“It’s definitely going to be a wild night,” I agreed, hurrying after her and daring a wary peek at the darkening sky. Then I looked down at the path again, being careful not to trip, because I was carrying a basket that held freshly cut flowers, a ceramic rabbit, a flowerpot—and three sharp old garden tools, all props I’d use to create a still-life scene that guests to my upcoming wine-and-painting social could re-create in oils.
Joining Astrid at the studio door, I fumbled with the knob, while the wind, which was rising ahead of a storm, jangled the chimes that hung in my apple trees and rattled the shutters on my cottage. The rooster weather vane atop the pink wooden playhouse where my rescue pig, Mortimer, lived was spinning in wild circles. Finally managing to open the door, I gestured for Astrid to dash inside. “It feels like a tornado’s coming!”
“Oh, there’s a tornado headed our way,” Pepper noted dryly, strolling right past me, too. She appeared completely calm, cool and collected in a pair of white jeans and a sleeveless black top, and the gusts weren’t even riffling her perfect, blond bob—probably because she was quietly using her skills as an elemental, a witch tuned in to nature’s forces and cycles. I stepped back farther to allow Pepper to pull a red wagon stocked with wine from her family’s vineyard, Twin Vines, and food from her inn, the Crooked Chimneys, through the door, which I closed behind us all, shutting out the gale. “We should all brace for a flesh-and-blood cyclone,” Pepper added, dragging the wagon toward a mustard-yellow, antique dry sink, where I usually served snacks during parties. “Or should I say, a category six human hurricane?”
“I thought hurricanes only went up to five,” Astrid noted, shaking out her poncho, which featured elaborate zodiac-inspired designs. I suspected the garment came from the clearance rack at her quirky shop, Astrid’s Astral Emporium, located in a narrow purple storefront on the bustling main street of our eclectic, artsy hometown, Zephyr Hollow, Pennsylvania.
Without waiting for instruction, because my friends often helped out with my gatherings, Astrid grabbed a porcelain matchbox holder from a shelf near the door and began to light the many candles I kept tucked throughout the barn. We were all fans of ambience, but, as the studio shook from floor to rafters, I thought the nonelectric light might come in handy.
“Can a storm really be worse than five?” Astrid noted again, striking a match and lighting a sage-scented candle I’d placed on a windowsill. Then she shook out her hand, extinguishing the flame. “And who is this terrible person who’s about to blow us away?”
As if on cue, the wind howled angrily, and a petite, sweet gray cat with a white crescent-shaped mark on her chest—one of the inspirations for my studio’s name—yowled in protest and jumped up onto the long farmhouse table where I planned to create the still life.
I smiled at the sleepy feline, who didn’t like her naps to be interrupted, even by forces of nature. “It’s time you woke up for a few minutes, Luna,” I reminded her, setting the basket on the table. “You’ve probably been sleeping all day.”
Luna flicked her tail and blinked her yellow eyes, seeming to ask why that might be a bad thing.
Over by the dry sink, where she was arranging a tempting display of treats next to equally inviting bottles of pinot grigio, Pepper grinned a bit wickedly and waggled her fingers, which were heavy with silver rings. “You know I could probably calm this tempest so poor Luna can get her beauty rest.”
“Please, no messing with the weather,” I begged my friend, smoothing my floral yellow spaghetti-strap blouse back into place. “Put those fingers away!”
Pepper laughed and waved off my concerns, again fluttering her hand. “Oh, I can’t really banish a storm.”
I wasn’t so sure about that. Of me, Astrid and Pepper—the sole members of the world’s least organized coven—Pepper was by far the most powerful witch. Female members of her family could trace their interest in magic and divination back to the Mayflower’s arrival, and I suspected the Armbrusters’ ancestral fortune was tied to the women’s special abilities more than to the men’s business acumen.
Meanwhile, most of what I, Willow Bellamy, knew about witchcraft came from a tattered family journal that contained a mishmash of recipes for everything from healing herbal teas to less-than-mystical Jell-O salads; handwritten “spells” with margin notes explaining when they had—and often hadn’t—worked; and descriptions of rituals that seemed to enjoy roughly the same success rate as the spells, all collected by the last four or five generations of aspiring Bellamy witches.
My grandmother, Anna—quite the brewer of powerful, sometimes misfiring, teas herself—had quietly given me the Bellamy Book of Spells, Lore & Miscellany when, at age eighteen, I happened to rest a hand on a painting and found myself accidentally sucked into the artist’s soul, making me, apparently, a witch of the arts-and-crafts variety, just like Pepper was an elemental.
I could still vividly recall how Grandma Anna, who’d also handed down the genes responsible for my thick, black hair and unusual green eyes, had pulled me aside and said, “Your mother thinks this is all horse hockey. But, given that you obviously have gifts, I’d take a gander at the stuff in these pages, before you get yourself killed.”
I’d taken that advice and come to embrace a world that my mother, Mayor Celeste Bellamy Dinsmore Crockett Dinsmore Bellamy—who had a winding history of divorce and remarriage—did consider suspect.
In spite of lacking maternal support, I still had a stronger background than Astrid, who came from a family of determinedly mundane accountants, and who seemed to learn most of what she knew about her chosen path—astrological—from questionable Internet sites. However, what Astrid lacked in knowledge and experience, she made up for with clothing and jewelry.
Every so often, Pepper and I had to tactfully let her know that she looked a bit too much like a cartoon version of Merlin. In fact, we’d secretly taken away Astrid’s purple velvet pointed hat, the ashes of which would forever rest at the bottom of my backyard firepit, surrounded by a cozy circle of Adirondack chairs that overlooked a bubbling stream called Peddler’s Creek.
To quote a questionably wise axiom my Great Aunt Edith had added to the Book of Bellamy, “It’s not a crime if it’s a favor.”
“Is anyone going to tell me who the hurricane is?” Astrid asked while I began to unpack the basket.
Glancing over, I saw that she was eating one of the watermelon-and-feta skewers Pepper had just arranged on a delicate white platter. Pepper had also supplied bruschetta, topped with basil and heirloom tomatoes from my garden, and Crooked Chimneys’ locally famous pasta salad with grilled vegetables. I’d baked mini plum tarts topped with a drizzle of honey, the fruit and nectar gathered from my own trees and beehives. I was probably a borderline garden witch, if there was such a thing as borderline witchcraft.
While thunder rumbled in the distance, Astrid licked her fingers, which were covered in a tangy balsamic reduction. “Should I be worried about more than getting struck by lightning on the way home?”
“I would never let you get struck, Astrid,” Pepper promised, pulling the cork from a bottle of wine. I had no idea if she was joking. I didn’t see a twinkle in her gorgeous blue eyes as she poured each of us a small tumbler full of the award-winning pinot grigio that was adding to the Armbruster fortune. Joining me at the table, where I was arranging the flowers, Pepper slid the wine toward me, then gave Luna a quick scratch behind the ears. Luna tipped her head, practically grinning, while Pepper turned to Astrid, who’d grabbed a tart. “But I can’t protect you from Evangeline Fletcher’s lightning-sharp tongue tonight.”
At the sound of my cantankerous next-door neighbor’s name, Luna yowled and ran off. Astrid was also clearly stunned. Her brown eyes grew wide, and she thumped her chest, like she was choking on her bite of tart. “No!” she cried, when she could finally speak. Her worried gaze darted between me and Pepper. “She’s not really coming here, is she?”
All at once, I heard a loud rustle of feather
s above us, and I looked up to the exposed beams to discover that the Owl & Crescent’s other namesake—a majestic, suitably wise barn owl named Rembrandt—also seemed displeased to learn that our surly neighbor planned to join the gathering, which was sponsored by the Zephyr Hollow Small Business Alliance.
Narrowing his dark, intelligent eyes, Remi rattled his wings again, letting us all know that he’d be keeping an eye on the woman who’d once called a wildlife officer to trap the “pet” I was “illegally keeping” at my place of business.
Given that Rembrandt had lived in the barn before I’d renovated it, and came and went as he pleased, the accusation had, of course, been ridiculous. Just like Evangeline’s claim that the pig who lived in a pink playhouse, complete with flower boxes, was “livestock,” and therefore also suitable for seizure by animal control.
Evangeline had even called the authorities on Luna, insisting that my feline companion was feral because she sometimes napped on top of my potting shed.
And then there were the shadier rumors she’d spread about me . . .
“I can’t believe Ms. Fletcher has the nerve to show up here,” Astrid said, interrupting my thoughts and puffing her poncho indignantly. “I know she’s responsible for that crazy tale about ‘blood ceremonies’ being held at the Owl & Crescent!”
Slipping into one of the antique ladder-back chairs that ringed the table, Pepper shook her head. “Such a shame that you had to spill red paint all over yourself, Willow. If only it had been blue!”
Astrid’s cheeks were pink with outrage on my behalf. “And such a shame that Evangeline was, as always, spying when you went to the cottage to clean up, because that rumor cost you business for a good six months.” She gestured to Rembrandt, then to Luna, who sat at the far edge of the table, licking her paws. “I swear, Evangeline Fletcher wants to get rid of all your poor animals and force you to move, too.”
I was pretty sure that was the case. While most people in my quirky community—discounting my own mother—embraced the unusual, my neighbor had made it very clear that she wasn’t a fan of my lifestyle or my colorful property. I knew from the Zephyr Hollow rumor mill that Evangeline wanted to buy my house herself and paint the pink, yellow and aqua Victorian cottage some dull shade, like brown.
From what I understood, she also hated Mortimer’s playhouse and wanted to raze the barn, too. My small colony of bees were another source of aggravation, although they mainly just buzzed around my own gardens—which, if Evangeline ever did succeed in wresting my home away from me, would probably be replaced with the uniform, short grass that surrounded her own, much larger home, known locally as “Fletcher Mansion.”
However, I would never sell my property, and there was no sense in fretting about things that wouldn’t happen, especially before a party.
Taking a deep, calming breath—followed by an equally calming sip of wine—I continued to arrange my small scene, adding a rustic trowel, a hand rake, and an ancient, but wickedly sharp, pair of pruners that I’d used just that morning. Then I looked up at Rembrandt. “No one’s going to throw a net over you again,” I promised him, turning to Luna. “And no one’s sending you to the pound, either, or—heaven forbid—turning poor Mortimer into pork.”
Glancing out one of the barn’s many windows, I saw that the black-and-white pig in question had ventured outside of his house, which was like a miniature version of my cottage. He was trotting around his enclosure, his snout raised as he watched the weather vane spin in the wind. I made a mental note to bring him inside the barn if the storm got too bad. Then I addressed my friends. “We humans also need to remember that, as a member of the Small Business Alliance, Evangeline has every right to join this gathering. She does own one of Zephyr Hollow’s most successful restaurants.”
Pepper rolled her eyes. “I swear, she gets half her business by leaving fake reviews—both good ones for the Silver Spoon and bad ones for every other place in town—all over the Internet. The Crooked Chimneys has received several one-star ratings in the last few months.”
Astrid frowned. “Everybody knows your inn has the best, not to mention most romantic, restaurant around, and that there are lots of other good spots in Zephyr Hollow, too.”
“Locals might know that,” Pepper pointed out. “But tourists go by what they read online. And, I swear, lately somebody has been planting nasty reviews everywhere. Linh Tran, from the Typhoon, has noticed it, too. Her business is way down at the height of the tourist season. She only has twelve reservations for the night of the Gallery Walk.”
I’d been adjusting the garden tools one last time, but I paused, surprised by that news.
“That is worrisome,” I agreed as the barn creaked loudly, shaken again by the wind. The ten paintings I’d created for Zephyr Hollow’s most popular summer event rattled against the wall, and for a moment, I thought one of them was about to crash to the floor.
The watercolor, depicting a tall, dark-haired man walking a boxer-like dog down Main Street, had its own energy and always seemed restless to me. Thankfully, the piece, which I planned to price at three hundred dollars, stayed put and wouldn’t need an expensive new frame before its sale. At least, I hoped the scene would find a buyer. I counted on selling all my works, which would be displayed at a shop called the Well-Dressed Wall, to boost my income, and I knew local restaurant owners factored the weekend’s profits into their yearly budgets, too.
“Typhoon should be overbooked by now,” I added, growing more concerned for the owner, who was a friend. “Linh should be turning people away.”
Pepper smiled, but wryly. “I hear the Silver Spoon, which is averaging five stars on every review site, is packing them in.”
Astrid wandered over to the sideboard, where she helped herself to another tart. “Well, at least you don’t have to worry, Pepper,” she noted, taking a bite and talking through the crumbs. “I’m sure the Crooked Chimneys is booked solid, right?”
“Our dinner reservations are down a bit, but, yes, our rooms are filled,” Pepper said, rising. Ever the hostess, even at my establishment, she moved about the studio, plugging in the fairy lights that were strung along the shiplap walls and draped from the rafters. The soft glow, like fireflies, made the always-festive space, which was cluttered with painted antique furniture, vintage Turkish rugs and little knickknacks I collected at the Penny For Your Stuff flea market, even more charming. As Pepper passed by the wall that held my Gallery Walk paintings, she paused, studying the watercolor with the dark-haired man and his dog. Then she turned to me. “Who is that guy?”
I shrugged. “Someone from my imagination.”
Pepper grinned. “Do you have a spell in your ‘book of miscellany’ to bring him to life? You do have some power with art.”
“First of all, you can barely see his face,” I pointed out, although I also thought there was something undeniably attractive about the man. Then I glanced at the painting and felt a prickle in the pit of my stomach. “And I’m honestly not sure if summoning him from that canvas would be a good idea.”
My words sounded more ominous than I’d intended, against the backdrop of thunder that again rumbled in the distance. The light in the barn dimmed, too, as clouds rolled closer, and I wondered, briefly, if Pepper had anticipated the darkness, or if her decision to plug in the lights had been coincidental. Then, still feeling uneasy, I stepped back from the table and pulled a folded piece of paper from the back pocket of my jeans.
“I just hope my guests don’t cancel tonight,” I said, consulting a handwritten list of people who had RSVP’d positively. “This gathering isn’t big to begin with. It would be a shame if the weather kept people away.”
Pepper and Astrid didn’t reply. Astrid was trying to rearrange the snacks, to fill the gaps she’d created on the platters, while Pepper began to set tubes of oil paint, canvases and brushes on the table.
“Thanks for all your help,” I told my friends absently as I scanned the roster of about twenty local business own
ers. I knew everyone, at least to some degree, but a few names and notes I’d made popped out at me.
Evangeline Fletcher
Myrna Crickle—Owner of the Well-Dressed Wall
Linh Tran—Chef and owner, Typhoon
Penelope Dandridge—Penny for Your Stuff
Benedict Blodgett—Independent filmmaker (horror) and proprietor, Take Six Studio
“I don’t know Benedict very well,” I muttered, before asking more loudly, “Do either of you know much about Benedict Blodgett and his little film school? Because I’m not even sure where that’s located.”
“Umm, Willow?”
Astrid answered my questions with a question, and I looked up to see that she and Pepper were both watching me with something like concern. “What?” I asked warily. I folded the paper and shoved it back in my pocket. “What’s wrong? And spit it out, please! Because people are going to arrive any minute now.”
“Speaking of that,” Pepper said, sharing a funny, almost guilty, look with Astrid. “There’s something we’ve been meaning to tell you.”
“Yes,” Astrid agreed nervously. Her cheeks flushed, and in spite of my reminder about the need to speak quickly, she took a moment to clear her throat before failing to get to the point. “We do have possible news.”
I looked between my two friends, surprised when Pepper, who was normally very straightforward, averted her gaze. “Seriously,” I said. “Someone please spill, ASAP.”
“We’ve . . . we’ve both heard another rumor,” Astrid stammered. “One that I tried to confirm using a tracking spell from a website that I now fear might have been less than reliable, along with a plastic crystal ball made by the Happy Time toy company.”
I made a rolling motion with my hand, urging her to get to the point.
“It seems that someone’s coming back to town, maybe as early as this evening, appropriately in conjunction with the storm,” Pepper finally chimed in. “Someone who might make Evangeline even more disagreeable than usual—”
Something Borrowed, Something Mewed Page 28