A Little Light Magic

by Joy Nash

  Nick couldn’t believe his ears. “You’ve got a crystal ball that tracks construction projects? You know, I could use one of those at the office.”

  “No,” she said seriously. “It’s not a ball. I can never get a good reading on a curved surface. I use a prism.”

  Nick shook his head. Time to go. Because, clearly, this woman had already left the building.

  “Tell you what,” he said, angling toward the door. “I’ll ask around. Maybe one of my subcontractors will be interested.”

  He left before she could launch another protest, relieved to trade the whirling clouds and flashing crystals for the comforting solidity of his Dodge Ram four-by-four. Tori Morgan might turn him on like crazy, but no way was Nick going to follow his little head on this one.

  Tarot cards. Positive psychic energy. Visions in crystals.

  The woman was out of her freaking mind.

  Tori hurled an extremely negative thought at the arrogant contractor’s retreating back. She almost launched a can of paint after it. The broken screen door slammed on her last hope with all the finality of a shattered scrying mirror.

  Well. Didn’t that just suck the big lollipop?

  She plopped down on a folding chair, then jumped up again when the broken leg gave way. Drumming her fingertips on the side of her thigh, she tried to figure out just where she’d gone wrong with the tarot reading. She’d been so sure Doris’s boss would take the job.

  Nick Santangelo certainly fit the image of the Knight of Swords, the card representing the immediate future. The Knight was dark and confident. Doris’s boss had been that and more. Tori didn’t think much of his attitude, but she had to admit the man was hot. He was in his midthirties, maybe, but not going soft like a lot of men his age were. His chest was solid, his hips lean. His tanned forearms were sprinkled with dark hair.

  And he had very nice hands.

  It was a thing with her—guys’ hands. She always noticed them. Nick Santangelo’s were large and capable, with long, graceful fingers. She puzzled over that for a bit. Hands like his belonged to an artist, not a tradesman.

  He didn’t wear a wedding ring.

  She had no business noticing that. He wasn’t her type at all.

  But he’d been checking her out. No way she could have missed it. For a while there, his eyes had been glued to a point about eight inches below her chin. And she hadn’t missed the look on his face when she’d explained about her crystal vision.

  He thought she was a kook.

  Not that she cared. Truth be told, she was used to it. A lot of people—okay, most people—didn’t see life the way she did. Part of her was glad the man had turned down her job. He was entirely too appealing on a physical level, and she wasn’t looking for a quick hookup. That was how things had started out with Colin—they’d hooked up, and before she knew it, pow! She was in love and changing herself to suit his moods.

  She felt a twinge of pain in her midsection. She laid her hand over her stomach and blinked back tears. No, she wasn’t looking for quick sex and all the heartache it brought.

  But she was looking for a contractor. She couldn’t open her shop without one. Too bad every Jersey man who knew how to use his nail gun was booked solid through September.

  Maybe another tarot reading would shed some light?

  Then she thought of the last Weird Zone tour she’d led with Colin before things went sour. They’d been camping with a group of vampire wannabes near a decrepit Louisiana bayou mansion. Weird Zone’s local sources insisted the house was a vampire sanctuary. The whole thing turned out to be a hoax, but the trip into the swamp hadn’t been a total loss. Tori had discovered a Cajun witch living in the mansion’s gate house, and the old woman had taken a liking to her. She’d shown up at the campsite the morning Tori and Colin were packing the tents, insisting that Tori accept a gift: a bundle of seven hoodoo candle magic spell kits the witch had assembled and blessed herself.

  The spells would keep their magic no more than a year, the witch had told Tori. Tori had promised to use them before their power faded. She’d given the old woman her sincere thanks and packed them away. That had been last September. Soon after, all the drama with Colin had begun, and the old witch and her gifts had slipped Tori’s mind. Until she was packing for Aunt Millie’s funeral and found them stashed in the bottom of her spare backpack.

  In three months, the hoodoo mojo would be gone. So if Tori was going to use the old witch’s gift, she’d better do it soon. And right now, with her money almost gone and her plans for the shop stalled, a little magic was just what she needed.

  But where were the spell kits? Somewhere in the chaos she currently called home. Tori had spent nearly all her savings on merchandise for the shop, and as a result, boxes were everywhere—stacked in the front room, crammed into the dining room, shoveled into the smaller of the two tiny bedrooms.

  She started hunting, and found the spells—and this had to be a good omen—in the first box she opened. There were seven gris-gris bags in all, each one a different color: green, red, orange, black, yellow, blue, and white. The handwritten tag on the white bag indicated the spell was to be used to call for help.

  That seemed appropriate.

  She unwound the twine holding the white bag closed. Inside she found a white candle about eight inches long, a small cotton pouch labeled, Sugar, and a scrap of rolled parchment. She rolled out the paper and bent her head over the spidery script.

  Place the candle on a ceramic plate.

  Sprinkle sugar all around.

  Set the plate higher than your head.

  Light with a wooden match.

  Help will soon arrive.

  That didn’t seem too difficult.

  Miraculously, she found an old box of wooden matches in the kitchen. There was no shortage of chipped ceramic plates. But where to cast the spell? The stepladder was the only thing higher than her head, so she dragged it to the center of the front room and set the candle on top. She climbed three shaky rungs, matches in hand.

  Help will soon arrive….

  Later, Tori figured this was the exact point in time where she screwed up the spell. When she lit the candle, she really should have been concentrating on the shop. The trouble was, she’d been in such a funk all day, missing Aunt Millie and trying not to dwell on how alone she was in the world now that her last living relative was dead and her relationship with Colin had gone up in flames. When the spell’s instructions echoed in her head, her heart replied with one word.

  Family.

  She wanted a big one. She always had. She wanted a mother and father, grandparents, brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews, a collection of assorted cousins and in-laws. She wanted the kind of family that loved her because she’d been born to them.

  Her wish was impossible, of course. She knew that. She’d lost the family lottery the day she was born. The only way she’d get any kind of family now was if she started one of her own.

  Her stomach started cramping again, and she almost let the tears come. But she’d cried a river since she’d miscarried, and she knew from experience that more tears wouldn’t bring back what she’d lost.

  Okay, so the white candle was about a foot over her head. It was leaning a little precariously, but she figured it’d be safe enough for a few minutes. She scraped the wooden match against the side of the matchbox. A plume of smoke rose with the sudden flame. She touched the wick. It crackled and caught.

  She climbed back down the ladder and set the matches next to the tarot. The Knight of Swords, a dark-haired warrior in full armor, stared up at her. He rode a white horse….

  She heard a car stop outside. A second later, heavy footsteps thudded on the porch. She turned as the screen door banged open.

  And she stared.

  Because Nick Santangelo was back.

  He scanned the room, brows knitted, his dark gaze uncertain until it settled unerringly on her. Suddenly, she felt restless. She told herself it was just stray energy from
the spell.

  He dragged a hand over his hair, rumpling the curls.

  “Look,” he said. “I was thinking—”

  He stopped and gave a slight shake of his head, as if trying to clear it.

  She could hardly breathe. “What were you thinking?”

  “I was thinking I’d take your job after all.”

  He was out of his freaking mind.

  Nick knew there was no other possible explanation. He’d been parked in his driveway, talking—okay, well, shouting might be a more apt description—at Thomas Southerland on his cell. Southerland had been busting Nick’s ass for the delays on the Bayview job—delays caused by Southerland’s endless parade of change orders. Nick had barely stopped himself from telling the Ivy League architect where he could shove his roll of blueprints. Teeth grinding, he’d snapped his phone closed.

  And that was when things got weird.

  Because for no good reason, he’d thrown his truck into reverse. Somehow, he must’ve backed out of his drive and made the turn onto Atlantic, because now he was standing in Tori Morgan’s whacked-out witch shop, offering to take on a job he’d had no intention of touching with a fifty-foot tape measure.

  “You’ll work on my shop?”

  Tori Morgan sounded stunned. But she wasn’t looking at him. She was staring at her broken stepladder, which was now in the center of the room serving as an unsteady perch for a candle. A lit candle.

  Jesus. Didn’t she realize the place was a firetrap? And he didn’t see a single smoke detector.

  He jabbed a thumb at the ladder. “That’s dangerous, you know.”

  “You have no idea,” she replied. But she still didn’t look at him.

  He watched uneasily as she climbed three dented rungs and blew out the flame. “Did you find Brad Weinstein’s list?”

  “Brad Weinstein?”

  “From the building inspector’s office. You did speak to Brad, didn’t you? Middle-aged guy, kind of balding?”

  “Oh, right. I’d forgotten the man’s name.”

  Why was Nick not surprised?

  Tori sifted through her box of papers again. “Here it is.”

  He focused on Brad’s dark scrawl. “This isn’t a couple days’ work. More like two weeks.”

  “That’s some kind of contractor joke, right? Everything takes two weeks?”

  “In this case, it’s the truth.” He was more annoyed than he should have been.

  “Oh. Two weeks. Well, I suppose that’s all right. As long as you’re done before the solstice.”

  “And that would be…?”

  She blinked. “The first day of summer. Doesn’t everyone know that?”

  He shot her a look. “We have a problem, then. All my men are working overtime for the next month. I can’t spare anyone for this project.”

  Her hopeful expression crumpled. “Oh.”

  He was surprised—and irritated—to feel a stab of guilt. “The date’s that important to you?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “In that case, I’ll tell you what. This isn’t really that much work. I can do it myself. After hours. If I work every night, I should be able to get you open on time.”

  Christ. Had he really said that? What the hell was wrong with him? He didn’t have time for this. He spent most of his evenings at the office as it was.

  But Tori’s face had lit up. Nick enjoyed her smile briefly before it faltered.

  “After hours? You mean, like, at night?”

  “Um, yeah, I guess. Till around eleven or so.”

  Night. A parade of interesting images marched through his brain, and none of them had to do with hanging dry-wall. He sent Tori Morgan a speculative look. Her color had risen, and she was looking everywhere but at him.

  Nick started to smile. Maybe there’d be an upside to this job after all.

  “You don’t mind, do you?”

  “I guess not,” she said, still not meeting his eyes. Her hands were moving, as if searching for something to hold on to.

  “Okay, then. I can start Monday afternoon. Five thirty. If that’s okay with you.”

  She sighed. “I guess it’ll have to be. How much will it cost?”

  “What’s your budget?”

  She named a ridiculously low figure, and he didn’t even care.

  “I’ll work with it.” He tapped the paper in his hand. “Can I keep the list?”

  Tori let out a breath. “Sure. Be my guest. Keep it.”

  Nick flashed her a grin.

  “Okay, great. See you Monday.”

  Chapter Two

  Women are the heart of any family.

  The Santangelo women were arguing again.

  Nick paused just inside his front door. The unrelenting rise and fall of feminine voices, more than anything else, told him he was home. He paused at the foyer table, dropping his wallet and emptying the change from his pocket into a jar he kept there for that purpose. He sometimes thought that if the women in his family ever stopped bickering, his house would collapse.

  He didn’t pay any particular attention until he realized they were talking about him.

  “Come on, Mimi…” Leigh said to her grandmother.

  Nick could hear the exasperation in his mother’s reply. Rita enunciated each word slowly and clearly. “Leigh, forget it. Your father will never allow it. You know how he feels about Jason.”

  “He’ll let me go if you say it’s okay!”

  Nonna’s voice intruded, thin and pointed as a needle. “Where is Nicky? This chicken, it’s shriveled like a prune.”

  Leigh’s voice came again, wheedling. “But I have to go! I promised Jason I’d be there.”

  Jason again. Christ. Nick wished to God he’d never heard that kid’s name. He started for the kitchen with angry strides, his blood pressure rising with each step.

  Rita’s voice rose. “Leigh, give it up already. Your father will never agree—”

  He reached the doorway. “What won’t I agree to?”

  The conversation came to an abrupt halt as three pairs of eyes, belonging to three generations of Santangelo women, turned toward him.

  Nick’s right temple started to throb.

  “What won’t I agree to?” he repeated a little louder when no answer was forthcoming.

  “Nothing,” Leigh muttered. She grabbed a serving spoon and fork off the counter and turned to toss the salad.

  “Nicky. At last.” Nonna laid a hand on his arm. “Grazie a Dio. I was about to call the cops.”

  “I’m not that late, Nonna.” He planted a kiss on his grandmother’s withered cheek and allowed her to tug him to the head of the table. There was no way he was getting away with a quick sandwich now. He’d start World War III if he tried to get back to the office before Nonna’s chicken was reduced to bones and gristle. And with Leigh’s newest drama, whatever it was…Damn. He’d be lucky to get back to the office by nine.

  Nonna forked chicken onto a serving plate while Rita pulled garlic bread from the oven. Nick, frowning, watched Leigh fling lettuce and tomatoes onto salad plates. If the waistband of his daughter’s shorts were rolled down any farther, he’d be seeing parts of her he hadn’t come face-to-face with since her diaper days. The thought made him slightly ill. Goddamn it all to hell. She hadn’t dressed like that before Jason.

  Leigh turned to place the salad on the table. Moodily, Nick watched her. A father didn’t like to notice such things, but he could hardly deny the fact that Leigh had inherited her mother’s bustline. Cindy’s breasts had fried Nick’s brain in high school, and he had no doubt that Leigh’s assets were destroying a similar number of brain cells in Jason MacAllister’s thick skull. If all this was God’s idea of a sick joke, Nick wasn’t laughing.

  He stared down at his salad. Christ. He wasn’t old enough for this. Damn it, he was only thirty-five. Other men his age were still changing diapers and coaching Little League. But Nick had been a horny, seventeen-year-old idiot when he’d gotten Cindy pregnant. Which was not
a comforting thought, given Leigh’s horny, seventeen-year-old idiot boyfriend. Your father will never agree…. Nick didn’t know what Leigh’s latest plea involved, but he was dead certain he wasn’t going to like it.

  Nonna presented Nick with a plate. “This chicken shoulda been eat a half hour ago. Don’t blame me if it’s ruined.”

  “I’m sure it’s delicious, Nonna,” Nick said, forking meat onto his plate. “You couldn’t cook a bad meal if you tried.”

  A smile cracked Nonna’s face. “You’re a good boy, Nicky.” She sank into her chair and bowed her head while he muttered grace.

  “Amen.” He took a piece of garlic bread and offered the basket to his mother.

  Rita shook her head. “I’m on the Flat Belly diet. You know that, Nicky.”

  He eyed her enormous salad, sprinkled with sunflower seeds and topped with a naked chicken breast. “Don’t you think you’ve lost enough weight, Ma? How much is it, now?”

  “Thirty pounds. I’ve got another five to go.”

  Nonna snorted. “Stop with the diet already. You don’t eat enough to keep a bird alive. A woman needs a little padding on her bones. You want my advice? Get rid of them hormone pills. They’re making you pazza.” She shook her head, but her tight gray curls didn’t shake with it. “And all that exercise! Santa Madonna. No woman should lift weights.”

  “I think Mimi looks great,” Leigh offered.

  She was right, Nick realized. Rita did look great, but the weight she’d lost was only part of it. She’d also gotten contact lenses, dyed her hair, and acquired a bright, clingy wardrobe. He eyed her fingernails, done in red, with fake tips. Or maybe they were real. Who the hell knew? The effect of all the changes was unnerving. Aside from a few laugh lines, Nick’s mother looked much the same as she had fifteen years ago.

  Nick didn’t like it. It made him feel like he’d gone back in time himself, to the year he’d turned twenty. The year Cindy had left him, the year his father had dropped dead. It was a year he didn’t like to think about.