The Goode Witch Matchmaker: Four Sweet Paranormal Romances (The Goode Witch Matchmaker Collection Book 1)

by Cate Lawley

  Elizabeth turned away from him and spoke into the box. "Hey. Can't talk right now, but everything's fine. I'll give you a call this evening. I promise."

  He was listening to one side of a conversation. A telephone conversation. A telephone the size of his palm. With no wires. Outdoors.

  Once the device had disappeared into her pocket, he said, "That item is a telephone?"

  Before she answered, Elizabeth's eyes narrowed and she winced. "Yes?"

  Edward composed his features. If there was time travel, then what was a miniature phone in the grander scheme? "A portable telephone. I see."

  She looked up at him, clearly trying to gauge his reaction. "Okay, good. It's a little more complicated than that, but basically a portable phone. I'll show you a little more about how it works when we get back to the house."

  Her face was tipped up and he got his first clear look at her eyes since he'd arrived. Cornflower blue, which he knew, but also outlined with the most exotic dark lines and thick black lashes.

  Her head tilted, and he realized he'd leaned closer. Her eyes widened and she said, "You're blushing. You are. It's the makeup, isn't it?" Her nose scrunched up. "Not really the thing back in the day, I know."

  "No. That is—it's very attractive. It makes your eyes look strikingly blue."

  The smile she gave him was new. Not her brashly amused smile or her mischievous grin. This was a shy, modest smile, and it made his heart warm. He'd missed this, the small intimacies of paying an attractive woman a genuine compliment, sharing a private moment as the world continued to bustle with life around them. Feeling something.

  There was a kernel here, the beginning of more. If he didn't fade away and never come back. That thought unsettled him for the first time since this outrageous journey had begun, for one simple reason. Until now, he'd refused to look into the future. He'd lived in each moment, happy for her company.

  The possibility of a future spent in the company of Elizabeth—that future called to him. Under the circumstances, after everything he'd lost and how improbable a future between a man and woman from different times must certainly be, that hope frightened him.

  Chapter 14

  Edward's visit had been lovely. Beth had played hooky from work. Easy enough, since she was her own boss, and she'd only had the one client appointment scheduled for the day. Explaining cell phones, the internet, and email had turned out to be fun. Edward was unshockable, and, surprisingly, more fascinated by air conditioning and the various gadgets in the kitchen than her smart phone. Although, in retrospect, the full functionality of her phone—of the internet—probably hadn't quite sunk in.

  "You're smiling again." Edward cut a tidy bite of pizza from the slice on his plate and popped it into his mouth. He seemed to be enjoying their impromptu late lunch.

  "I'm happy. It's been a long time—" Beth leaned forward and squinted. "I think… Are you okay?"

  But she was speaking to an empty chair. Right in front of her, he'd faded away. His substantial form turned first transparent, then wispy, and then he was gone. Her eyes started to burn and turned damp. Where were these tears coming from? According to Edward, she'd faded in and out of existence back in 1899. His departure hadn't been so different.

  And suddenly her mind caught up with her heart, and she couldn't breathe. Of course it was different. If Edward wasn't here with her, he was dead. The single trickling tear turned into a hiccupped stream of salty, sticky, wet mess.

  She splashed some cold water on her burning eyes, and tried to convince herself that time was not, in fact, linear—even though it must be. And that Edward's absence did not equal his death—although surely it did. Her phone rang, saving her from her own questionable logic. She knew who it must be, but double-checked before she answered. "Hey, Hill."

  "You were supposed to call."

  Hillary's injured tone just made Beth shake her head. She wiped her face, carefully dabbing away the smudged mascara under her eyes, and then blew her nose on a paper towel before she replied. "I've been busy."

  "Yeah, getting sick. You sound all stuffy and hoarse. What do you think: a cold or allergies?" A three-second lag passed, then: "No way! You never cry. Why are you crying? What's happened?" Hillary's voice got softer with each question, and Beth had to strain to hear the last few words.

  "Remember the guy—"

  "From your dreams. Of course. How could I forget? You never have naughty dreams."

  "Hill, I wouldn't call my dreams naughty. Just…" Beth wasn't sure what she'd call her dreams. Because they'd been real, and she couldn't tell Hillary that.

  "A delicious single man, who has the body of a god. That's what I remember."

  "Ryan Reynolds. I said a similar build to Ryan Reynolds."

  Hillary made an exasperated noise. "Same difference. So—why are you crying?"

  "I can't say. You'll think I'm nuts." Beth sniffed and dabbed at her nose. "Seriously."

  Hillary sighed. "What did you say when I dated that death metal rock star with the really bad hair and the worse clothes and twenty ex-girlfriends?"

  "Have fun?"

  "That's right," Hillary said. "And when he dumped me for an eighteen-year-old model, you let me cry on your shoulder and never once said I told you so. And when I thought my grandpa's house was haunted?"

  "Have a handyman come out, and if he doesn't find anything try an exorcist or a—what was it? A cleansing?" Beth couldn't help a giggle.

  "You might laugh now, but I called a local psychic to come and check it out when Grandpa was out. She didn't find anything, and the inspector I had come out found rats—but that's not the point. At the time, you didn't once make fun."

  "Right—I get it. You'll support me no matter how loony—sorry, out of the box—I sound. This whole thing is crazy. You've always had a higher tolerance for the weird and wondrous. I'm not sure how this happened to me." Beth thumped the kitchen counter, because suddenly she did know. "I cannot believe this. It's that Glenda Goode; it's her fault. This all started with the journal, and she practically begged me to buy it."

  "Huh. That's not exactly what I remember you telling me. But okay. Ha! This is about those dreams, isn't it?"

  Beth closed her eyes and dove right in. "They weren't dreams. I traveled to 1899, and Edward just popped into the future for a little visit. That's why I couldn't talk before. Edward and I were taking a walk through the neighborhood." She had to catch her breath, because she’d spat out that entire explanation on one breath.

  A funny combination of groan and growl was Hillary's only response.

  "What? Just say it: I'm hallucinating." Beth dabbed at the corner of her right eye. At least she'd stopped crying.

  "Let's leave that for now. Assuming that time travel is possible—and I'm sure weirder things have happened…somewhere…to someone—a gorgeous man, who you clearly have feelings for, travels a hundred years, and you take him for a walk? What is wrong with you?"

  Beth headed to the hall bathroom. "Walks are nice. It's a chance to talk without staring awkwardly at another person across a table for an hour. And we had lunch." After she flipped on the bathroom light, she peered at her reflection in the mirror. Not too bad. Just red enough to be blamed on allergies. She could not look teary.

  "Um, Beth? You still there?"

  "Yep." Beth dug around in the drawer for a spare compact she kept stashed for emergencies. This was an emergency—or armor for battle.

  "I don't suppose you noticed the coincidence?" Hillary paused, as if Beth could read her mind.

  "No. No idea what you mean."

  Hillary snorted. "Glenda Goode? Doesn't that bring to mind, you know, witches and magic and…well, witches and magic?"

  "I have no idea." Beth's hand closed around the compact and she glared at her image in the mirror. After a quick dusting, her nose looked only faintly pink. "But that woman is going to explain why she so badly wanted me to buy the journal. She's going to explain how this all happened. Because she's in it up to her
neck."

  "I guess angry is better than crying." Hillary didn't sound convinced. "Uh, why were you crying?"

  "Because Edward's disappeared, and if he really is time-traveling from 1899, that means that right now he's dead." Beth stumbled over the word dead. "He's dead, and it's her fault. I don't know how, but it is. And she's going to make it right."

  "Sweetheart, you don’t sound at all like yourself. You know that doesn't make any sense, right?"

  "Yep." Beth hung up on her friend and grabbed her keys. She had an appointment with a witch.

  Chapter 15

  "Ms. Goode isn't here."

  Beth had worked up a good head of steam and was ready to confront the woman who had killed Edward. She knew Glenda hadn't actually caused Edward's death—but that was what it felt like. And now the target of her anger appeared to be MIA. She couldn't be hearing the salesperson correctly. "I'm sorry—what?"

  "Ms. Goode is out for the day." The young woman with silvery-purple hair and flawless skin looked unruffled by Beth's ire.

  She could feel her skin turning all kinds of unattractive shades of red. But she clung to that frustrated anger. If she let it go, let herself rationalize her way through the events of the last few days, the cooler and calmer version of herself would never be able to voice the ludicrous accusations that churned inside her head. Time travel, magic, witches? Ludicrous was generous. Pinching her lips together, in the most controlled voice she could manage—because yelling wouldn't help—she said, "This is an emergency."

  Finely shaped eyebrows arched up in disbelief, but the saleswoman said, "Leave your contact information, and I'll make sure Ms. Goode receives it."

  If Beth wasn't so mad, she'd probably laugh. Who'd ever heard of a vintage clothing emergency? Or a desperate need for an antique item? Actually, Hillary could likely construct a good argument for both of those scenarios, but that was Hillary. Imagining Hillary and vintage emergencies removed Beth from the moment long enough that some small amount of reason started to leak in. She probably should take it down a notch if she actually wanted Glenda to receive her message.

  "Yes, thank you. That would be very helpful. And it is very important, so I appreciate your help." Beth knew her face was still flushed, but she thought she'd managed a much more reasonable tone.

  One gorgeous eyebrow arched, but the saleswoman nodded and smiled, pen in hand.

  "Right. Call Beth as soon as possible." Beth recited her number, but then realized Glenda may have no idea who "Beth" was, so she quickly added, "There's a problem with the journal I purchased a few days ago. The Victorian journal with the brown leather cover."

  The saleswoman's pen stopped and hovered over the page. "We have a very generous return policy. I'm sure I can help you—"

  "No! Um, no. I don't want to return it. Can you just pass along the message?"

  "Of course." The saleswoman repeated back Beth's number and scribbled a few more words down on the page. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"

  Beth cut short a hysterical giggle. Who knew what result the purchase of a broach, pillbox hat, or old piece of china would have? She mumbled a refusal before hustling out of the store. As Beth walked the two blocks to her car, she tried to pound some sense into her normally very practical head. What if she had confronted Glenda with her suspicions? What could the woman say? If she was a witch, she'd never admit it. And, really, what were the chances the owner of a moderately successful shop had anything to do with the events of the last several days? And what were the chances that witches actually existed?

  Something strange was happening, but for all she knew it was more Back to the Future than spells and magic. The Victorian journal could be a coincidence. Other than selling Beth something from the shop—which was the woman's job and one she was clearly good at—Glenda hadn't done anything.

  But Glenda Goode and her little vintage boutique store were Beth's only leads. Really, the store and owner were just one lead, and it had fallen miserably flat. When she reached her car, she wanted to sink into the pavement rather than drive home, because she didn't know what else to do.

  As she settled into her car, inspiration struck. She picked up her phone and dialed Hillary. "I need the name of your psychic."

  "Hello to you, too. Wait, why do you need my psychic? I thought you didn't believe in psychics. Oh, wait—time travel is real so now you think I'm not totally batty. I'm not sure if I should be offended."

  Beth tapped her steering wheel impatiently. She really needed a manicure. About another five seconds, and…

  "Who am I kidding?" Hillary said. "I'd love for you to meet Mary Margaret. You'll love her."

  "Your psychic's name is Mary Margaret?"

  "Darn straight. She's brilliant. Don't let the suburban housewife act fool you. I'll text you her details, and I'll give her a call to let her know you're a friend and it's an emergency. I'm sure she'll fit you in if she can."

  "Thanks, Hillary." Beth wrapped her fingers around the steering wheel and squeezed. She was, quite simply, so far out of her depth that visiting a psychic seemed almost normal. "It's just that I don't know what else to do."

  Silence followed Beth's admission. Eventually, Hillary, her voice quieter and without its typical hard edges, whispered, "I know, sweetheart."

  Beth hung up before she got emotional and teary again. Once in a day was more than enough.

  Beth flipped the visor mirror open. A little pale and glassy-eyed, but otherwise normal enough. And yet her life had veered from its heavily trod, oh-so-normal path once more, because she was about to visit a psychic.

  Her phone beeped at her with a message. She must have stared at her reflection longer than she'd realized. Not only had Hillary sent her contact details, she'd also set up an appointment for twenty minutes from now.

  "Mary Margaret, here I come."

  Chapter 16

  The neighborhood wasn't at all what Beth had expected. Residential, not commercial, and very quiet. Not quite the suburbs, not quite in town, the house was in a small, older neighborhood tucked away from the bustle of major roadways, but still deceptively close to the heart of the city.

  Her GPS told her she'd arrived, but that couldn't be. No sign advertised tarot or readings. The house was painted an appealing shade of grey with contrasting black trim and shutters. Beth grinned. The door, however, was a shockingly bright pinkish-red in comparison. Like the owner had taken the traditional look and thumbed her nose at it—but only a little. Maybe this was the right place.

  She parked at the curb and approached the house. Unable to shake the thought that maybe she'd made a mistake with the address—even though she'd triple-checked it—she hesitated to knock on the door. She'd finally lifted her hand when the door swung open to reveal a small, trim woman, maybe mid-fifties, with a cutely upturned nose, dressed in tennis clothes.

  "I can drape myself with the kitchen tablecloth and we can pretend they're mystical robes, if that makes you feel more comfortable."

  Embarrassed, Beth wiped the astonishment from her face and replied, "I apologize. I'm not sure about robes, but maybe I expected something else."

  "No problem." The tennis-playing psychic extended her right hand. "I'm Mary Margaret, and you must be Beth." After they shook hands, Mary Margaret invited Beth inside. "I've got to run right after our meeting to make a tennis match with a friend, hence the getup."

  "I appreciate you making time." Beth followed Mary Margaret into the kitchen and accepted the offered seat at the table. "You helped Hillary with her grandfather's home?"

  "Ah, the suspected haunting. Tea?" When Beth nodded, Mary Margaret retrieved two cups with matching saucers from a cupboard. "No. I don't do ghosts, and that was before Hillary was a client of mine. I have…mixed feelings about her choice, but her expert didn't find anything. No, ghosts are outside my skill set. I primarily read auras."

  Mary Margaret spent a few minutes preparing the tea, and Beth watched her, baffled. Auras? Her host placed shortbread co
okies, Beth's favorite, and the tea things on the table. First the door, then the cookies…

  "Can you read minds or predict the future?" Beth asked as Mary Margaret settled into her seat across the table.

  "No, nothing like that. I can see some of the light, the energy—honestly, I'm not sure what is—that surrounds most people. And I have a knack for interpreting it. Sometimes my intuition is especially good, but that's all. I can show you, if you like."

  "So, you haven't already checked out my…?"

  "Aura works as well as any other word." A faint look of distaste crossed Mary Margaret's face. "Peering at someone's aura without their permission feels like an intrusion. If you had x-ray vision, I'd hope you'd choose not to peer through the walls of my house, even if you could. So, over the years, I've developed a willful blindness, basically a filter. That saying about fences and neighbors applies in the metaphysical world, as well."

  And that's when Beth's comfort level increased exponentially. She could see why Hillary was such a fan.

  "Did Hillary tell you anything about my problem? I have—"

  Mary Margaret held up a hand. "I'd rather just let you know what I see, then we can chat about what it might mean, and you can fill me in on any background you think is important. Is that okay?"

  Beth nodded.

  A brushing sensation, much like the slide of soft material over bare skin, passed over her hands and arms. It wasn't sexual, but there was an intimacy to it that made Beth uncomfortable. And if she hadn't expected it, she could imagine the feeling being frightening. When she looked at Mary Margaret to gauge her response, a tight expression covered her face. Beth hoped that look reflected concentration and not concern over what she saw.

  "You're covered in someone else's signature." Mary Margaret's tight expression had turned into a definite frown. "Some people have a hint of magic, and the thin veil covering you has the flavor of magic."

  Beth gritted her teeth. "Yep. That makes sense. I don't suppose you could tell me whose magic it is?"