A Magical Match

by Juliet Blackwell

“What, what?”

  “I don’t have to be a psychic to know there’s something else on your mind. Spill.”

  “As a matter of fact . . . there’s this shoe box that dates from the time I knew Tristan Dupree.”

  “Where did you know him from?” Patience asked.

  “In Germany, half a lifetime ago. He knew my father.”

  “I hear your father is bad news.”

  I nodded. “Anyway, I think this bēag Tristan was looking for might be in the shoe box.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “I need help to open it.”

  “Not a typical shoe box, then.”

  “Not exactly, no.”

  She let out a long sigh. “Where is it?”

  “I can’t do this right now. I have to go try on dresses with Selena.”

  Patience’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me? Sailor’s rotting in jail and you’re busy trying on dresses?”

  “First of all, he’s not ‘rotting in jail.’” I talked a big game, but in truth my stomach was quailing at the very thought. Was Sailor safe? He was healthy and strong, experienced with supernatural evil. But could he hold his own among whatever nefarious characters were behind bars with him? “He’s only been there overnight. I’m on it as much as I can be, but I will not disappoint a young girl. Especially since I don’t exactly know what to do next.”

  She stared at me.

  “I’m open to ideas at this juncture,” I added.

  “You’re a piece of work, Lily Ivory. Okay, how’s this for an idea? We need more help. I assume you have not failed to notice that all signs indicate we are dealing with some kind of supernatural evil. If that is the case, then my visions and your shoe box of whatever will only take us so far. We need more weapons. We need Aidan.”

  I had been afraid of that. But she was right.

  “Aidan’s a little . . . He might be a little upset with me at the moment.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” she said dryly. “Well, then, I suggest you get on Aidan’s good side tout de suite, because we’re going to need him. Sailor is going to need him.”

  “I know, and I will,” I said, though I worried about what Aidan would demand from me in return. I pushed that thought aside—one problem at a time. “For the moment, will you stick around while I finish up here, and then we’ll take a look at the box?”

  Patience sighed. “Fine. But don’t dawdle. Time is money.”

  Chapter 12

  “Well, aren’t you the businesswoman?” I said to Patience as we returned to the shop floor.

  “You’d better believe it. I’ve got a mortgage and bills to pay, just like everyone else.”

  Bronwyn arrived and greeted Patience with an enthusiastic hug and lavish praise. Bronwyn had been coaching me to get over my jealousy of Sailor’s beautiful cousin and the time she spent with him. Bronwyn was an openhearted, generous person who truly believed that most people were good and loyal, and that jealousy was a reflection of a person’s insecurity, not an external reality. Bronwyn was also fascinated by Patience’s psychic abilities, and swore Patience had “read her future to a tee.” When I pointed out that there was no way to tell how accurate Patience’s predictions were since the future hadn’t happened yet, Bronwyn laughed and called me a spoilsport.

  I had to admit, Patience accepted Bronwyn’s effusive greeting with good grace. A beautiful Gypsy queen accepting tribute from one of her subjects, I thought, then chided myself for being so mean-spirited.

  Then, as Bronwyn stashed her things in the workroom, Patience looked around the store and raised one eyebrow.

  “I see nothing’s changed. How . . . reliable.”

  Patience’s expression suggested she meant “How boring.” So much for the self-chiding.

  “Not at all,” I replied. “The inventory changes constantly. Only the layout is the same.”

  “As long as I’m here, I suppose I should look for something to wear,” Patience said in a tone that suggested she was doing us a grand favor. “Assuming you’re really going to go through with this ridiculous farce.”

  “For the Magical Match Tea, or the wedding?” asked Bronwyn, who was either ignoring or missing my gestures to keep quiet about the tea.

  “The ‘Magical Match Tea’?” Patience repeated, looking up from a collection of beaded flapper dresses. “What on earth is a Magical Match Tea?”

  “I doubt you’d be interested—,” I began, belatedly realizing that anything I didn’t want Patience to do, she would be bound and determined to do. Had I been smarter, I would have invited her already and made sure she knew that I would personally benefit from the attention the tea would bring to Aunt Cora’s Closet. She likely would have refused to attend just to spite me.

  “It’s a fund-raiser for a very good cause,” interrupted Bronwyn, handing her the little flyer designed by Amy, aka Wind Spirit. It included an illustration: a tiered plate of cupcakes that put me in mind of Renee. “The Haight Street women’s shelter.”

  Patience fixed me with an accusatory look. “Why would you think I wouldn’t want to support something like that?”

  “It’s not that. . . .” I trailed off.

  “It says here, ‘Wear matching outfits,’” Patience said. “Who am I supposed to match?”

  “Perhaps you have a young friend,” explained Bronwyn, “and the two of you could find matching dresses here in the shop.”

  “Lily and I are wearing these,” Selena said excitedly, showing off the polka-dot dresses that had sparked this whole idea. She held hers up against herself and rocked back and forth, making the full skirts swish gracefully.

  It made my heart swell to see Selena smiling—something she very rarely did—and excited about the dresses. Not to mention she seemed pleased, maybe even proud, to be going as my match.

  “How adorable. Tell me, does it have to be a younger friend?” Patience asked. “Or could I be the younger one?”

  “All are welcome, no matter the age!” Bronwyn said gaily.

  Patience smiled. “I’ll invite Renna.”

  I blanched. Patience Blix and Sailor’s aunt Renna? At the Magical Match Tea? The tea that Graciela’s coven might be attending? What could possibly go wrong?

  “You two will make a cute couple,” I said with an inward sigh. San Francisco was my home now, and that meant navigating the byzantine machinations of the magical community, as much as everything else.

  “Lily, you should try on the wedding gown Wind Spirit brought you,” Selena urged. “Wind Spirit’s cool. She gave me a charm, see?” She held up her wrist to show me a small silver bell on her charm bracelet.

  “Nice charm. But I don’t know about the dress. . . .” I hesitated. “It’s not quite right for me.”

  “I think it’s adorable,” said Bronwyn. “But Wind Spirit said it would never fit her. In fact, when she came in to find a dress for the tea a couple of weeks ago, I helped her try on a few. I always thought she was chubby, but it turns out she’s extremely muscular!”

  “Selena and I were just talking about different body types,” I said, hoping they’d drop the subject of the wedding dress. It was making me jumpy.

  “Lily said I’m fat,” said Selena.

  Bronwyn gaped at me.

  “I said no such thing!” I started to defend myself, then saw a ghost of a smile on Selena’s face.

  “Does Wind Spirit lift weights?” asked Maya. “My cousin got buff quickly when she started training.”

  “No, she told me her father was a martial arts instructor; apparently she practically grew up in the studio and achieved expert status when she was just a teenager,” Bronwyn said. “Anyway, whether it’s plumpness or sheer muscles, I fear it’s hard to find true vintage to fit her. I sent her next door to Lucille’s.”

  “Mom will fix her up,” said Maya with a nod. Maya didn’t alw
ays see eye to eye with her mother, but she was proud of Lucille’s success—and with good reason. Not only was Lucille making a go of a small business in competitive San Francisco; she was also employing several women from the shelter, training them and giving them an opportunity to get on their feet.

  “Are you going to try it on, or not?” Selena demanded, thrusting the wedding dress in my direction. Yards of white silk billowed toward me. “You’re not chicken, are you?”

  “Yeah, you’re not chicken, are you?” repeated Patience. “Go for it, princess.”

  “It’s . . . It needs alteration,” I hedged. It was a nice enough gown on its own merits: yards of silk and satin topped by lace. The skirts were too poufy for my taste, and it would need to be altered to my dimensions, but Lucille could easily make those changes. Still, the vibrations didn’t quite suit me. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but one of my talents was knowing when something fit someone, both physically and psychically, and this dress did not fit me.

  Or maybe there was nothing supernatural about my jitters—after all, brides were famous for searching for the perfect dress, and for being eternally dissatisfied, right? Maya informed me there was a whole TV show about it.

  I had been scouring my usual sources of inventory, and had gone so far as to see what other vintage clothing stores carried, and still hadn’t found a wedding gown I liked better. If I didn’t find something soon, I would be in trouble. Hopefully this afternoon’s estate sale might have something for me.

  On top of everything else, Susan Rogers from the Examiner wanted to do a photo layout of the wedding party, as a sort of follow-up to the piece she had written about her niece’s wedding—which I’d wound up attending stag, when I alienated my former boyfriend, Max. I had outfitted the niece’s wedding party not long after Aunt Cora’s Closet had opened, and the article had, in good part, made our reputation when it came out.

  “Pleeeeaasse?” said Selena. Like any self-respecting teenager, Selena knew just what buttons to push. It was hard for me to refuse her when she found something that would make her happy. I let her lead me into the large communal dressing room, the poufy dress over her arm. Awkwardly, Selena helped me pull frothy yards of pure white satin over my head. I stood back and looked at myself in the full-length mirror. The shoulders were too wide and the shawl collar—clearly made for a better-endowed woman than I—flopped.

  Selena flung the curtain open. “See? She does look like a princess!”

  “More like a Baked Alaska,” Patience muttered.

  Selena laughed, and light glinted off the metal dream catchers in the window and landed on her face. For a brief moment, despite my other worries, I reveled in the pure sound of her teenage joy. Selena had once been so severe that every smile—much less full-blown laugh—now felt like a gift.

  The back of my neck tingled. I turned to look out the front window. Conrad was talking with someone on the sidewalk, and eating what looked like a brightly frosted cupcake.

  A moment later, a man named Jamie strode into the store, carrying a huge pink box.

  Jamie was one of Renee-the-cupcake-lady’s minions. He was small and slender, with dark hair and eyes and sharp features. “Weaselly” was the adjective that came to mind anytime I saw him.

  “Well, lookee here,” Jamie said. “Don’t you look just like a princess, pretty lady?”

  “See?” said Selena. “Told you so.”

  Oscar had run up to greet Jamie the instant he spotted the pink bakery box.

  Instinctively, I reached out to stop him. Renee wouldn’t use cupcakes to cast a spell over us, would she? What was I thinking? Of course she would. But surely she would know I would anticipate such an obvious ploy.

  Surely.

  I glanced outside; Conrad was chatting with a passerby, apparently unaffected by the cupcake. Still, I didn’t want to take any chances.

  “Jamie,” I said, “what brings you here?”

  “Renee heard about the troubles facing your fiancé, and sends these as a peace offering. She says she guesses her invitation to the wedding must’ve got lost in the mail. Mine, too, for that matter.”

  “We’re good here,” I said, physically holding Oscar back from the cupcakes. “Thanks, anyway.”

  Patience, who had been taking in the scene, stepped in. “You have something to do with what’s going on, you little pissant?”

  Jamie cringed. “Jeez, lady. A guy brings a dozen cupcakes . . . I mean, I don’t expect a parade, but a simple thank-you seems in order.” He shook his head. “I really don’t get what’s up with folks these days. There used to be a time when people valued simple politeness. . . .”

  Jamie didn’t look like he was much older than I was, but there was no denying he had a timeless sort of way about him.

  He reached out and picked up a flyer for the Magical Match event.

  “Hey, is this like speed dating? I might just give that a try. I tried the online-dating thing, but it’s a bit of a slog. Also, you never know who’s gonna show up—the photos don’t always reflect current reality, if you catch my drift. Something like this here might be right up my alley.”

  “It’s not a ‘match’ in that sense,” I said. “It’s a tea, a fund-raiser for the Haight Street women’s shelter. The ‘match’ refers to matching dresses.”

  “Or outfits, for that matter,” said Bronwyn. “You’re very welcome; it’s a gender-inclusive event.”

  Jamie looked disappointed and shoved the flyer back in its stand. “Sorry. Doesn’t seem like my type of deal after all. Good cause, though—am I right?” He dug into a pants pocket and extracted a wrinkled five-dollar bill. Handing it to Bronwyn, he winked and said, “A contribution to the cause.”

  “Well, now,” said Bronwyn, “aren’t you kind? Thank you. I’m Bronwyn, by the way.”

  “Nice ta meetcha,” he said. “I’m Jamie. I—”

  “Why are you here, Jamie?” I interrupted him.

  “What? Like I said, I’m on a mission of mercy. Renee heard your fiancé was in the slammer, and that you were feeling under the weather, so she sent you a little something. That’s all. Cupcakes are like her version of chicken soup.”

  “What makes her think I’m under the weather?”

  “The little guy want one?” Jamie asked, holding out to Oscar a yellow cupcake piled high with purple frosting.

  “No,” I intervened. “He’s on a diet.”

  “Whoever heard of a pig bein’ on a diet?”

  “It’s a Bay Area thing,” I said. “He’s vegan.”

  “Well, ain’t that a kick in the pants? Just so’s happens these cupcakes are vegan.”

  “Gluten-free, rather.” I ignored the indignant squeals emanating from the area near my feet.

  “Anyway, you should take these,” Jamie said, shoving the pink box in my direction again.

  “I want one!” said Selena.

  “Maybe after lunch,” I insisted, taking the box from Jamie. Selena glared at me, as did Oscar.

  “Seriously, Lily,” said Jamie. “Renee wouldn’t pull anything funny with these here cupcakes, if you catch my drift. These came straight off the shelves at the bakery. You’ve eaten there before.”

  I had. But that was before I realized what Renee was all about.

  “Please let Renee know I’ll pay her a visit soon.”

  Jamie looked at me sideways. “Why’s that?”

  “Just to thank her, and to check in.” I sneezed. “It’s been a while.”

  “Uh-huh. ’Kay. Look, Lily.” He dropped his voice and leaned in, as though sharing a confidence. “You mind if I give you a little advice?”

  “Yes, she does,” Patience answered for me. “And here’s some advice for you: I suggest you leave while you still have all your man parts, if you catch my drift.”

  And with that, Patience ducked into a changing roo
m carrying a 1930s green-and-purple dragonfly-bead cocktail dress, and flung the curtain closed with a flourish.

  “Well, here’s my advice, anyway,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s not the cupcakes you should be worried about.”

  “By which you mean . . . ?”

  “Not for nothin’, but Tristan Dupree was an associate of Renee’s.”

  “Is that right? In what way?”

  “‘Friend’ is what I meant to say. He came to town to work with her.”

  “I didn’t realize Tristan was a baker.”

  “Heh.” Jamie snorted. “Good one.”

  I sneezed again.

  “My mom always swore by hot toddies for colds. A little ginger, dash of cayenne pepper, and a healthy jigger of whiskey. That’ll cure what ails ya, and you know what? If it don’t, ya don’t care!” Jamie let out a phlegmy laugh.

  “Thanks, but it’s probably just allergies. I don’t catch colds.”

  “Yeah, right. You keep telling yourself that.”

  “So, why are you saying all this to me?” I asked. “I thought you worked for Renee.”

  “Are you still here?” Patience interrupted as she emerged from the changing room. The slinky cocktail dress hugged her voluptuous form like a kid glove, and she looked spectacular. Like some sort of exotic plumed bird. Of course.

  Jamie let out a low whistle, his eyes raking over her, up and down.

  “You had better not be making that noise at me, creep,” threatened Patience. “You don’t know uncomfortable until you’re suffering under a Gypsy curse.”

  “Youse two both got a little attitude problem—you know that?” said Jamie. “I’m not gonna hang around where I’m not wanted. Anyway, I’ll be the bigger man and wish you ladies a good rest of the day. Enjoy the cupcakes, courtesy of the Renee Baker bakery.”

  Jamie waved his hand over his head as he walked out the door.

  “Who the hell was that?” asked Patience.

  “Patience, seriously, would you please watch your mouth around—” I started to say “little pitchers,” but caught myself in time. “I mean, in the shop.”