Wisteria Witches
A NOVEL
Angela Pepper
| SECOND EDITION |
WWW.ANGELAPEPPER.COM
Chapter 1
The real estate agent didn't say anything about the house coming with a ghost. You really should get a discount for something like that. Some people would be willing to pay extra to get a genuine ghost, but I'm not one of those people. I already have enough going on with my supernatural powers.
My name is Zara Riddle, and I am a witch. Shocker, right? Tell me about it! I only just found out myself.
I spent the first thirty-two years of my life not knowing I was a witch. Everything changed the day I moved across the country to a quaint little town I'd never heard of before: Wisteria.
It was a bright spring day, and my daughter and I had just arrived at our new home. I stood on the sidewalk in front of the property, grinning like a ding-dong. The home was a gorgeous three-story Victorian Gothic, painted red. The pale purple and pink blossoms of the wisteria vines twisting along the front porch accented the bright gingerbread detail on the adorable house that was now mine, mine, mine.
Here I was, trading my big city life for modest dreams, such as getting to know my neighbors. With the world tilting toward conflict and chaos, and so much despair on the evening news, it felt natural to seek refuge somewhere smaller. Somewhere people got involved, and looked out for each other. But not too small for a good bakery. I'm impulsive, not crazy.
"Mom, close your mouth and stop staring," my daughter said as she pinched my arm. "For the millionth time, you're not dreaming. Now move your butt and help me with the boxes before these moving truck pirates charge us for overtime."
"Where are the guys now?"
"Using the washroom," she said. "The one guy keeps gushing about the claw-foot tub. What's the big deal? It's an old tub with weird chicken feet." She wrinkled her f nose.
"People pay extra for tubs with weird chicken feet."
She scowled. "He'd better not be taking a bath up there and charging us for his time."
"So much concern!" I ruffled her bright red hair. My daughter was usually optimistic, yet she hadn't said anything positive about her new house. "Stop worrying about the movers and tell me which bedroom you picked."
She ducked away with annoyance and smoothed her hair. "Let's get the moving done first. We need to get everything inside the house before I go to school."
"Zoey, it's Saturday. Unless things are very unconventional here in Wisteria, you don't start at your new school until Monday."
She rolled her eyes the way only a teenager talking to her exasperating mother can. I'd been seeing the whites of her eyes so much, I'd nearly forgotten the irises were hazel, the same as mine.
"Mo-o-om," she moaned, dragging it out to three syllables. "I told you. Since we don't have a car anymore, I need to walk to the school today and figure out the best route so I'm not late on Monday."
"Okay, gotcha," I said, walking around to the back of the moving truck. "I should count my blessings that I'm the owner of the only sixteen-year-old who actually wants to go to school."
She jumped up into the truck and started handing me boxes. "I'm not sixteen until tomorrow, and you're not my owner." Another eyeroll but at least she was smiling.
"People who have pets are called owners, and you're like a very smart pet. You're certainly not a regular child. I swear, sixteen years ago you waltzed your way out of my womb, shook hands with the taxi driver who delivered you, and corrected my pronunciation of the name of the hospital we didn't make it to."
Zoey stopped grabbing boxes inside the moving truck, put her elbows on a stack, and rested her chin on her hands. Flatly, she said, "Gee, Mom, tell me the story about the night I was born. I'll start you off. It was eight o'clock, and the double-length pre-finale episode of Wicked Wives had just started on TV."
"You've heard this story before?" I batted my eyelashes innocently.
She smirked and continued the tale. "You were on the internet, live-blogging your reactions to the episode as it aired, and adding in color commentary about your labor pains. At first you were joking, but then you started having real contractions. Your fans were arguing about whether you should go to the hospital or fill a kiddie pool with water and go for it at home with your webcams running."
"Don't stop now," I said. "This is where it gets fun. My webcam broadcast started going viral as the contractions got closer together."
Zoey's grin suddenly disappeared. She stared over my head, at something or someone behind me.
A man with a rich, deep voice said, "You're Zara the Camgirl?"
I turned around slowly. "I'm just Zara now. My Camgirl days are over."
"Chet Twenty-one," the man said. He had eyes. I assumed. And possibly a face. A body would have been holding everything up, probably. All I saw was eyes. The greenest of green, with glints of silver and gold.
"You have the nicest green eyes," I said. "Who are you?"
"I'm Chet Moore. I live next door to you, in the blue house with the goat on the roof. Chet Twenty-one was my internet alias back in the day. I'm sure you don't remember me. You had hundreds of regulars who'd post on your blog."
I had a cardboard box in my arms, so I jabbed my chin over my shoulder in the direction of Zoey. "That charming redhead is not my sister," I said. "She's my daughter. She says whenever I meet a cute guy, I always pass her off as my younger sister, but it's not true. I hardly ever do that. Besides, if you followed my blog, you saw me go into labor with her, so you'd never believe me anyway."
He grinned. He had teeth. Eyes and also teeth. Just like a human being! Wow. This guy's looks were making me stupid. What was this crushing sensation I felt in my chest? Was this why people called it a crush? My pulse was racing. My mouth went dry. I couldn't stop staring at the tall, dark-haired man.
I'd never laid eyes on him before, and yet he was familiar. Underneath my rising temperature and tingling nerves, there was a sense of comfort. Of safety. We weren't just meeting today. We were reuniting. Together again after a painful absence.
The man who'd ensnared me so easily said, "You're staring at me. Is there something on my face?"
I forced myself to blink before my eyeballs seized up completely. There's nothing on your face, I joked in my head. Unless you'd like some of my face on your face? Like my lips, for example?
I bit back my thoughts and struggled to compose myself. Chet Moore was just a regular person, not some long-lost lover, and I had to stop acting like a ding-dong.
"Nope," I said with a smile. "It's just that you're cuter than a ladybug picnic. I'd shake your hand like a normal neighbor, but I've got a box in my arms."
He smiled back. He found me charming, which made him twice as cute. He looked down at the label on the cardboard box I was gripping like a life preserver. "A box full of XL PMS sweatpants, if the label on the front is to be believed."
"Once a month, I balloon up to three times my size," I told him solemnly.
"At least you're prepared."
"That's a joke," I said. "I put funny labels on all the boxes to make moving more fun." I shook the box, which made a non-sweatpants-like clattering sound. "These are actually pots and pans."
"So, the box your daughter is holding is not full of Nun-Chuks and Nun Habits?"
I glanced back at Zoey, who looked embarrassed, just as I'd expected. Even if I wasn't saying outrageous things to strangers, she usually got tense waiting for the intera
ction to inevitably turn mortifying. Teenagers were so easily mortified. That was what made having one so much fun.
I turned back to Chet, still smiling. "No, but you could use the contents to make those things. It's craft supplies, mostly yarn and a selection of glues. Plus those googly eyes that turn any object into a Disney character."
He took the wackiness without any visible sign of surprise. "You should fit right in here on Beacon Street," he said. "Welcome to the neighborhood. We should probably shake hands now."
I jiggled the box in my arms. "I'll be done moving in about an hour."
He took my box from me, shuffled it to one strong-looking arm, and shook my hand.
"It's official," he said. "I now pronounce us neighbors."
"Neighbors," I repeated. As our hands touched, I got a flash of us together on a beach. My throat felt thick with emotion. For some strange reason, I added, "Til death do us part."
He abruptly jerked his hand away from mine.
From behind me, in the back of the moving truck, Zoey groaned, "Oh, Mom."
I'd gone too far. I quickly replayed what I'd said. Neighbors. Til death do us part. What had gotten into me?
"Sorry," I said to Chet. "That was in poor taste, considering your previous neighbor just passed away. I didn't know her, but I'm sure she was a lovely woman."
"It's fine," he said with a casual shrug. "Let me give you a hand with these last boxes."
"We Riddle women can do it ourselves. We're tougher than we look, and we've done everything for ourselves for sixteen years. Plus there are two burly guys around here somewhere, and they're supposed to be helping. I'm not paying them the big bucks to defile my new bathrooms."
"I insist," Chet said. "Many hands lighten the load. You'll be saving me time because I won't need to hit the gym today." He set the box on the edge of the moving truck and reached up to offer his hand to Zoey.
"Chet Moore," he said. "Let me wish you an early happy birthday, Zoey. It seems like only yesterday I saw you smashing your very first chocolate cake with your baby fists."
"That was on the internet," she said coolly. "You don't know me." She didn't shake his hand. Apparently, the man's knee-melting, heart-crushing, stupidity inducing charms only worked on adult women.
"Fair enough," he said with a good-natured smile. "Stack a couple more boxes on here, would you?"
She did, and he left for the front door without another word.
I turned and gave my daughter The Look. Could she try a little harder to make a good first impression in our new town? Could she extend to her mother the tiniest bit of credit that the was a good decision? Didn't she see how hard I was trying to improve both of our lives? Couldn't she say just one nice thing about our new house? I squinted hard, putting all of these things into The Look.
She responded by rolling her eyes while sighing.
The Look could be magical at times, but it could only do so much. We would have to talk this through, the way we usually did.
I shrugged and nodded for her to keep handing me boxes from the moving truck.
Zoey was a great kid, and she'd come around eventually. Moving is hard for people, even when it's a positive move. I chose to enjoy the sunshine and the day. Our new life lay before us, the pages fresh and unwritten, awaiting discovery like a brand-new journal.
What I couldn't have known at the time was that my future wasn't exactly blank. Other people in Wisteria had made elaborate plans that involved me, and soon I would be swept up in events so strange I couldn't have imagined them in my weirdest dreams.
And it would all start in just a few short hours. My sixteen-year-old daughter would inform me that our lovely new house-with its gingerbread trim, wisteria-lined porch, and cast iron claw-foot tub-had a ghost. Plus I would discover, in the most shocking way possible, that I, Zara Riddle, am a witch.
Chapter 2
"I totally heard a ghost upstairs in the attic," Zoey said as she entered the kitchen at six o'clock that night.
"Very funny," I said.
"The opposite of funny," she said gravely. "There's a ghost in this otherwise-perfect house."
"So, you admit that this house is perfect?" I set down the head of lettuce I'd been holding, and struck my finger in the air. "You can't take it back. You said something positive. The streak of doubt has been broken."
"Mom, I said the house would be perfect, except for the ghost. But it really is haunted." She sighed. "I guess we'll have to move back home and return to our old life."
"Already? But we just said goodbye to everyone, and went to all the going-away parties. Mrs. Hutchins made us her famous tuna-noodle casserole, and then she prayed for us. The woman prayed. She wished us a bountiful new life full of blessings. We can't go back and tell Mrs. Hutchins her prayers didn't work. We'll just have to stay here in Wisteria to avoid breaking the sweet old woman's heart."
Zoey sighed and rested her elbows on the kitchen island. "I did hear something, but maybe it was just this house getting used to us. Why are old buildings so creaky?"
"Because the metal parts contract more than the wood, so the nails, pipes, and air ducts rub against the wood."
She squinted her hazel eyes at me. "You're such a librarian."
"I've been called worse." I winked at her.
She gazed up at the ceiling of the kitchen. "Wouldn't it be cool if there was a ghost? I've always wanted something special to happen to me, to make me less boring."
I stopped my food preparation and circled around the kitchen island to give her a hug. She grunted and tried to escape, but I wrestled her into my embrace using my motherly brute strength.
Once she'd calmed down, I kissed the top of her bright red head. "You're not boring, Zoey. You excel at everything you try. You're brilliant, and you're the best daughter in the whole universe."
She made a face. "You're only saying that to boost my confidence and make me feel secure and happy."
"Stop decoding my motherhood skills and just enjoy them."
She snuggled in and hugged me back.
I inhaled deeply. Was this the moment I'd been waiting for? Two days earlier, when the movers had loaded everything but our toothbrushes into a big, white truck, I'd been hit with a blast of anxiety unlike anything I'd experienced before. The feeling was sharp, like the point of a pin, threatening to burst my protective bubble of optimism and hope. In the two days since, I'd felt as if I'd been holding my breath, waiting to exhale once I felt safe.
Was this it? The moment I could relax?
I felt my muscles tightening, squeezing me with a fresh, new wave of anxiety. I hugged my daughter even tighter. She made a strangled noise, and then squeaked, "Can't breathe."
I threw open my arms and spun her out of my embrace like a ballerina. She twirled and giggled.
I waved my arms around and did a silly dance to keep her laughing. My daughter was nearly sixteen, but when I made her laugh, I saw the sweet little kid who started a plant-watering business so she could spy in other people's apartments and report back about what "normal" people did. Normal people did things like bake tuna-noodle casserole and host dinner parties.
That was it. I could alleviate my moving-related anxiety by hosting a celebration.
I stopped dancing and made the announcement. "Let's throw a housewarming party!"
She twisted her lips to the side and gave me a dubious look. "For all of the many people we know in this town?"
"Good point. We need more prospects."
"I might make a new friend or two at school next week, but I won't bring them over unless you promise not to embarrass me."
"I never make promises I have no intention of keeping."
She groaned.
I rolled a ripe tomato across the kitchen island at her. "Chop that," I said. "Don't slice it or wedge it. We're making chopped salad for dinner, and everything has to be chopped."
"Since when do we eat salad?" She squinted at me. "This house might not be haunted, but I think it does have
magical powers. We've only been living here a few hours, and you're like a whole different person. A person who makes salad."
"We're getting a fresh start," I said. "We can completely reinvent ourselves. I'll be the mom who goes to yoga classes and makes salads instead of licking the icing off ten-day-old cupcakes. Why don't you try something new, too? Dye your hair cobalt blue and be the new freaky kid at your school. What's the dress code there? You can borrow my leather bustier and those sexy boots you won't let me wear in public."
"Gross," she said.
"Live a little," I said.
She wrinkled her nose and started chopping the tomato in the Riddle Family tradition-two hands on the knife handle, safely away from the blade. Both of us suffered from a vegetable-slicing phobia. She caught it from me, and I got it from TV and movies. Outside of cooking shows, every time someone on-screen is shown chopping vegetables, they cut themselves. Okay, not every time, but often enough that whenever you see the knife and carrots, you tense up because you know something's coming, right?
Zoey finished chop-smashing the tomato. "I think I'll borrow your boots," she said. "But everything else is going to be normal."
There was that word again. Normal. Why couldn't my daughter give up on being normal the way I had, and learn to embrace being weird?
"Make a bunch of new friends so they can come to the housewarming party," I said. "Speaking of new friends, I wonder what our Realtor, Dorothy Tibbits, is up to?"
"Something nutty, I'm sure. She's a bit cuckoo."
"You're so judgmental. Sure, the woman dresses up like Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz, but does wearing a blue pinafore make one cuckoo?"
"Not on its own, but carrying business paperwork in a wicker basket is not something a normal person does. Especially not a woman who's over sixty."
"She might be sixty, but her face is barely forty," I said. The woman did have the confusing appearance of someone attempting to look younger.
Zoey gave me a blank stare. I'd bought the house on a solo trip to Wisteria, so she'd only met the real estate agent in person earlier that day on the front porch. When Dorothy Tibbits pulled the house keys out of her wicker basket, Zoey had taken a cautious step away from the zanily costumed woman and refused to say two words to her.
3-Book Series Bundle: Wisteria Witches, Wicked Wisteria, Wisteria Wonders - Cozy Witch Mysteries Page 1