Casual Hex

by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  After insisting that Marc call him by his first name, Jeremy efficiently set him up at a nearby computer terminal. This time of the morning, Jeremy explained, the caf’ was fairly quiet because the high school kids were all in school.

  No sooner had Marc signed on than Ambrose called Gwen over to his terminal to look at some of the crazy videos that populated the Internet these days. Marc noted with amusement that Gwen slipped on her glasses to look at the videos. Her glasses made no difference to him, but she acted as if he would lose all interest if she wore them. As they said in America, fat chance.

  But he had to quit watching her or he would never make contact with Josette. He turned back to the screen and downloaded his messages, four of which were from his sister. As he started to open the first one, Dorcas sat down at the vacant computer station next to him.

  The fact that she made no move to use the computer confirmed what he had thought from the beginning, that she was there to talk with him. He glanced over and smiled. “I need to send a quick message to my sister. She probably thinks the plane crashed and the authorities are slow to notify her.”

  “That’s fine,” Dorcas said in a low voice. “It would probably be better if you continued to type while I talk with you, anyway. I don’t want to arouse anyone’s curiosity about our conversation.”

  Marc’s hands stilled on the keys, and his heart rate spiked. “You are Wiccan, yes?”

  “I’m a witch, yes.”

  “I was right!”

  “Keep your voice down, and keep typing.”

  “Of course.” Marc opened the first e-mail from Josette, which was all in caps. WHERE ARE YOU?????

  “Ambrose is a wizard,” Dorcas said.

  Taking a deep breath, Marc typed I am in Big Knob, safe and sound. More later. Love, Marc. Then he hit the Send button. “Is there a coven here?” he asked Dorcas as he opened the next email from Josette.

  “No. Just the two of us.”

  Josette’s next e-mail was also in caps. E-MAIL ME!!!!! Because he had just done that, he felt no need to respond to that one. “Were there more of you here previously?” he asked Dorcas without looking at her. He felt as if he had found the entrance to the Temple of Doom.

  “No, only Isadora Mather, who is . . . uh, was a witch. You were on the right track. Her husband, Ebenezer, was descended from Cotton Mather. He had no idea he was married to a witch, and she loved the irony of it. She talked him into the star pattern.”

  Marc was so excited he accidentally deleted Josette’s third e-mail. He hoped it was unimportant. “But the townspeople think—”

  “What Ebenezer told everyone, that he wanted a tribute to his wife, his shining star. It’s a myth that’s held up for nearly two hundred years. Isadora created the walking path, too, claiming that it made for an excellent shortcut around town.”

  “Incredible.” He gave Dorcas a quick glance. “But why are you and Ambrose here?”

  “We needed to keep an eye on things.”

  “What things?”

  Dorcas hesitated. “Marc, I don’t know you very well. This is sensitive information, and if the residents ever suspected that we’re—”

  “I would never speak of it.” He was dying to tell someone, but he knew that many people still feared the idea of witches and wizards. A person had to be careful about sharing that kind of information.

  Dorcas and Ambrose seemed to like living here, and they would probably have to move if word got out. If the townspeople ever discovered the origin of their street grid, no telling what they would do. Bulldoze the town pentagon/square, probably.

  “You can’t even tell Gwen,” Dorcas said.

  That would be difficult. Gwen was the sort of person he wanted to share everything with.

  “I can see you’re involved with her,” Dorcas said. “You’ll be tempted to discuss this with her, but if you’ve noticed, she isn’t comfortable with the concept.”

  “No, she is not.” He admitted that with reluctance. He wanted her to be. He wanted a partner who shared his curiosity about—hey, wait a minute. Partner? Was he that far along in his thinking?

  “Here she comes,” Dorcas said. “Hi, Gwen! Marc’s trying to convince me to become an Internet fan like the rest of you, but I can’t seem to get into it.”

  Marc hoped Gwen would not be focusing too closely on his expression when he turned around. “The Internet is not for everyone,” he said.

  “True.” Gwen had taken off her glasses again, and she squinted slightly as her gaze swung from Marc to Dorcas and back to Marc again. “But the dancing hamster video is pretty funny, Dorcas. Get him to show you that before you leave.”

  Marc had become sensitive to Gwen’s moods, and he could tell she suspected more was going on between him and Dorcas than an Internet discussion.

  “Dancing hamsters?” Dorcas stood. “I can’t pass that up, now, can I?” She walked over to Ambrose’s computer terminal.

  “I need to open Beaucoup Bouquets,” Gwen said. “I’m not sure what your plans are after you finish here, but—”

  “If I may borrow your house, I would like to gather my suitcase and change clothes.” Marc noticed that Monsieur Loudermilk had come through the door and his expression had brightened when he spied Marc there.

  “Let me give you the key.” Gwen reached in her pocket and took out a key ring. Sliding one off, she handed it to him.

  “Thank you. I am tired of these clothes after spending twenty-four hours in them.” He said it loud enough that everyone in the caf’ should have been able to hear.

  Dorcas and Ambrose could think what they chose, but he would not supply any information proving that he had been sexually involved with Gwen. For the benefit of Jeremy and Monsieur Loudermilk, he wanted to suggest that he had stayed fully clothed all night. Some people thought men were not gossips, but Marc knew better.

  “I’m sure you’re eager to get that suitcase.” Gwen’s tone was nonchalant, but the look in her brown eyes was anything but casual.

  “Certainement.” Marc held her gaze. “Do you close the shop for lunch?”

  “From twelve to one.” The heat in her eyes turned up a notch.

  He knew exactly what she was thinking, and it had nothing to do with food. Ah, but that would be sweet. He loved daytime sex.

  Then he noticed Monsieur Loudermilk was edging closer, obviously eavesdropping. A lunch rendezvous would be noticed by half the town. “Then we can meet at the Hob Knob Diner for lunch at twelve,” Marc said.

  Gwen’s disappointment was so obvious he had to hold back a smile. “I understand the food is wonderful,” he added.

  “It is, but I happen to have plenty at home. There’s homemade soup, home-baked bread, apple tarts for dessert. . . .”

  “Sounds d’licieux. We can save it for dinner, when we have time to enjoy it.” With luck they would have more privacy to enjoy each other, too. There seemed to be little to do in Big Knob on a winter evening except go home and stay home. He had only to make sure his rental car was gone long before dawn.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Chevalier.” Monsieur Loudermilk obviously was becoming impatient.

  Marc glanced past Gwen. “What can I do for you, Monsieur Loudermilk?”

  “I noticed you’re on the Internet, and I was thinking you might know about some good sites for checking out bra designs.”

  Keeping her back to Monsieur Loudermilk, Gwen glanced at Marc and rolled her eyes. “Gotta go,” she said. “I’ll meet you at the Hob Knob at noon, then.”

  Marc wondered if he could go that long without seeing her. “Perhaps I will wander over to the shop before then. I would like to see it, if you are not too busy.”

  She smiled. “Things are slow this time of year. I’d be happy to show you around anytime.” Then she turned and left.

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt your conversation.” Monsieur Loudermilk sat down in the chair recently vacated by Dorcas.

  “We were finished.”

  “I thought so. I h
eard Gwen say she had to open the shop, so I thought maybe you’d be available to give me some advice.”

  “I am willing to help, but I really have no expertise, monsieur.”

  Monsieur Loudermilk winked at him. “Don’t give me that. Every man alive knows something about the subject. A Frenchman should know even more.”

  “About women’s underwear?”

  “Hell, no. I’m talking about breasts. At first I was only interested in holding ’em up, but now I want to show ’em off.” He reached into a pocket of his overalls and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “Take a look at this beauty.” He spread the sheet out on the desk area between the two computers.

  Marc stared in amazement. He had never seen a schematic of a bra before. Monsieur Loudermilk had noted all the points of stress and how the design would counteract gravity while maximizing cleavage.

  “I’m not much for lace.” Monsieur Loudermilk tapped a pudgy finger on the paper. “So I’m thinking silk, but with cutouts in a daisy pattern.”

  “I like silk better than lace, myself.” Marc was amazed at the artistic detail in the illustration. “Have you taken many drawing classes?”

  “Nah. Just drafting. But I’ve always loved to draw. Used to do nudes by looking at pictures of those Greek statues.”

  “You have a good eye,” Marc said.

  “What do you think of the bra?”

  “It looks sexy.” He thought about the one Gwen had put on this morning—a plain cotton style that was fine, but . . . this would be a thousand times better.

  “That’s what I’m going for.”

  “You do not have a prototype yet, I expect?”

  “Still working on it,” Monsieur Loudermilk said. “I’m trying to decide what size to make it.” He leaned closer to Marc and lowered his voice. “With the first one I used Clara’s size, but I can’t make this type for her. She’s not built for a model like this.”

  “Then I suggest you make it a size 95-C,” Marc said. Monsieur Loudermilk was right that Marc knew a lot about breasts, and he would be willing to bet that size would fit Gwen like a glove.

  “Ninety-five? Oh, that would be metric measurements.” Monsieur Loudermilk gazed at Marc and slowly nodded. “I can convert that, no problem. You got it.”

  Marc was afraid he had given himself away. “It is an average size in France,” he said.

  “Right.” With a smile, Monsieur Loudermilk rose from the chair. “I’ll let you know when I’ve put it together. Then you can see if Gwen likes it or not.”

  Chapter 14

  Ever since New Year’s, business had been slow at Beaucoup Bouquets. Not today. Gwen had no sooner unlocked the door and taken off her coat and boots than Peggy Anglethorpe came in.

  “I need a vase of flowers for the front window.” Peggy unzipped her quilted jacket and pushed back the hood, which had messed up her short, permed blond hair. “Something bright and cheerful, that you can see from the street.” She finger-combed her hair back in place.

  Peggy had never ordered such a thing that Gwen knew of, but she wasn’t about to question the customer. “I’ll be happy to fix that up for you.” She took a medium-sized vase from under the counter. “Like this?”

  “Bigger.”

  Gwen pulled out the next-larger size. “Like this?”

  “That should work.”

  Gwen set the vase on the table she used for making arrangements and walked over to the refrigerated case where she kept her cut flowers in water. “By the way, I appreciate you and Bob offering to put Marc up for the night.”

  “The boys were disappointed he didn’t come over. They wanted to ask him if he knows Lance Armstrong.”

  “But Lance Armstrong lives in Texas.” As Gwen placed several stalks of iris in the arrangement, she thought about the paperweight Marc had given her with its fleur-de-lis center.

  “I know, but the boys connect him with the Tour de France, and they think everyone in France probably knows him.” She hesitated. “So what’s he like?”

  “Lance Armstrong?”

  “No, silly. Your French guy.”

  Hot. But Gwen couldn’t very well say that. “He’s . . . nice.” Very nice, indeed.

  “I’ve heard he’s really cute.”

  Cute was too tiny a word for him, in Gwen’s opinion. Gorgeous was more like it. “He’s attractive, I guess,” she said. “If you like the type.” Personally, she loved the type. Dark, wavy hair, dark blue eyes, square chin with a small cleft, hands that knew how to stroke a woman, and male equipment that made her want—

  “Um, Gwen?” Peggy gave her a funny look.

  “What?”

  “You’re the flower arranger and all, but are you sure a big ol’ pussy willow looks good in the middle of those roses and such?”

  Gwen glanced at the arrangement and discovered a very phallic, sausage-sized pussy willow sticking straight out of a vase that was otherwise packed tightly with every variety of bloom in her case. She’d obviously been shoving flowers in there until the vase was ready to crack down the middle from the strain. Then she’d added the phallic symbol for good measure.

  “You’re right,” she said to Peggy. “That doesn’t go at all.” She plucked it out and returned it to the case. “In fact, I think this arrangement looks a little crowded.”

  “I was thinking the same thing, but I didn’t want to say. I’m not artistic. But I wanted something pretty in the front room, in case . . . well, if your Frenchman happened to stop by for a visit. I mean, the boys would love it. I—”

  “Gwen!” Madeline Danbury, who waitressed at the Hob Knob, charged through the front door of the shop, her cheeks pink and her frizzy white hair tousled by the breeze. “We just heard over at the diner that the Frenchman will be having lunch there today. We need little bud vases of flowers on every table.”

  “For Marc?” Gwen blinked.

  “That’s his name?” Madeline frowned. “I’d heard something different.”

  “His full name is Jean-Marc Chevalier,” Gwen said, “but I call him Marc.”

  Peggy sighed. “How manly.”

  Gwen said, “It’s what all his close friends call him.” Then she realized that put her in the close friends category, and she blushed. “I mean, his family members.”

  “We know what you mean,” Madeline said. “It’s no secret that you’ve been hoping to meet up with a French guy for years. That ‘cousin’ story never fooled anyone. We’re happy for you, aren’t we, Peggy?”

  “I’d be happier if I could lay eyes on him,” Peggy said. “I do believe I’ll eat at the Hob Knob today. The boys are in school and Bob’s working, so why not treat myself? I’ll bet Denise would like to have lunch over there. I’ll ask Cecily, too.”

  “You might want to make a reservation,” Madeline said. “Francine and Sylvia called over from the Bob and Weave and reserved themselves a table, and Edith Mae Hoogstraten called to say she wanted us to save her a seat. I’m putting her with Billie Smoot, because we don’t have enough tables to let folks sit by themselves.”

  Gwen listened, openmouthed. She probably should warn Marc that he was the floor show at the Hob Knob today. But in the meantime she had ten bud-vase arrangements to make.

  As she took a quick inventory of her supplies to see if she had enough bud vases, her phone rang.

  “Gwen, this is Francine. Sylvia’s doing her hair up in a special arrangement, and she wants a couple of small, peach-colored roses to work into the design. Do you have anything like that?”

  “I do, out in the greenhouse.”

  “Then I’ll be over in a few minutes to pick them up. Come to think of it, I’ll take some white ones, too. Sylvia’s inspiring me, and I might try the same thing.”

  Gwen turned away from Madeline and Peggy, who were debating how to say hello in French. “Francine,” she murmured, “has the entire female population of Big Knob gone bonkers?”

  Francine laughed. “Pretty much. It’s not often we get someone like your
Frenchman in town. Once the word was out that he’d be having lunch at the diner, the stampede began. But don’t worry, toots. We’re only ogling. We know he’s yours.”

  “No, he’s not.”

  “I’d keep that to myself, if I were you. If Sylvia thinks you don’t want him, she’ll be all over that boy.”

  Gwen took a deep breath. “I want him.”

  “I never doubted it. I’ll see you in a few.”

  Marc needed advice, and the first person he thought of was Gwen. She was a woman. She might know what he should do.

  He had finally had a moment to read Josette’s last e-mail, which unfortunately referred to the deleted one. The last e-mail said Sorry to unload on you like that, but I wanted you to know why I am dropping out of school. So sorry if I have disappointed you. Love, Josie.

  He had e-mailed back, admitted to deleting the critical e-mail by accident and asked her to resend. Josette had answered, but had chosen not to include her original text. Just as well you lost it. I was embarrassed to have sent it in the first place. I am fine. I am waiting tables at a caf’ and I plan to support myself. Love, Josie.

  Marc hauled out his BlackBerry to see if he could make a call to her, but he had no reception. Merd! He would be stuck here right when Josette was self-destructing. She had no business waiting tables.

  He scrubbed a hand over his face. His parents had meant for her to use the trust fund so she could concentrate on her education without having to earn money. By allowing things to deteriorate to this point, Marc had let them down.

  Jeremy came by with a coffee carafe in one hand. “Problems with the server?”

  Marc glanced up at Jeremy. He had liked the guy instantly when Gwen had introduced him. Sincere and very bright, Jeremy was the sort of person who would make a good friend. Marc even liked Jeremy’s dog, who was as well-mannered as Parisian dogs.

  Still, Marc had known Jeremy less than an hour. Confiding his family problems did not seem right or fair.