Witches and Wedding Cake

by Bailey Cates

  Bianca went to fit in part of her intended workout, and I drove to the apartment. Quickly, I showered off the day and changed into a sleeveless linen dress in robin’s egg blue. A dab of eyeliner and some blush sufficed for the evening’s makeup. I changed out my usual utilitarian tote bag to a large purse. Mungo would have to hoof it tonight. Then out to my car again, and to the Honeybee.

  I parked in the alley right behind the back door and let myself inside. It always felt strange to be in the bakery when it wasn’t open and I wasn’t up to my elbows in flour and sugar. I bundled Mungo, the pavlova and its toppings, and a giant loaf of bread—sliced, slathered with butter and grated garlic, and wrapped in foil so it could go straight into the oven—into the Bug, locked up, and buzzed over to Chippewa Square.

  Rori met me at the door of Wisteria House. She motioned me in with an urgent gesture, looking behind her, where laughter was coming from the kitchen. Carefully, I carried the pavlova over the threshold and set it on the hall table. Mungo padded in behind me and went to gaze longingly up at the dessert I’d brought.

  “Come into the parlor,” she hissed, opening a door off the foyer.

  Bewildered, I followed her into a small room that faced the street. She closed the door behind us.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” she said. “But they don’t know.”

  I frowned. “Don’t know what?”

  “About going to see Hudson Prater today. About the music box being worthless and Tucker lying to me about it. About you helping me find out what Tucker was up to that got him killed.”

  “You’re not going to tell your mother and Eliza?”

  She shook her head vehemently. “And I don’t want you to, either.”

  “Rori, I told Declan we were going to the antique store. I’m sorry, but that’s that.”

  “Well . . . okay.”

  “And I don’t feel right keeping secrets from the rest of your family.”

  “Oh, please? They’ll give me a bad time.”

  “No, they won’t. They love you.”

  “I’m the baby of the family, and they’ll always think of me like that.” She pressed her lips together. “Just tonight, okay? Don’t say anything tonight.”

  I rubbed my forehead. “I don’t like this.” My hand dropped. “However, if it doesn’t come up, I won’t bring it up. But I need to tell you that I talked to Tucker’s recent ex-girlfriend today.”

  Rori’s eyes grew wide. “Seriously?”

  “The opportunity came up, and I took it.” Quickly, I related what Effie had told Mimsey and me.

  “Boy, she sure was talkative.”

  “She was,” I agreed, keeping Mimsey’s use of her Voice to myself. “And we have an appointment to see the estate sales people that Tucker worked for tomorrow morning before Lauren and Camille get here with their families.” Mrs. Standish had called and told me the meeting was set up for nine thirty the next day. “Can you make it?”

  Rori’s eyes were bright as she nodded. “Yes. Of course.”

  “Good. I’ll pick you up here.”

  “No. I’ll come to the bakery.”

  “You can’t keep what you’re doing a secret from everyone forever,” I said.

  She reached for the door with a grin. “But I’ll save myself the grief they’ll give me for a while longer, if that’s all right with you.”

  Declan’s homemade spaghetti sauce, studded with herb-flecked meatballs and chunks of Italian sausage and dolloped on al dente pasta, was a big hit. The garlic bread, so soft and fragrant it almost melted in your mouth, was the perfect accompaniment. Aggie’s “heartfelt salad”—a combination of romaine hearts, artichoke hearts, palm hearts, and celery hearts—provided a crunchy, umami flavor companion. When all the dishes were done, we retired to the spacious living room with dishes of peach pavlova and glasses of Moscato.

  Aggie asked if I knew anything about a service for Tucker Abbott, but Declan stepped in and explained that anything like that would have to wait until the medical examiner did his thing. She blanched and changed the subject. Neither Rori nor Eliza mentioned Tucker’s name, though I saw Eliza side-eyeing her sister a few times.

  Mostly we talked about Declan’s childhood antics, and they told stories about his high school years that I’d known nothing about. At the end of the evening, I felt like I knew these members of his family a bit better and hoped they felt the same way about me. Since I was an only child, the idea of inheriting so much family at once was a bit overwhelming, but also welcome.

  And Eliza had stepped up, somehow wrangling reservations for supper for both our families not only on short notice, but at the perfect place—Churchill’s on Bay Street, a traditional English tavern on the upscale side that served creative pub grub with a coastal twist.

  “I love that place. How on earth did you manage to get us all in?” I asked.

  A cool smile curved her lips. “I can be rather persuasive.” The smile warmed. “Actually, I called several places first. Churchill’s had a last-minute cancellation. Still . . .” Her forehead creased. “Even if we call it a rehearsal dinner, there’s no real rehearsal, is there?”

  “There’s no reason to rehearse,” Declan assured her. “The ceremony is going to be very simple, and the families will have plenty of time to get to know each other without adding another thing to the wedding week. I promise.”

  “I hope so,” she said. “Lauren and Camille are both coming in tomorrow in the early afternoon. Katie, will you be able to break away to say hello?”

  I nodded. “Of course. Everyone else at the Honeybee is willing to cover whenever I have to leave this week.”

  “And your parents?” Aggie asked.

  “They’re at a hardware convention in Las Vegas. They’ll fly in from there late tomorrow afternoon. You’ll meet them tomorrow night at Churchill’s. And then you”—I nodded toward Declan’s mother—“and Mama are scheduled at the Hair Connection at the same time on Friday, so you can get to know each other better then.”

  Aggie smiled. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Vera—that’s the salon owner—and her assistant, Zoe, reserved the entire afternoon for facials and mani-pedis for the wedding party. Since they can’t work on everyone at once, we’re staggering appointments. Then on Saturday, the bridal party will go in for makeup and hair in the afternoon before heading over to the carriage house at five thirty to dress. The caterers will be ready for guests arriving at seven, and then the ceremony will start about eight. The photographer will be taking formal and candid pictures in between.” I smiled at Declan. “When we’re officially married, the party will continue.”

  Eliza sighed but didn’t protest. I considered that progress.

  “That is, if Declan’s idea for a wedding officiant pans out,” I said, and raised my eyebrows.

  He grinned. “It’s handled, darlin’. Just one little thing to finalize.”

  My eyes narrowed. “You’re actually having fun with this, aren’t you? Not telling me until the last minute.”

  The grin got bigger. “Yep.”

  “Fine,” I grumbled, but a smile was tugging at my lips. He wouldn’t be so flip if he was at all worried about having someone to marry us on Saturday, and even though I was crazy curious, it was also a relief to let my fiancé completely take over that aspect of the ceremony.

  Half an hour later, I subtly let Declan know I was ready to leave, and he made our excuses.

  “I like your family,” I said as we crossed the street to my car.

  “Me, too,” he said with a smile. “And they love you.”

  Declan drove my car back to the apartment, and we left his truck at Wisteria House. With the rest of his family arriving the next afternoon, an extra vehicle might come in handy.

  On our way back to the apartment, he brought up the ide
a of lucid dreaming as a way to try to find Connell.

  “I’ve been looking at that book I found in the Honeybee library. I’d like to try it.”

  I nodded. “It certainly seems like it’s worth a try. Have you ever been dreaming and become aware that you’re not awake, that you’re in the middle of a dream?”

  “Doesn’t everyone do that?” Declan asked.

  Turning in my seat to look at him, I said, “On occasion. Are you telling me you do it a lot?”

  He started to answer, then made a face. “I used to all the time. Not so much now that Connell is gone.”

  “Wow. I wonder if Connell was engineering your dreams?”

  He blew out a breath. “Who knows? Believe me, I’d like to ask him.” He slowed for a traffic light.

  “So what does the book say? Can you force lucid dreaming?” I asked.

  “Not force. I’m pretty sure it doesn’t work that way. But according to what I read, there are ways to encourage it.”

  “How?” I shifted, interested. Mungo jumped down from his perch in the back seat and stuck his head between the seats, also listening.

  Declan flipped on the turn signal. “It says to make the room hospitable for sleep. Draw the curtains, turn off the television, that kind of stuff.”

  “Makes sense. What else?”

  “Keep a dream journal. Watch for something called dream signs, which I guess are recurring things that you know the meaning of in your dreams.”

  “All fine and good, I suppose.” I was a little surprised Declan was so enthusiastic about the idea of lucid dreaming. It spoke to how much he wanted to rescue his guardian spirit. “But how does that help you know if you’re dreaming?”

  “Well, there’s this other thing in the book.” He sounded a bit unsure now. “It says to test reality. Like when you’re awake, so you get into the habit of it. It says to check what you’re reading to make sure it hasn’t changed, or double-check that the time on the clock is the same. It changes in dreams. That way you know if you’re awake or not.” He pulled the Bug into a parking spot, shut off the engine, and turned to me.

  “Seriously?” I asked.

  He lifted one shoulder and let it drop. “That’s what it says.”

  “So you’re saying I could be dreaming right now?”

  Grinning, he opened the door and got out. “We both could be. Come on, Mungo.”

  He wiggled through the gap, bounded over the seat, and jumped to the sidewalk. I grabbed my bag and got out, then I stared at Declan over the top of the car.

  “You’re making my brain hurt.”

  Inside the apartment, I changed into sleepwear and settled into bed. Mungo sprawled on the rug on the floor, while Declan puttered in the bathroom. I skimmed the book on lucid dreaming. I closed it and put it on the nightstand as he shut off the light and came into the bedroom.

  “Apparently the best way to induce lucid dreams is by inviting them in, by intending to have them before you go to sleep,” I said.

  “Intention, huh. Sounds like the way you talk about your spell work.” He climbed into bed.

  I nodded. “Similar. Let’s try it. As you’re falling asleep, repeat to yourself that you know that you’re dreaming, you know that you’re dreaming, you know that you’re dreaming. Over and over. I’ll do the same thing.”

  “It’s worth a shot,” he said hopefully. “To get through to Connell.”

  “Excellent.” I reached over, turned off the lamp, and scooched down under the covers.

  “Um, it’s only nine thirty, darlin’.” My fiancé sounded amused.

  “Yeah, but—”

  “But nothing. I’ve been away from you for two nights, almost-wife of mine. Connell can wait a little longer for us to try and contact him.”

  “Hmm. I see what you mean,” I said, and reached for him in the dark.

  * * *

  * * *

  Later that night, we’d each tried repeating the mantra that we knew we were dreaming as we slipped into slumber. I’d slept longer than usual and hadn’t sensed anyone else’s dreams, which was a relief. Even so, I was awake at three, and up by four. When I got back from my run, Declan was uncharacteristically up and about, and the smell of fresh coffee filled the air. He made toast and fed Mungo, while I showered. Finally, we settled in at the kitchen table for a few minutes before I had to leave for the bakery. Declan set a plate in front of me bearing a thick hunk of wheat toast smothered in butter and sprinkled with a generous layer of cinnamon sugar.

  “Oh, Lordy. I don’t think I’ve had cinnamon toast since Nonna made it for me when I was a little kid.” I took a giant bite and chewed with my eyes closed. I chased it with a swallow of coffee and sighed in appreciation. “Definitely need to have this more often.”

  He was grinning when I opened my eyes. “Glad you like it.” Then his grin faltered. “It didn’t work for me. Did it work for you?”

  I half frowned and shook my head. “The lucid dreaming? No. We can keep trying, though.”

  “Yeah.” However, his disappointment was palpable.

  Chapter 16

  Distracted by our lack of success with lucid dreaming, I walked down Broughton toward the Honeybee from my car. Mungo sat up with his paws on the side of my tote, head swiveling to take in the sights. There weren’t many to take in, as it was five thirty and only the faintest hint of promised sunrise brightened the sky on the eastern horizon. It was quiet and calm, the air the coolest it would be all day. Streetlights cast reassuring pools of light along the sidewalk at regular intervals. The sound of a boat horn echoed from the direction of the Savannah River, something that during the hubbub of traffic and people during the day wouldn’t have reached our ears.

  Maybe lucid dreaming takes a lot of practice, I thought. Perhaps there’s another method to try. Or . . .

  My steps slowed as I considered. There were an awful lot of things that could be helped along with a spell or two. Boosted, as it were. Could lucid dreaming be one of them?

  Newly hopeful, I picked up my pace. In front of the Honeybee, I paused to use the flashlight on my key ring, squinting as the keypad next to the door was illuminated. I entered the code, then slid the key into the lock.

  Sudden movement to my left startled me. I spun to face it, heart pounding, breath hissing out in surprise and fear. My hand came up, and I felt power instantly coursing through my veins. I pushed my palm forward, a distant part of me sensing that my skin had taken on a faint, blue-tinged luminosity.

  “Katie! It’s me!”

  Yip!

  Several pieces of knowledge came together in my brain at the same time: Mungo hadn’t growled or otherwise indicated we were in any danger; I’d almost blasted someone with magic even though I’d never known I could muster such power so quickly; and that someone had Steve Dawes’ voice.

  “Oh, God. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” Sure enough, Steve stepped out of the shadows, his face the very picture of contrition.

  “What the heck!” My words came out of my tight throat sounding reedy and frightened, but my emotion had already graduated to anger. “You think that’s funny, sneaking up on me like that?”

  “No!”

  “What were you doing? Waiting for me? Out on a late story, and you think, hey, know what would be fun? Go hang out by the Honeybee and scare the living bejesus out of my friend Katie Lightfoot when she comes to work.”

  “No! I came here just for you!”

  “Great.” I snorted. “That’s even better.” I turned back to the door. The keypad entry had expired, so I entered it again. My hands were trembling from the adrenaline surge.

  “Let me explain.”

  “I can’t stop you.”

  “Okay, then, listen.” He took a step toward me.

  Quickly unlocking the door, I opened it and went inside. Turning in
the doorway, I said, “We open at seven.” I would have shut the door in his face, but the hydraulic mechanism that made it close slowly stole that small satisfaction.

  It also allowed Steve to stick his foot in the door. Then he pushed it open and came inside despite my obvious desire that he go to . . . well, elsewhere. I was still shaking. I put Mungo down, then turned and crossed my arms.

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake.” He rubbed his hands over his face. “This isn’t at all what I wanted. I’m so sorry. I would never frighten you on purpose. I thought you saw me there. You have to listen to me, Katie.”

  “It doesn’t look like you’re giving me much choice.” I was still upset, but now a part of me wondered if perhaps there was something wrong, if Steve needed my help.

  It would have to be something big for him to be waiting for me at five thirty in the morning. Could it be—

  “This is the only time I knew you’d be alone. You’re always around people, it seems like. I wanted to talk to you without Declan interrupting, or Ben giving me the evil eye, or somebody needing something from you.”

  Mungo took a couple of steps away, then sat and looked between us as if watching a tennis match. I regarded Steve. He looked like he hadn’t been getting much sleep. The only light in the bakery was from the empty display case. It was bright but cast strange shadows along the walls and made the high ceiling fans look like giant hands above.

  “Come into the kitchen,” I said. “You can talk while I get the sourdough into the ovens.”

  “No. Not in the kitchen. Please. Just give me a minute, okay? Of your attention. All of it.”

  Puzzled and a little irritated, I said, “You had my attention yesterday in the alley, Steve. Are you going to tell me all over again that the McCarthy clan is bad news, and I’m rushing into marrying Declan? Or is this about something else?”

  Steve’s lips pressed together. He took a deep breath, then motioned me into the reading area. Curious now, I followed. He turned on a desk lamp that was tucked into one of the bookshelves, and the room was flooded with a gentle yellow light. He motioned again, and I moved a little closer.