Fangs and Frenemies

by Cherry Andrews

  Our welcome chimes dinged. Never had they sounded such a mourning tone.

  I patted Gran’s shoulder. “I’ll handle talking to her. Can you box up the cake and put it on a dolly?”

  This time, she didn’t hesitate but vanished into the back room. Leaving me face to face with the woman whose marriage I’d inadvertently wronged.

  Guilt scuttled like a roach through my guts as the gorgeous young bride strode up to the counter. Wowzer, that diamond of hers was bigger than a chocolate kiss. I shoehorned on my best “customer service” smile and chirped, “Good morning, miss. Congratulations on your wed—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I don’t have time for chitchat.”

  I blinked. “Oh, ok, sorry.”

  She waved me away with her sparkly hand. “You can go on and fetch my cake now. That is your job, right?”

  I gritted my teeth. I was not used to rude customers. In a town as cozy as Blue Moon Bay, most people knew better. Heck, even tourists knew better. “Hang tight, miss. We’re boxing up the cake for you now.”

  “Cool, I love waiting around for stuff I’ve already paid for.” She pouted with full, juicy, raspberry-hued lips. “I shouldn’t even be here, you know. This is all my personal assistant’s fault, for quitting the day before my actual wedding—can you imagine?”

  “N-no?” I stammered, because I couldn’t imagine having an assistant in the first place. Was rude lady a celebrity? She did look weirdly familiar.

  Especially her eyes. Mean, green, hungry eyes. They looked me up and down appraisingly. “I don’t suppose you’d want a job?”

  “I . . . have one?” I stammered.

  “I mean a real one. Not a hairnet job.” The blinged goddess wrinkled her perfect nose and smiled down at me. More like a sneer. And the sneer looked extremely familiar. “I cannot function without an assistant. My life’s too complicated. I need a team member on hand twenty-four-seven. What do they pay you here? I’ll double it.”

  “You want to poach me from Sage’s Bakery.” I laughed, even though something about this imperious woman made my palms sweat like nothing had in years. Since high school, really. “Thanks, but it’s a family business.” Chosen for me by destiny and magic. “You could say I’m invested.”

  The mean bride gasped. “You’re old lady Sage’s granddaughter, aren’t you? Knew you looked familiar . . . ” A leer twisted her Angelina Jolie lips. That leer haunted my dreams. “How’s it going, Goody Two-shoes?”

  It was Ashlee Stone. Popular, mean Ashlee Stone, my old bully. She’d colored her mousy hair a pale ash blonde and added high-volume waves. She’d slimmed down her nose, too, and puffed up her lips (among her other assets). But though she was now more silicon than woman, her meanness hadn’t changed. I swallowed. “My name is Hazel, Ashlee.”

  “That’s right, sweet little Hazel.” Ashlee slipped on a fake smile. Apparently I was worth one, now that I’d been upgraded from clerk to classmate. “So. What’s new and exciting in your world? Anything?”

  It wasn’t a nakedly mean question, I decided to answer honestly. “I’m in a good place, thanks. I love my job.”

  She let out a squeal. “Oh, that’s amazing! That someone actually ‘loves’ working in a bakery, I mean. You’re as adorable as ever.” She glanced at my bare finger. “And as single as ever, I see. Your life must be so . . . uncluttered.”

  Helpless anger welled up in me. It was disappointing sometimes, how little people changed. Rumors had flown after high school that Ashlee had moved to Los Angeles, failed at modeling, and drifted into couch surfing, pot, and chubbiness. At the time, I’d imagined a little failure might humanize her. But everything about the woman in front of me screamed success, screamed it right in my face. From her beige designer bandage dress to her three tons of diamonds set in platinum.

  And the way she was eyeing my coffee-stained sweater made it clear she understood and relished the pathetically huge gulf between us. Just like always.

  But Ashlee wasn’t just my bully now. She was my customer. I forced myself to keep it professional.

  “Yep, that’s me. Uncluttered. I’m even my own personal assistant, haha. But back to you, you’re getting married tomorrow! Sooo great.”

  “I know, right?” At her queenly smile, I congratulated myself on not letting her jerkiness get to me. Much. Then Ashlee added with a coy look, “So what it’s like, working for that crazy old crone?”

  Oh she did not. “Excuse me?”

  Ashlee’s smile was as sweet as one of those new diet sodas that you just know will turn out to cause cancer. “You heard me, Goody Two-shoes.”

  I leaned forward so our faces were inches apart. Ashlee’s floral perfume made me dizzy, but I forced myself to meet her dazzling wolfish eyes, the way I never could in high school. “It’s my privilege to learn from one of our town’s living legends,” I said, as calmly as I could, and added under my breath, “They say that marriage changes a person, so congrats in advance to your fiancé.”

  Ashlee’s eyes darted from side to side as she tried to figure out exactly how I’d insulted her.

  Before she could huff out a rejoinder, a refined alto voice called out from behind her, “Having a good gossip, schoolgirls? There’s nothing like catching up with an old friend, is there?”

  A jovial middle-aged woman stood in the doorway, towering nearly a foot over me in her sturdy high-heeled riding boots. From her smooth grey pageboy, to her taupe suede car coat, to her Louis Vuitton handbag that contained a small, fluffy white dog, Estelle Kensington looked every inch the affluent matron whose family milestones were documented by local media. Seeing her in person always made me feel starstruck. Maybe it was because I’d grown up seeing her portrait on display every time I walked into the town library, which she and her husband, Frederick, built in honor of their son, Drew.

  Only one year older than me, dark-haired, broad-shouldered Drew was the closest thing we had to a local prince. When his private school football team whipped Blue Moon High’s, the girls on our side quietly cheered for Drew. One of our cheerleaders, Jenna, briefly dated him. Even I’d indulged the odd fantasy of someday marrying the most eligible bachelor in . . . oh my Gods.

  Ashlee was marrying Drew?

  That alone was proof life wasn’t fair.

  “Mother Kensington!” Ashlee’s voice honeyed as she rushed over to exchange air-kisses with Estelle. “Such a lovely surprise. I’m honored that you came. Hiya, Sammy Boy, you sweet puppy.” The lapdog yipped indignantly as she stroked its ears with her ice-pink shellac manicure. Was Ashlee faking her deference, or was it possible even she felt cowed by the level of wealth and power she was marrying into? The Kensingtons dominated the elite Blue Moon Heights Country Club set. Now Ashlee would, too. As the future queen of Blue Moon Bay’s high society, I thought darkly, she’d probably outlaw libraries and museums from town.

  Leaving only lash-extension salons and Botox clinics. Maybe the odd Sephora.

  Granny Sage took that moment to emerge pushing a dolly stacked with three neat, white bakery boxes. Mrs. Kensington and Ashlee crowded around it to peek inside at the cake.

  “Such a timeless work of art.” Mrs. Kensington gushed, as if it were a Renoir. To Ashlee she added, “In this vulgar age it’s hard to find a classic design like this anywhere but at Sage’s Bakery.”

  “Yeah, um, super classic, right?” Ashlee echoed, sounding like a moron.

  She was just shamelessly sucking up to her future mother-in-law, I told myself, but the rain of compliments from them both still made me squirm with guilt. I knew the truth about that cake, even if they never would.

  It was unblessed.

  Unmagical.

  A failure.

  I was relieved when a stylish mid-thirties woman with spiky short black hair burst in, panting. “So sorry, ma’am, Kent couldn’t find a parking space big enough for the hummer so we’re circling.”

  “Don’t apologize, Leeza. I’m having such a nice visit with Sage’s granddaughter.”
/>
  “Ah, right, you must be Hazel.” The stylish assistant nodded at me.

  “You know my name?” I blurted out.

  “Sorry, I just realized that must have sounded creepy.” Leeza laughed, and it was that rusty bark of a laugh you hear from people who are wound too tight. “See, it’s my job to keep up with all the up and coming artisans in Blue Moon Bay.” She stole a glance around the shop and narrowed her eyes. Was I imagining it, or was she zeroing in on the smudged display glass, the empty tables? Imagined or not, the inspection made me feel uneasy. “I keep an up-to-date spreadsheet listing every chef, baker, stylist, what have you. We’re always hiring for events and so on.”

  That was interesting, I thought, wondering what they might pay for a catering gig. The green cushion on the bakery’s corner booth had the stuffing coming out of it, and too many of our mugs were chipped . . .

  “Any friend of Ashlee’s gets priority of course.” Mrs. K smiled and gestured to the space between me and Ashlee, as if there was something good happening there. “I never did get the story on how you two know each other. Did you ride horses together as young girls? Ballet school? Tennis camp?”

  Ashley snorted softly under her breath. For once I didn’t blame her. The thought of us being best buddies who did rich-kid stuff together was too much.

  Ashlee had grown up on an ordinary street with modest ramblers and overgrown backyards. My street.

  She’d moved in when we were eighth graders for the most unglamorous of reasons: her mom was online-dating a townie and they’d decided to shack up. By graduation that romance was donezo, and Ashlee and her mom headed back to California. Forever, I’d assumed.

  And hoped.

  “We were classmates, ma’am,” I said. Hoping that made it clear we weren’t especially close.

  It didn’t. Estelle Kensington was just too unflappably positive to glean that my friendship with Ashlee wasn’t a thing.

  “In that case.” Mrs. K reached into her Louis Vuitton bag, after giving Sammy Boy a scratch behind his white ears, and presented an engraved card on plush, cream-colored paper. “Hopefully you can make it to our little reception tomorrow?”

  I gulped. “Um, wow. I really couldn’t—”

  “Mother Kensington, you are too kind. Too, too kind. But I’m sure Hazel must be so very busy.” Ashlee shot me a murderous look. I almost chuckled at her desperate need to keep losers like me away from her exclusive party. As if she had anything to worry about. I had zero desire to buy my ex-bully a wok, waffle iron, or fondue set. She’d proved herself to be the same shallow mean girl as ever. All those nasty barbs.

  Especially about Gran.

  Gran, who at this very moment was fixing me with a pointed look. Eyes wide. Grey head nodding. Eager for me to say yes, to pick up the engraved card Estelle Kensington was holding out to me.

  Why?!

  The blessing spell. If I went to the wedding, I’d have one final opportunity to stand over the cake for a few solid minutes (without anyone noticing, somehow) and complete the spell.

  To prove I was ready to take over the bakery.

  Ashlee Stone was glaring daggers at my head.

  I took a deep breath. Hex my life. “Ashlee, I’d be honored to attend your wedding tomorrow.”

  Chapter 2

  It was only a six-minute commute from downtown Ocean Street to my cozy house on Filbert Road. As I made my way homeward at dusk, blasting my favorite tunes couldn’t stop my vague dread of Ashlee’s wedding from blooming into a full-on freak-out.

  What had I gotten myself into?

  I belonged in my baker’s apron. Kneading pie crusts. Whispering my little spells. Little spells that made the world a little better. I did not belong at the Blue Moon Heights Country Club party, mingling with the beautiful people.

  I was still panicking when a red light again trapped me outside Java Kitty Café’s glass window.

  As usual, the place was buzzing. A fake fireplace in the corner glowed with a bold indigo flame. Laptop workers were arranged around it, lounging in white minimalist armchairs. I shook my head in frustrated admiration. How did these people do it?

  Like any coastal village, Blue Moon Bay had its seasonal rhythms. Our tourist season blazed in summer, and shut down after all the leaves had fallen. Sage’s Bakery had switched to reduced winter hours three weeks ago. Yet here it was, after 6 PM in November and Java Kitty was packed.

  Did people love clean, modern design that much?

  If so, we were screwed.

  While I was spying and stewing and fearing for my bakery’s future, a green vintage Mustang eased into the last remaining parking spot. I stared in stinging disbelief at the driver’s long, tangled red hair raging in the wind. But why was I even surprised?

  Loyalty was never your strong suit, was it, Max?

  I watched Maxine de Klaw’s long, athletic form jog through the lot in her ripped jeans and combat boots, her sweatshirt printed with some math equation. The goofy expression she wore was typical Max. Gaze lost in thought. Bee-stung lips curved up in a mischievous half smile. As if she’d just come up with a cool, crazy idea that would get us in trouble for weeks. A nostalgic ache lit up my chest and I looked away.

  People have the right to drink soulless coffee if they want to, I reminded myself. It’s not like she’s cheating on Sage’s Bakery to hurt me. Max was too logical to think in such terms, for one thing. For another, she was clueless when it came to other people’s feelings. Hadn’t I learned that the hard way, so many years ago?

  Mainly, it was myself I was annoyed with. I thought I’d finally learned not to take Max’s aloofness—her inscrutable Maxness—personally.

  Where most people craved human contact to be happy, all she seemed to need was her computer and a large mocha, no whipped cream.

  Out of the corner of my eye, the traffic light changed . . . to red again. Glaring at Max’s traitorous back had cost me an entire traffic cycle.

  That’s when the smell hit my nostrils.

  The reek of something burning . . . and it wasn’t coffee. More like grass. A crisp pungent scent, like freshly barbecued lawn.

  My magical senses awoke as if to a blaring alarm. Go, go, go! Instinct screamed at me.

  Trixie peeled out of the lot like a deranged bat, running the red light.

  “Sorry, did I jump the gun?” Trixie asked in her purring voice.

  “Not at all, babe. We were on the same page.”

  Though, that made two red lights run in one day.

  My breathing didn’t slow to normal till I’d rolled onto my own street.

  Filbert Road was named for the sprawling hazelnut orchard that was cut down to make way for the neighborhood around ten years ago. But filbert trees are awfully hard to kill. Cut one to the ground and two new suckers sprout up next to it in spring.

  The young zombie grove invading my planting strip never failed to make me grin with amusement as I passed by. But my head was still spinning as I tried to make sense of what I’d just smelled.

  We witches could often sense when magic spells were being performed around us. Green magic had a sweet, bright scent like mown grass. When Blue Moon Bay’s small community of practitioners met for a monthly pancake breakfast, for example, our table smelled like a spring lawn. But only to us.

  Black magic reeked like burning rubber. Since it was strictly outlawed, I’d never smelled it myself.

  Then there was Grey magic.

  The final kind of magic was considered experimental and not exactly safe, so its use was limited to academic settings. But I’d heard rumors (at the last pancake breakfast, in fact) that big corporations were starting to hire Grey magic practitioners as consultants, on the theory that it gave their businesses an edge. I had no idea how that worked, but I did know what Grey magic was supposed to smell like.

  Burning grass.

  Was that Java Kitty’s real secret all along? That whoever ran this place was using an unstable form of magic to make their café wildly p
opular? And if it were true, what could I do to stop their stinky, over-roasted magic before they put us out of business?

  Yesterday, I would have run to Gran for help. She always knew what to do . . . but Gran, much as I hated to admit it to myself, wasn’t the same witch as she was even a year ago. Her magic was gently fading, and today she’d seemed at peace with semiretirement. Taxing her with this now could be bad for her health.

  No, if I was worthy of becoming a master witch and running the bakery, then I’d need to neuter Java Kitty myself.

  Yikes, that sounded way more graphic than I intended.

  But I resolved to do it.

  Metaphorically.

  As I pulled into the driveway, there was a slim blue carbon road bike parked on my English thyme and alpine-strawberry lawn. Despite the several impossible tasks that were on my plate, the sight of that bike made me smile. Because there was Bryson, leaning casually against my cranberry-wreathed front door. Looking serenely sexy like a catalog model in jeans and a brown bomber jacket, unzipped over a blue button-down that matched his sea-blue eyes.

  I turned off the engine and ran straight into his waiting arms. His clean skin and leather jacket scent was pure aromatherapy, even better than my giant herb garden which hugged us on all sides. Bryson’s sandy hair had that slightly messy look going on, probably thanks to the bike helmet that now rested at his feet. Next to it was a bottle of white wine, and a fragrant bag of Thai takeout.

  “Thanks for bringing food—and wine.” I murmured into his spicy neck. I wished I could escape into his arms forever, and never have to face the outside world again. “It’s almost as if you knew I was having a rough day.”

  “Oh, I knew,” he said calmly. He said everything calmly. “The tone of your texts gave it away.”

  I pulled back in surprise and racked my brain to see if I’d said anything off-putting. “Texts have a tone?”

  “They do if you know how to read between the lines.”

  “You mean . . . ” I felt a pun coming on, unstoppable as a sneeze. “The subtext, if you will?”