by HANNA, H. Y.
“I… um…” She swallowed. “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t be snooping but…” She took a deep breath and burst out, “But I need to know!” She scooped up the album and flipped to the central photograph again, thrusting it out towards the Widow Mags. “That little girl is my mother, isn’t she? Isn’t she?”
The Widow Mags stared at the photo for a long time. Finally, in a voice so low that Caitlyn almost couldn’t hear it, she said, “Yes, that’s your mother.”
“And you… you’re my grandmother? And Bertha’s my aunt and Evie’s my cousin, right?”
The Widow Mags nodded slowly.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Caitlyn demanded.
The Widow Mags sighed heavily and hobbled into the room. She sat down on the bed but didn’t answer. Caitlyn hesitated, then sat down next to her.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked again, more softly. “How could you not let me know that you are my family?”
The Widow Mags didn’t look at her. “Does it matter?”
“Yes, it matters. It matters a lot to me!” Caitlyn cried passionately. “All my life, I’ve never felt like I belonged and I could never understand why. My mother—my adoptive mother—was kind to me but there was always a coolness, a distance, between us. I felt guilty because I often used to imagine that I was a lost child, a changeling, from a different family… and now, I find that that dream was true.”
“Well, now you know,” said the Widow Mags brusquely, getting up from the bed.
Caitlyn stared at her. “Wait… no, you can’t just leave it like that! You have to tell me more! Where’s my mother? What happened to her? Why did she give me up? YOU HAVE TO TELL ME!”
The Widow Mags whirled around, her hair wild and her eyes blazing, looking suddenly like a witch straight out of a Halloween horror story. Caitlyn hastily snapped her mouth shut and scuttled backwards on the bed.
“I don’t have to tell you anything,” the Widow Mags growled. “I will teach you the craft of becoming a witch; I will train you and guide you and show you how to harness magic to do your bidding… but I will not answer questions. Remember that—if you decide to stay.”
She stalked out of the room. Caitlyn stood up slowly from the bed, swallowing her frustration. She was furious at the Widow Mags. Why did she have to be so stubborn?
I’m not going to give up, Caitlyn decided. She wouldn’t push things now—instead, she would bide her time and wait for her chance. You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, she reminded herself. She would let the Widow Mags think that she had meekly accepted her rules and impress the old witch with her dedication to her training; she’d be the model granddaughter and make her proud. Then, once the old witch grew to know and love her, surely she would let down her defences and tell Caitlyn everything?
Oh yes, Caitlyn smiled to herself. The Widow Mags is going to find that her granddaughter can be just as stubborn as she is!
She was startled out of her thoughts by the sound of a little girl’s voice and she recognised it as Molly. Her spirits lifting, Caitlyn hurried out to the shop. She hadn’t seen the little girl since the Garden Party two days ago and she was keen to find out if Molly was okay. She stepped out into the shop area to see the little girl facing the Widow Mags across the counter, a shy smile on her face.
“…and which one would you like?” the Widow Mags was asking, her voice unusually gentle.
“The chocolate lollipop,” the little girl whispered. “The one with the smiley face.”
The Widow Mags lifted a chocolate lollipop from the jar on the counter and was about to give it to the child when she paused and asked warily:
“Does your mother know that you’re here? Maybe she wouldn’t be happy for you to eat my chocolates.”
The little girl nodded, making her pigtails bob up and down. “Mummy’s on her way. I just got here first because I can run faster,” she said, adding earnestly, “And I know it’s okay to eat the chocolates because you’re a good witch!”
“Am I?” The Widow Mags looked slightly stunned.
The little girl nodded eagerly. “You made the magic butterflies scare the bad man away. You saved me—like the fairy princess in the book.” She held out a chubby hand. “Can I have my lollipop now, please?”
The Widow Mags handed it to her and Molly beamed. “Thank you!”
She stuck the chocolate smiley face into her mouth, licking it enthusiastically. Caitlyn was relieved to see that Molly seemed none the worse for wear after her frightening experience at the Garden Party. In fact, the child seemed almost proud of her ordeal. Maybe it was because children were so resilient. Or maybe it was because Molly was still at an age where fairy tales could be reality and the appearance of “magic” had somehow turned the whole encounter into a storybook adventure… and of course, there was nothing to fear in stories because evil was always vanquished and the princess always lived happily ever after.
A step sounded on the threshold and they looked up to see a young woman hesitating in the shop doorway. She was dressed in a light cotton shirtdress and had freckles that matched those on Molly’s face. Her eyes darted around and she twisted her hands nervously.
“Hi… I’m… I’m Kate Jenkins, Molly’s mother,” she said. Her eyes fell on her daughter holding the chocolate lollipop. “Oh… can… can I give you some money for that?”
The Widow Mags had stiffened when she saw the younger woman but now she relaxed slightly. She waved a hand. “No, no, it’s a gift.” She hesitated, then added gruffly, “I hope it was all right to give it to her.”
Kate gave an embarrassed smile. “Oh, yes… thank you. Molly’s been pestering me ever since the party. She really wanted a chocolate lollipop and she was terribly disappointed when she didn’t get one that day.”
An awkward silence descended in the store.
Finally, the Widow Mags waved a hand towards the truffles displayed under the counter and said, “Would you like to try some chocolates yourself?”
“Er…” The young woman approached the counter hesitantly. “Actually, I… I came to thank you.”
“To thank me?”
“Yes. For saving Molly,” said Kate Jenkins in a rush. “I saw what you did… with those butterflies. It was… incredible… magical…” She paused, then raised her chin and looked the Widow Mags straight in the eye. “You saved my daughter that day. I’ll never be able to thank you enough… I… I don’t know if you’re really a witch… and I don’t care. I’m glad you’re a part of this village. I hope… I hope we might be friends?” She held her hand out shyly.
The Widow Mags looked speechless for a moment, then slowly she shook Kate’s hand, a flush of pleasure colouring her wrinkled cheeks. She looked away and said gruffly, “Of course, of course… No need to make a hullaballoo about it! Glad to help if I can… Have some of my chocolates!” she ordered, pulling out a tray of truffles from beneath the glass counter and shoving it under the other woman’s nose.
Kate looked slightly taken aback at the abrupt command, but she caught Caitlyn’s eye, smiled gamely, and picked a truffle from the tray. “Okay… I’ll try this one.”
Caitlyn watched in anticipation as Kate put the chocolate truffle in her mouth. It was always great fun watching others experience the Widow Mags’s mouth-watering chocolates. The other woman chewed, stopped, closed her eyes, and sighed in ecstasy. “Oooh… It’s amazing! What’s in it?”
“That’s a mocha truffle,” said the Widow Mags proudly. “It’s a dark chocolate cup filled with espresso ganache, topped with white chocolate, and sprinkled with dark chocolate shavings.”
“Try the salted caramel and Belgian milk chocolate,” Caitlyn suggested with a smile, coming forwards to join them. “Or the rum coconut—that’s got Malibu rum ganache, wrapped in a swirl of milk and white chocolate, and topped with toasted coconut. It’s one of my favourites!”
By the time Kate and Molly finally left Bewitched by Chocolate, they had gone through most of the Wi
dow Mags’s truffle flavours, five gourmet chocolate bars, several chocolate-dipped strawberries, and a good helping of leftover fudge from the party… and nobody needed dinner anymore.
Caitlyn hummed contentedly as she helped the Widow Mags shut up the shop, smiling to herself as she remembered Kate and Molly’s warm company and happy laughter. She knew this was just a small victory—there was still a long way to go in winning the whole village over—but suddenly her heart felt full of hope and cheerfulness.
An old Chinese proverb she had heard on her travels came back to her: “The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”
Caitlyn glanced at the decadent treats displayed on the shelves around her and her smile broadened. And how can you go wrong when you have chocolate to take on the journey?
Don’t miss your next wickedly delicious chocolate fix!
Book 3 in the
BEWITCHED BY CHOCOLATE Mysteries
COMING APRIL 2017!
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In the meantime, check out my other mystery series – I think you’ll enjoy it too!
OXFORD TEAROOM MYSTERIES
"Scones, a tea shop in England, a kitty & a murder -
yes, please!"
A Scone To Die For
(Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 1)
When an American tourist is murdered with a scone in Gemma's quaint Cotswolds' tearoom, she suddenly finds herself apron-deep in a mystery involving sinister secrets from Oxford's past. Helped by four nosy 'Old Biddies' from the village (not to mention a mischievous feline named Muesli), Gemma sets out to solve the case - while also trying to deal with her matchmaking mother and the return of her old college love as handsome CID detective, Devlin O'Connor.
But with the body count rising and her business going bust, can Gemma find the killer before things turn to custard?
READ NOW: AMAZON | AMAZON UK
Here is an excerpt:
CHAPTER ONE
I never thought I’d end the week facing an American with a sharp knife.
It started normally enough, with the usual influx of tourists and visitors to our tiny Cotswolds’ village of Meadowford-on-Smythe. Filled with winding cobbled lanes and pretty thatched cottages, Meadowford was like a picture-perfect postcard of rural England. But quaint and gorgeous as the village was, it would probably never have got much notice if it hadn’t sat on the outskirts of the most famous university city in the world.
Over nine million tourists came to visit Oxford each year, and after they’d posed for photos in the college quadrangles and wandered reverently through the cloisters of the oldest university in the English-speaking world, they drifted out into the surrounding Cotswolds countryside. Here, they would coo over the quaint antique shops and village markets, and look forward to rounding everything off with some authentic English “afternoon tea”.
That’s where I came in. Or rather, my new business: the Little Stables Tearoom. Offering the best in traditional English refreshments, from warm buttery scones with jam and clotted cream, to home-made sticky toffee pudding and hot cross buns, all served with fragrant Earl Grey or English Breakfast tea—proper leaf tea—in delicate bone china… my little tearoom was a must-stop on any visitor’s itinerary.
Well, okay, right now, my little tearoom was more of a “must go next time”—but we all have to start somewhere, right?
And so far, things were looking pretty promising. I’d opened three weeks ago, just at the beginning of October and the start of the Michaelmas Term (a fancy name for the first term in the school year; hey, this is Oxford—at least it wasn’t in Latin) and I’d been lucky to catch the end-of-the-summer tourist trade, as well as the flood of new students arriving with their families. My tearoom had even got a write-up in the local student magazine as one of the “Top Places to Take Your Parents” and looked set on its way to becoming a success.
And I desperately needed it to succeed. I’d given up a top executive job in Sydney—much to the horror of family and friends—on a crazy whim to come back home and follow this dream. I’d sunk every last penny of my savings into this place and I needed it to work. Besides, if my venture didn’t become profitable soon, I’d never be able to afford a place of my own, and seriously, after being home for six weeks, I realised that moving back to live with your parents when you’re twenty-nine is a fate worse than death.
But standing at the counter surveying my tearoom that Saturday morning, I was feeling happy and hopeful. It was still an hour till lunchtime but already the place was almost full. There was a warm cosy atmosphere, permeated by the cheerful hum of conversation, the dainty clink of china, and that gorgeous smell of fresh baking. People were poring over their menus, happily stuffing their faces, or pointing and looking around the room in admiration.
The tearoom was housed in a 15th-century Tudor building, with the distinctive dark half-timber framing and walls painted white. With its thatched roof and cross gables, it looked just like the quintessential English cottages featured on chocolate box tins. Inside, the period charm continued with flagstone floors and thick, exposed wood beams, matched by mullioned windows facing the street and an inglenook fireplace.
It hadn’t looked like this when I took it over. The last owner had let things go badly, due to a combination of money troubles and personal lethargy (otherwise known as laziness), and it had taken a lot of effort and dedication—not to mention all my savings—to restore this place to its former glory. But looking around now, I felt as great a sense of achievement as I had done the day I graduated with a First from that world-famous university nearby.
I scanned the tables, noting that we were starting to get some “regulars” and feeling a rush of pleasure at the thought. Getting someone to try you once—especially when they were tired and hungry and just wanted somewhere to sit down—was one thing; getting them to add you to their weekly routine was a different honour altogether. Especially when that honour was handed out by the residents of Meadowford-on-Smythe who viewed all newcomers with deep suspicion.
Not that I was really a “newcomer”—I’d lived here as a little girl and, even after my family had moved to North Oxford in my teens, we’d always popped back to visit on school holidays and long weekends. But I’d been gone long enough to be considered an “outsider” now and I knew that I would have to work hard to earn back my place in the village.
Still, it looked like I was taking my first steps. Sitting at the heavy oak table by the window were four little old ladies with their heads together, like a group of finicky hens deciding which unfortunate worm to peck first. Fluffy white hair, woolly cardigans, and spectacles perched on the ends of their noses… they looked like the stereotype of sweet, old grannies. But don’t be fooled. These four could have given MI5 a run for their money. They made it their business to know everybody’s business (that was just the basic service—interfering in other people’s business was extra). It was rumoured that even the Mayor of Oxford was in their power.
But the fact that they were sitting in my tearoom was a good sign, I told myself hopefully. It meant that there was a chance I was being accepted and approved of. Then my heart sank as I saw one of them frown and point to an item on the menu. The other three leaned closer and there were ominous nods all around.
Uh-oh. I grabbed an order pad and hurried over to their table.
“Good morning, ladies.” I pinned a bright smile to my face. “What can I get you today?”
They turned their heads in unison and looked up at me, four pairs of bright beady eyes and pursed lips.
“You’re looking a bit peaky, Gemma,” said Mabel Cooke in her booming voice. “Are you sure you’re getting enough fibre, dear? There’s a wonderful new type of bran you can take in the mornings, you kn
ow, to help you get ‘regular’. Dr Foster recommended it to me. Just a spoon on your cereal and you’ll be in the loo, regular as clockwork. Works marvellously to clear you out.” She leaned closer and added in a stage whisper, which was loud enough for the entire room to hear, “So much cheaper than that colon irritation thing they do, dear.”
I saw the couple at the next table turn wide eyes on me and felt myself flushing. “Er… thank you, Mrs Cooke. Now, can I take—”
“I saw your mother in Oxford yesterday,” Glenda Bailey spoke up from across the table. As usual, she was wearing bright pink lipstick, which clashed badly with the rouge on her cheeks, but somehow the overall effect was charming. Glenda was eighty going on eighteen, with a coquettish manner that went perfectly with her girlish looks. “Has she had her hair done recently?”
To be honest, I had no idea. I had only been back six weeks and I thought my mother looked pretty much the same. But I suppose her hair was in a different style to the last time I’d returned to England.
“Er… yes, I think so.”
Glenda clucked her tongue and fluttered her eyelashes in distress. “Oh, it was shocking. So flat and shapeless. I suppose she went to one of those fancy new hairdressers in Oxford?”
“I… I think she did.”
There were gasps from around the table.
“She should have come to Bridget here in the village,” said Mabel disapprovingly. “Nobody can do a wash and blow dry like our Bridget. She even gave me a blue rinse for free the last time I was there.” She patted her head with satisfaction, then turned back to me with a scowl. “Really, Gemma! Young hairdressers nowadays know nothing about lift and volume. I don’t know why your mother is going to these fancy new hair salons.”
Maybe because not everyone wants to walk around wearing a cotton wool helmet on their heads, I thought, but I bit back the retort.