary Boyfriend while your familiar got it on with the salon guy downstairs.”
“It’s all going to be fine,” Melissa said, in the voice that a perfect nanny uses on her fractious charges. “Some day, you and Jason will laugh about this.”
“And if we don’t?” I asked darkly, opening the front door for Melissa to leave.
“Then you’ll know that he wasn’t actually the right man for you. Spell or no spell.” She smiled sweetly and ducked outside before I could swat at her. She was a fine one to talk, with her Mama’s Boy and McDonald’s Owner and who knew what other romantic treasures waiting in the dating wings.
I closed the door and hurried off to shower before the men converged on my cottage.
Chapter 14
“Ja-ane…” Neko’s voice echoed from the living room. I checked my teeth in my bedroom mirror one last time, making sure that nothing green and embarrassing had lodged between them. I ran my fingers through my unruly hair—at least I wasn’t wearing a mob cap—and pulled the bottom of my blouse down over my skirt. I lifted my arms so that the hem rode more normally. Leaning over to adjust my bra, I jiggled back and forth to even things out, and then resisted the urge to tug the blouse down one last time.
“Ja-ane! He’s at the front of the garden!”
I flung open my bedroom door, scarcely taking the time to close and lock it behind me. For one fleeting moment, I wondered what Jason would think as I led him back here, as we were clinched in the throes of passion, and I needed to dig my key out of my pocket. What kind of freakish woman locks her own bedroom door?
What kind of slut sleeps with a guy on her first date? Even a perfect guy. Even an Imaginary Boyfriend.
I’d changed my sheets, though, just in case.
Wishing that I had invested at least one blouse-tug’s worth of time into hunting down a breath mint, I hurried into the living room. “Okay, guys. Downstairs, now. We all need our privacy.”
“Don’t we?” Neko purred, raking me with his almond eyes.
Roger clicked his tongue against his teeth. “A-plus on the manicure, sweetheart, and the blouse works wonders for your décolletage, but we have got to do something about that hair.”
“What’s wrong with it?” I asked, panicking.
“Nothing,” Neko said immediately, splaying a possessive hand across Roger’s well-muscled chest. “Nothing at all.”
But Roger would not be hustled into silence. “It’s just a few inches too long. Too boxy. You have got cheekbones, darling, if you’d just learn how to show them off.”
A knock at the door saved me from more belated makeover advice. “Get downstairs!” I hissed, starting to run my fingers through my hair again. Would that help, though? Or would it hurt? What if I ruined any possible emphasis on my cheekbones? “Now!”
I never should have let Neko bring Roger back. I should have taken the late wine delivery and sent them packing for the evening. I should have splurged on dinner for both of them, somewhere in Georgetown. Better yet, somewhere on Capitol Hill, all the way across town. Somewhere with atrocious service, so that they’d take at least three hours to eat their food.
There was another knock at the door, this one more insistent. Showtime. As the basement door clicked closed, I took a huge breath that I intended to be calming. And then, I greeted my Imaginar
y Boyfriend.
“Jason!”
He was perfect. He’d traded in his khakis for grey flannel slacks, trousers that managed to look casual and special, all at the same time. His sweater picked up the grey, but wove the color into a swirl of blue and green, leaving ample golden highlights to enrich the glints in his curls. His hair was mussed, like a little boy who had forgotten to bring a comb.
And he was holding flowers.
Honest to goodness flowers. A mixed bouquet of bright autumn colors—zinnias and Gerber daisies and dahlias and one late sunflower splash. Scott had bought me precisely one wrist corsage in all the years that we had dated. He’d always said that flowers were a waste of time, because they only died. Died. Just like romance, when it’s left unfed.
“They’re beautiful!”
He smiled shyly. “I saw them, and I thought of you. ‘There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance.’”
A man who read Shakespeare. My heart clenched, and I pulled up another part of Ophelia’s speech, “And pansies, that’s for thoughts.” A shiver swept my spine. Of course, I was quoting the words of a mad woman, a woman insanely in love with a man who did not return the affection. Not a good omen. I shook the rest of the words out of my skull, ordering myself not to dwell on fennel. Or rue.
“Come in,” I said, ushering him into my living room. I finally remembered my best hostess manners. “May I get you a cocktail?”
“Sure. What have you got?”
“You name it, I’ve got it.” I finally took the flowers from him—an awkward motion that resulted in his stepping forward, my jumping back, his easing away from me, and my leaping to catch his arm to keep him from toppling over the coffee table.
When we were both standing steady and the flowers were in my hands, I managed to smile, turning my head to the side in an attempt to remind him that I was waiting to serve him a drink. “Um, Scotch, then,” he said. “On the rocks.”
Hmm…. I shouldn’t have been so glib about my household bar. “No Scotch. Bourbon? Or anything clear?” Except for rum. I hadn’t restocked after the last mojito therapy night. “Or wine? I have wine!”
He laughed. “Wine sounds perfect.”
“Please, have a seat,” I said.
“Let me help you.”
I immediately pictured the clutter on my kitchen counters. I’d read that there were two things you never wanted to witness being made: sausage and legislation. I’d add another thing to the list: a cozy dinner for two. “The kitchen is tiny,” I lied. “I’ll be back in just a minute.”
He shrugged, and I retreated into the battle zone. Of course, you could see it from the living room. He’d know that I’d lied about the size. I wanted to smack myself on the forehead, but that would have ruined the bouquet.
Bouquet. Flowers. For me.
My heart was doing strange flip-flopping things in my chest, and I was having trouble remembering to breathe. Wasn’t that one of those things that your body was supposed to do for you automatically? Keep your lungs moving in and out, without your consciously reminding it?
I opened the drawer to the left of the sink, searching for the corkscrew. None to be found. I knew that I kept it there—that was one thing important enough that I wouldn’t lose it in my kitchen. I pulled open three other drawers. I stopped and decided to put the flowers in water, while I worried about the looming wine disaster.
No vase.
Well, that’s what pitchers were for. The mojito one. With fish on the side.
Okay. So the flowers were going to live to see another day, but where had the corkscrew gone? Had Neko made off with it? He’d threatened to come upstairs every half hour, just to keep an eye on Jason and me. To make sure that my Imaginary Boyfriend didn’t take advantage of me, he’d said. Maybe stealing the corkscrew was part of his master plan.
I wanted to be taken advantage of. Here. Now.
I took a deep breath and resigned myself to crossing the living room, to knocking on the basement door, to calling downstairs and asking where my conniving familiar had hidden the corkscrew.
“Is everything all right?” Jason called from the living room.
“Fine! Just fine!” And then I saw that it was all fine. Neko had followed my instructions to the letter. He had left the bottles of wine on the counter, and he’d opened the first one to breathe. The corkscrew was sitting on the counter, the cork standing guard beside it like a loyal infantryman.
I contemplated taking solid slug from the mouth of the bottle, but I told myself to wait. I’d be a lady tonight. I’d sip delicately.
I poured with a heavy hand.
“Here we go,” I said, returning to the living room and raising Jason’s glass like the Olympics torch.
“Thanks,” he said, taking it from me. “To new beginnings.”
I thought that I’d never draw a full breath again. “To new beginnings,” I whispered, clinking my glass against his and barely managing to take a sip.
“I always think of the autumn as the start of the year,” Jason said, nodding toward the darkened garden outside my windows. “The beginning of the new school year. Meeting new students. Launching new projects.”
Oh. So maybe he and I weren’t beginning anything new. My cheeks flushed, and I didn’t know whether to blame the wine or my presumptions. Just for good measure, I took another sip. I wracked my brain for something to say, something witty and endearing and entertaining.
Normally, I don’t have any problem talking. I can go on and on; I can be the belle of the conversational ball. Something about Jason, though, left me speechless. It might have been the sight of his fingers around the stem of his wineglass—long fingers, sensitive ones. They looked as if they could work any manner of magic, grimoires or no.
It might have been the light glinting on his eyes. His eyelashes were really long, longer than any guy should have. I’d never noticed that before, in the daylight of the library. Everything was different here, in my cottage, alone, together. At night.
A loud thump came from the basement.
“What’s that?” He looked at the floor, as if it might open up beneath his feet.
“Um, my cat?” Was I asking him, or telling him? “My cat,” I repeated. “He’s downstairs.”
“This place has a downstairs?”
“It has a basement.”
“And you keep your cat down there?”
Yeah, what was I? Some heartless wench, imprisoning a helpless animal? “No, no, I just put him down there for tonight. I was afraid that you might be allergic.”
“Oh, no. I love cats. You can let him out.”
Fat chance. “No!” I realized that I sounded too stressed. “I, um, I gave him a treat when I put him down there. He gets really nasty when I interrupt him when he’s playing with his…treat.”
Jason shrugged. “Maybe I’ll see him later, then.”
“Maybe.”
Well, that was the end of one fantastic conversational gambit. Hopefully, Jason would forget about my phantom house cat before long. There was another thump from downstairs, but we both pretended not to hear it.
“So,” I said, “I thought that we’d start with some soup.” If I couldn’t wow the man with my words, I’d reach him through his belly.
“Sounds great. Is that what smells so good?”
Ah, he was a silver-tongued devil. I answered breezily, as if I spent every day whipping up three-course dinners for two. “That, or maybe the pear tart I baked earlier.”
“Wow! You are domestic, aren’t you?” His praise was like a warm wash, flooding me from head to foot. “You work at the Peabridge all day, you cook in the evenings. What other secrets do you have up your sleeves?”
If he only knew. I’m a witch, I could say. Now, that was a conversation starter, for sure. Instead, I went for the more traditional: “Why don’t you just make yourself comfortable in here while I—”
“That’s ridiculous,” he said. “I’m not going to sit here while you wait on me all nigh
t. I won’t take no for an answer. Let me help. Or—” he shrugged, and his grin was positively boyish, “at least let me watch. You probably don’t want me touching anything; I’m dangerous in a kitchen.”
I wasted a split second making the calculation. I could leave him out here, listening for the Neko serenade from below, or I could let him into the kitchen. The directions for the peanut soup really were straightforward. I could risk finishing it, even with the man of my dreams as my audience.
“Well then, come on in.”
And he did. He sat next to the counter as I reheated the celery and onion mixture on the stove. He watched as I retrieved chicken broth and the milk and flour combination from the fridge. He turned his head to the side as I produced the cup of peanut butter.
I felt like I was on some cable channel cooking show, demonstrating technique for a crowd of impressed guests. Since Jason and I weren’t doing so well on the small talk front, I decided I might as well fill him in on the cooking process. “So, now I just pour in this chicken broth, and I wait for it to boil.”
“You look so intense when you do that.”
Intense. I was trying to keep from splashing broth onto my low-cut blouse. I should have thrown on an apron, but I didn’t want him to think that I was some 1950’s house frau.
“Wait a minute!” he said, and his tone was so sharp that I almost stopped stirring the soup. “Peanut soup. Pear tart.” He spun back to the counter and found the basket with the muffins, the ones that Melissa had baked earlier in the day. “Sweet potato and pecan muffins! Thomas Jefferson! You’re making Thomas Jefferson’s favorite meal.”
He got it. He understood. It was as if I’d reached out to him through a code, a secret language, and he’d deciphered everything. He truly understood me. “You figured it out!”
“Then that means that you’ve got mutton for the main course! And peas. You must have peas somewhere.”
“In the fridge. And, um, lamb, not mutton.”
“I don’t even know who sells mutton these days,” he said.
“Exactly!” We laughed, and for the first time that evening I felt confident that I might—I just possibly, conceivably, potentially might—make this whole Imaginary to Real transition happen.