“Lily, are you sure everything is okay?” she asked, stroking my hair. “Does this have to do with your being a witch?”
Chapter 7
I pulled away so quickly that I knocked over the hat stand.
“Witch?” I asked as we both crouched to gather up sundry caps and bonnets.
Bronwyn was aware that I had a working knowledge of herbs and the craft, but I had kept the truth from her, in part because I didn’t want to be looked at as different, and in part because I was afraid she would be too welcoming.
Bronwyn belonged to an entirely unthreatening coven of women who practiced the genial religion of Wicca. In their version, at least, this essentially meant that they pledged to harm no one, to judge no one, and to learn about herbs and the ancient rituals surrounding the equinox and solstice. I let them have their meeting at the store during the last full moon, and from the little I witnessed from the back room, they burned a lot of candles and incense, cast a circle of women, chanted a few invocations, paid homage to the goddesses, and then visited over Bundt cake and herbal tea. Sort of like a Halloween-themed Tupperware party.
“You know I’m Wiccan, Lily. Why do you feel like you have to hide what you are?”
“I don’t . . . I mean I—”
“I’ve seen you purifying widdershins every morning, then smudging deosil. That’s Basic Site Cleansing 101. You think I didn’t notice?”
I looked up into her soft brown eyes. From the moment of meeting Bronwyn I had been dismissive of her because of her lack of magical talent, but perhaps she represented something better, and even rarer: an endless supply of love and understanding. And I accused nonwitchy humans of being prejudiced.
“Thanks,” I said with a loud sniff. “It’s just that I’ve always felt—”
“Different? We all have.”
But my version of different, I was sure, was slightly more dramatic than hers. For instance, she probably hadn’t been run out of her hometown on a rail.
“Lily, sweetie, why don’t you join our coven? We’re open to all of goodwill.”
However much power Bronwyn’s coven might or might not have, I hesitated. I had no idea what my magic would be like added to that of thirteen or so believers, whether or not they had true supernatural abilities. The sad truth was that, as Graciela had warned me so long ago, I was not in complete control of my powers. The last thing I wanted to do was endanger a group of welcoming, well-meaning women.
“Thank you, Bronwyn. I’ll think about it. But right now what I need is to get ready for the wedding party, which is supposed to be here in”—I checked my watch—“oh, jeez, less than twenty minutes.”
“Relax, Lily. I brought plenty of champagne and fresh-squeezed orange juice. I guarantee you, get these girls downing mimosas in that communal dressing room, and all the little details will take care of themselves.”
The bridal party arrived in two shiny black stretch limousines, which was enough to cause a minor outrage on relatively narrow Haight Street. A handful of street kids poked loud fun, a few homeless men approached to ask for spare change, and the trendy folk just wanted to see who the celebrities were. When they realized that there were no famous faces in the giggling assemblage, they walked on by with poorly concealed disdain.
Still, there was so much gawking and street clogging that Conrad felt duty-bound to step in and direct traffic. I gave him an old pair of orange mittens, and he carried out his duties with great flair. A couple of punk rockers stood behind and mimicked him, and a bearded, white-haired, self-anointed New Age priest blessed the limo and its inhabitants with the power of a pyramid made of Tinkertoys. All in all, the whole scene suited the carni valesque quality of the Haight.
Twenty-three years old and only recently graduated from college, the bride, Natalie, bounced out of the limo looking more like a contender for the Oakland Raiders cheerleaders than a woman about to be married. Her sweatpants hung low on her narrow hips, giving us all peeks at her perfectly smooth, taut stomach. A cropped sweatshirt proclaimed her loyalty to her alma mater, USC, and her shiny, well-brushed auburn hair fell long and loose about her shoulders.
Her friends dressed in kind. All wore sweatpants or gym shorts, and all gleamed with health, wealth, and leisure. Several were clearly also USC girls; one wore shorts emblazoned with the name UC Santa Barbara, while the others wore T-shirts that recalled spring breaks on sun-drenched Caribbean islands.
The twelve young women burst into the shop and started flipping through dresses and blouses with the high-spirited abandon of experienced shoppers. They squealed and cooed when they discovered Oscar, who led a couple of them on a merry chase through the racks of dresses and skirts until I caught his eye and gave him a Look, after which he stopped and allowed himself to be petted and adored.
Once their fascination for him waned, Oscar kept bumping around their ankles, trying his best to look adorable. I imagined he was hoping to be picked up, but since his pig form probably weighed nearly half what the gals did, his chances looked about as slim as their hips. Still, he enjoyed himself by sneaking under the dressing room curtain whenever I wasn’t watching.
I took Bronwyn’s advice and began pouring mimosas right away, handing each woman in the group a crystal champagne flute as they started to peruse the special rack of bridesmaids’ dresses I had put out near the communal dressing room, which was essentially an alcove cut off from the rest of the store by heavy burgundy velvet drapes. Since I carry solely women’s clothes, I have only two small private dressing nooks. Most people use the big communal space; even with strangers, once women get over their initial shyness, it becomes like a sorority party in there. Or so I imagined a sorority party to be.
This assembly didn’t need much encouragement to make the try-on sessions a celebration. Bronwyn and I pushed the entire rack of gowns into the dressing room and they went to town, oohing and ahhing, laughing and giggling as they held dresses in front of themselves and their friends. The dresses ranged in age and style from the twenties to the sixties; I even had two gowns from the late 1800s, but these I kept on a special display behind the counter. The antique fabric was far too delicate to be tried on repeatedly.
While they enjoyed, I focused on the bride, Natalie. I shook her hand in welcome and concentrated on her vibrations, then led her to a gown I had won after a brutal bidding war at an estate auction in Palo Alto. In the end I had been forced to intervene with a little magic, as the sour-faced woman bidding against me was nearly as stubborn as I. But a determined witch is hard to beat. Afterward the woman wouldn’t stop glaring at me, and called me a name that rhymes with “witch.” Auctions, I had come to find out, were not for the easily intimidated.
As I looked at Natalie in the dress now, however, I knew it had been worth it.
It was a two-part ensemble from the turn of the last century. The ivory silk-and-satin bodice was lined with twelve real whalebones; the neckline was cut in a vee, decorated with ivory embroidery, and ruched; and it ended in a flattering point at the center front that dropped down over the narrow waist of the skirt. A large, lace-edged shawl-style collar wrapped around the neckline and attached with a satin bow at the side, and the full sleeves ended mid-forearm, while the inner sleeves extended to the wrist and matched the shawl collar. The voluminous skirt featured a full fourteen inches of narrow pleated ruffles at the bottom, along with two rows of ruched trim. To top it all off, a ruffled underslip attached to the skirt and ended with a velvet-and-lace hem protector.
The gown’s vibrations were very subtle, and very calm. Putting it on took some effort—this was the sort of garment worn back when personal attendants were always at hand to help a wealthy woman to dress. But when Natalie assessed herself in the three-way mirror, she stood straighter, stopped giggling, and held herself with a kind of dignified maturity that made her seem, suddenly, ready to begin life with a husband and a new home.
She was immediately enthralled with her own image and refused to try anything else on. I
was just as pleased. Not only was this the oldest and most expensive of the gowns, by far, but her decisiveness also meant I didn’t have to bring out either of Frances Potts’s two dresses as options. Now that Frances had somehow died despite my protection, I wanted a chance to study the gowns carefully. Perhaps they could tell me something. I hadn’t felt anything troublesome when I held them in Frances’s basement, but I no longer had confidence in yesterday’s perfunctory appraisal.
Edith Piaf crooned on the stereo behind the register as I stuck a bunch of pins in my mouth and had the bride step up on a little raised platform covered with a silk rug. Maya’s mother, Lucille, arrived and strapped on her wrist pincushion, and she and I conferred on the best approach to adapt the gown. Older garments were cut for much more petite dimensions than the average twenty-first-century woman possessed, so fittings could be a challenge. Occasionally seams could be let out, or carefully added panels sometimes did the trick.
Natalie was thin as a rail, but several inches taller than the original bride had been. Though the dress fit through the bodice—the most difficult part to modify—the skirt landed above her ankles rather than trailing slightly on the floor as it should. After some discussion we decided to add on another flounce at the bottom. I made a habit of salvaging antique material, lace, and ribbons from old dresses that were beyond repair; no doubt we had enough vintage ivory satin in the storage closet to finish the job. Happily, given the style of the dress, it would be easy enough to make such an addition appear part of the original design. With great care not to tear the delicate aged silk, Lucille and I pinned the dress where necessary and jotted down measurements for the alterations.
At long last we were finished, and Bronwyn and Lucille escorted Natalie back into the communal dressing room to help her remove the beautiful gown.
I downed a mimosa and set my energies to helping the bridesmaids decide on their own dresses. Since Natalie would be wearing such an antique gown, I assumed she would want the rest of her entourage to follow suit.
“Oh, nah,” Natalie said as she stepped back into her sweatpants. “They can have any style they want. It’ll be kinda like a vintage fashion show right there as we walk down the aisle.”
“In that case, I totally want this one . . . I think,” said a pretty redhead, the maid of honor, as she modeled an orange sherbet-colored gauzy confection circa 1955. It was sleeveless, with a Greek-goddess bodice, and fell just to her knees. Though the dress was lovely, I could tell it wasn’t quite right for her.
“What do you think?” she asked.
Her friends weighed in loudly, and the consensus seemed to be that she needed to look around some more. One chose a lacy drop-waist flapper-style dress, while another was drawn to a slightly severe forties-style garment with a straight skirt and padded shoulders.
“Could you help me with this?” asked the redhead as she backed up to me in yet another chiffon, this one lemon yellow.
I zipped her up and smoothed the shoulders.
“I like those earrings,” I said, gently cupping one in my fingers, using the excuse to feel for her energy. Despite her giggling air, I could tell she had been crying recently. “You might like these,” I said, leading her to an inexpensive pair of beaded chandelier-style earrings in the glass case.
“Those are cute,” she said. “But I don’t really need any more jewelry. I’ve got hella earrings already.”
“Oh, go on, Jasmine, try ’em on,” Natalie urged. “It’ll be like your bridesmaid gift. Everybody gets to choose stuff for their gifts—I just decided.”
“The beads are tiger’s eye. They’re good luck,” I added.
Tiger’s eye helps people achieve clarity with desires, and these particular earrings had a very definite, confident energy about them. The redheaded Jasmine needed to understand herself better before she’d ever find the right man. As soon as she tried them on I knew I had her. She felt better already. She wouldn’t attribute it to magic, but to the little lift we feel when we know we’re wearing something flattering. But no matter. They would help.
I then steered her to a sixties “London mod”-style dress that was better suited to her figure, and to her aura, before turning to the other bridesmaids.
“You have such a great eye,” Bronwyn noted. “Before they even try something on you can tell who will look good in what.”
“It’s a knack. I’ve always had it. For instance, this deep purple would look great on you,” I said as I held up a velvet tunic to her.
“You think so?”
“I know so. Take it.”
Bronwyn came out of the dressing room a few minutes later, her cheeks rosy and her brown eyes shining softly. Her round face was radiant. She looked like a lovely, ample, sexy witch. Perfect.
“That looks great on you!” Lucille chimed in with a charming smile on her delicately featured face. Lucille looked exactly like an older version of her daughter Maya, save for the dreadlocks and ear cuffs. And like Maya, she had a deeply calm, comforting way about her that made me want to curl up next to her on the couch and watch old movies, with hot chocolate in one hand and a big bowl of popcorn in the other.
A loud knock shook the front door. I glanced over to see our neighbor Sandra trying to open the locked handle. Turning away, I cast an imploring look toward Bronwyn, who graciously went to the front door to explain why we weren’t open at the moment. I couldn’t hear everything she said, but it took some doing to get Sandra to leave.
“Isn’t that Sandra Schmidt?” Lucille asked me.
“She owns the shop next door,” I said.
“Oh, what a coincidence. She’s head of our neighborhood association out near India Basin.”
“India Basin? I was just over there. . . . That’s near Hunters Point, right?”
“Oh, now that I think of it, Maya told me you were there yesterday when that poor little girl was snatched.” She shook her graying head. “From right in front of her house. What a terrible thing. I swear, it’s like that neighborhood is cursed.”
“Did you know the woman we were visiting? Frances Potts?”
“Mrs. Potts? I guess everyone in the neighborhood knows of her, one way or another. The children are fascinated with her place—half of them thinking it’s a haunted house, the other half running in and out of there, looking for cookies and company. It’s always quite a scene on Halloween, I’ll tell you that much.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her about Frances’s death, but Natalie came to ask me about the selection of veils, cutting our discussion short, which was just as well. It felt unseemly to talk about a gruesome murder scene during a mimosa-fueled bridal-finery try-on party. Lucille helped me make note of the rest of the necessary alterations, pinning each ticket to its dress before leaving to shop for her niece’s baby shower.
The bridesmaids’ ultimate dress choices were as varied as the young women themselves, as were their selections of bridesmaid presents—they bought everything from antique jewelry to embroidered handkerchiefs to frilly garters. At the last minute the bride fell in love with a precious antique net-and-lace veil with a train that was fully ten feet long.
Natalie handed over a platinum credit card without once inquiring as to the price.
At four o’clock Natalie’s aunt Susan, the fashion editor from the San Francisco Chronicle, showed up with a photographer. Susan’s idea was to do a style piece on the store now, then cover the wedding that would take place three months from now, in June. The photo sessions began with each bridesmaid, and then the bride, showing off her new finds in the dressing room, in different sections of the store, and out front on the sidewalk.
Even Oscar made it into a few of the photos, which pleased him no end. As a demon he wouldn’t be able to appear in photos, but as a pig he was front and center.
Susan gushed about my inventory and told me she simply adored the way I had set up the store. She asked a long series of questions for her article, promising she would be back when she had more tim
e to look for her own dress, and that she would send the in-laws and various others from the party by to look for vintage treasures. With a weary but contented sigh, I saw her off, feeling sure Aunt Cora’s Closet had made its reputation.
The bridesmaids took their time changing back into their street clothes, and hence back to their giggling, young ways. One reason I was so drawn to clothing was that, like cooking, it was a realm where non-witches experienced a little everyday magic. Put on a different outfit and your whole outlook on life could transform. There is a reason we refer to it as “changing”: When you put on an outfit that is perfect for you, you change.
The entire process had taken much longer than I thought it would, as these things tend to do. As the women were dressing, a name popped into my mind, reminding me that I needed to talk privately with Bronwyn. I took her by the arm and led her away from the changing rooms, over near the counter.
“Did you know Charles Gosnold is leading a ghost hunt out on the bay?” I asked her in a low voice.
“Oh?” she asked, distracted as she picked up Oscar and gave him a kiss.
“He shouldn’t be going out on the water. There’s . . .”
She looked at me expectantly.
“A friend of mine told me that there’s an angry spirit out there.”
That got her attention.
“Really?”
“I don’t think Charles is equipped for something like that. Do you?”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. He was named ‘Best Paranormal Sleuth’ two years in a row in the Bay Guardian newspaper.”
“Sleuthing isn’t the same thing as dueling with an evil entity. This isn’t some run-of-the-mill house ghost.”
“He did ask me about some recipes for protection. . . .”
“Actually, he sent a man here for herbs while you were gone this morning. We got to talking, and it turns out he’s a mythbuster. He’s planning on ‘outing’ Charles.”
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