“It might not be funny right now, but if what the locals say about the rain is true, I’ll have the whole month of September to work on my wet dog jokes.”
She turned her head slowly and stared at me. If looks could kill, I’d be triple dead. A single rain drop fell from her lightly freckled nose.
“This rain has put a real damper on your mood,” I said. “Get it? Damper?”
She pursed her lips.
I pressed on. “What do you call a soaking wet member of the Ursidae family?”
She blinked. “If I guess correctly, will you stop?”
“You know any sort of reaction to puns is a form of encouragement.”
She frowned and narrowed her eyes at me.
“The answer is drizzly bear,” I said.
More death rays.
I checked that nobody was looking directly into the vehicle, then cast a spell to dry the rain from Zoey’s hair and clothes. That was probably what her initial “Well?” had been about.
“Thank you,” she said flatly, the way my mother thanked a waiter for bringing the wine she’d been waiting ten excruciating seconds too long for.
“Yeah, well, try not to drag in so much water next time. It’s not good for the vintage upholstery.”
Another sullen look.
I put on the turn signal and started us rolling.
As we drove, I tried again to make conversation a few times, with similar results. I lost track of how many times I could have been killed by her deadly looks.
So, being the cool mom I was, instead of heading straight home, I changed course and pulled into the parking lot for Kin Khao.
“Takeout or eat in?” I asked.
My daughter quietly looked down at her hands.
I asked the question again.
She looked up at me, tears in her eyes. “Why are you even being nice to me? I’ve been so rude to you. Why do you even like me? I’m a monster.”
“You’re not a monster, Zoey. Trust me. I’ve seen monsters, and you are not one of them.”
She sniffed.
“You’re having a rough time,” I said. “You love school. You should be smiling, because today is usually the happiest day of the year for you. But you miss that boyfriend of yours. He’s ruined your happy day.” I shook my head. “Silly boyfriend. Shame on him for being so smart and getting into that good college.”
She wrinkled her nose. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Right. He’s just your friend who happens to be a boy, with whom you’ve been hanging out every single day for the last month.”
She turned and gazed out the rain-streaked passenger window. “And he’s the boy who happens to not even live here anymore.”
The boy had left for college over the weekend, and now my sweet kid was suffering her first romantic heartbreak. She didn’t think heartbreak would be able to find her. She’d been careful. But no amount of denial, planning, or abstaining from labels had spared her young heart.
“I guess we could go straight home,” I said. “There’s no amount of pad kee mao that will help with a problem big enough to merit a sigh like that.” I put the car back in gear. “It’s a bit early for dinner, anyway. What are we, retired? It’s not even four o’clock.”
She whipped her head and gave me a panicked look. “I think we should at least try the pad kee mao.”
“Will it help with the loud sighing?”
“It can’t hurt.”
I turned off the engine. I reached for the handle but didn’t open the door yet. Another thunderous bowling ball rolled overhead.
We sat in the warm, cozy car, listening to the rain pour down.
In a moment, we would take deep breaths, as though preparing to dive into a swimming pool, and exit the car like synchronized swimmers. We would squeal as we darted around newly formed puddles.
Inside Kin Khao, we would be warmly greeted by May Meesang, who would comment on the rain, and how it would be there all month.
That September, the rain would be omnipresent, alternating between heavy downpour and light drizzle. The sky would remain gray until one morning, when dawn would finally break, golden and beautiful, over my very changed family.
Chapter 11
Tuesday Morning
It was raining again, so I offered to drive Zoey to school.
As we drove, she brooded over her phone the whole time.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, glancing over from the driver’s side seat. “Has Griffin not been returning your text messages?”
She answered in a clipped tone. “He writes back.”
“Then why are you breathing so furiously? You’re steaming up your side of the car. I’ve got the air vents cranked to maximum and they can’t keep up.”
She looked up at the glass and saw that it was true. She gave me a helpless look.
“What’s wrong?” I asked again. “Besides the obvious.”
“It’s his birthday today.”
“Okay. That’s understandable. He’s turning eighteen, which is a big milestone, and it’s sad that you won’t be there.”
“Exactly.”
“Poor kid. He probably misses all his friends from here. It serves him right for taking all those extra courses and graduating a year before his buddies. I guess he’ll be eating that cake we sent him all by himself, alone in his dorm room. Speaking of which, did the cake get there okay? Chloe will want to know if the packaging held up.”
She wrinkled her brow and pouted. “That’s the thing. He won’t be alone. He’s been sending me these long messages about all the amazing new friends he’s making.”
“Amazing new friends? Is that a bad thing?”
“I don’t know. It’s weird. He hasn’t even been there a week.”
“He’s an extrovert, Zoey. You knew that when you met him. He got you the job at the museum so you could hang out with him and his entire group of friends.”
She wrinkled her nose. “He’s like some kind of pack animal who can’t be separated from the herd for a minute.”
“It may seem strange to you, but I’m sure all of us introverts seem equally strange to extroverts.”
“You’re not an introvert, Mom.”
“What are you talking about? Of course I’m an introvert. I’m a librarian. I love books.”
“But you like people.”
“You don’t like people?”
“I like some people.”
I pulled up in front of the high school. “Why would you say I’m not an introver—”
A rain-soaked figure in a fluorescent safety vest jumped in front of the car, waving desperately. Through the pattering of the rain on the windshield, I heard the figure lecturing me about the boundaries of the pick-up zone.
I flickered the headlights in apology, put the car in reverse, and backed up three feet so that I was within the zone.
I returned to my question. “Why would you say I’m not an introvert?” I had always assumed I was an introvert, because so many of my colleagues in the library services realm were. But there were times when I’d been eager to make scads of new friends, such as when we’d moved to Wisteria. I enjoyed being around people, and having them inside my home, even if some of them were wyverns or cats and not typical people. As my house had filled with life forms, my heart had filled with happiness.
“Maybe I’m an extrovert after all,” I mused. “Sort of a stealth extrovert.”
“You’re more of an ambivert,” Zoey said.
“Ambivert?” I stuck out my tongue. “I’ve never liked that word. It sounds like a sleeping pill, or a new drug for treating mold allergies.”
“Don’t get all weird about it.”
“Who’s getting weird? You’re the weird one, with your labels.”
“I’m sorry if I just shattered your whole image of yourself, but look on the bright side. It’s probably a good thing you’re an ambivert. You can go either way. You’re more flexible.”
“Ambivert,” I said, feeling mor
e comfortable with the label by the minute. I thought of my most extroverted ghost, Winona Vander Zalm, and my most introverted ghost, Tansy Wick, and pictured myself falling on the social spectrum between the two of them.
“Ambivert,” I repeated, in my TV announcer voice. “Take two as needed for a good night’s sleep, or pesky mold allergies. Side effects may include laughing out loud instead of typing LOL, talking to strangers at parties, or attending community theater productions that require audience participation.”
My daughter didn’t laugh. She was looking at her phone again, and not happy about it.
“Now what?” I asked.
“Griffin’s new college friends are taking him out on a tour of all the places that give away free things if it’s your birthday.”
“That sounds nice,” I said cautiously. “And perfectly normal, too. I thought you liked it when people do normal things. You keep telling me the best part about Griffin is how normal he is.”
She snorted and glared at the phone, ignoring most of what I said. “His parents are paying all his tuition. He shouldn’t be trying to get everything for free. It’s not fair to the local businesses. He’s such a scammer.”
That was the first time I’d heard anything negative about the amazingly normal Griffin Yates. I had been waiting for this day, and the opportunity to suggest she look on the bright side. Without a boy taking up all her free time, she could put more effort into making friends—the regular kind who weren’t romantic interests.
Zoey was a true introvert. She didn’t need a large group of friends, but she needed a few. She was always happier when she had a deep bond with a couple of kids her age. I’d been suggesting she recruit a friend or two at her new school, or even through her job at the museum, but the latter hadn’t worked out. Griffin Yates was normal, and his friends were normal. While she enjoyed Griffin’s buddies when Griffin was at her side, she couldn’t hang out with the museum gang without him, because they were “too normal,” and made her feel like the odd one out.
The day before, over Thai food, I’d asked about other potential friends at the high school. Zoey reluctantly mentioned she’d noticed a girl who drove an old hearse around town. Her name was Ambrosia Abernathy. Her family ran a funeral home, which explained the hearse.
I suggested that Ambrosia might like to come over for a make-your-own-pizza night. Zoey said she’d think about it, but only if I promised to get normal toppings for a change. She loved my noodle-pickle-meatball-blue-cheese-dressing pizzas, but they were unsuitable for potential friends.
I had promised to source some “normal” pizza toppings, such as salami and peppers, and she had promised to chat with hearse-driving Ambrosia.
“Hey,” I said, remembering the pizza conversation from the night before. “Remember to talk to that girl who drives a hearse.”
“Yup.”
“Do you have any classes with her today?”
“Maybe,” she said distractedly.
It wasn’t like my daughter to not know her schedule. She was really bothered by the whole Griffin business. I could relate. At her age, I’d been devastated when the boy who knocked me up had disappeared into thin air. The devastation hadn’t lasted long, because I’d had a pregnancy to distract me. Thankfully that wasn’t going to be an issue for Zoey. She had more sense than I’d had at her age. Plus, Griffin was just a normal boy, not a charming genie.
Griffin moving away was my daughter’s second big loss in less than a month. She had been mopey about Corvin leaving for London, but at least the new romance with Griffin had been a positive distraction. Now, with Griffin gone, she was on her own again, or at least with nobody under twenty to hang out with.
I felt bad for her. I didn’t want her to be so independent, or grow up so fast. That had been my path, and while I had turned out spectacular, I’d hoped for an easier path for my only child.
Zoey gave the phone one last dirty look before putting it in her backpack. She huffed, “I will never date an extrovert ever again.”
“That seems a bit extreme. No extroverts whatsoever? I believe they’re the majority. You’re ruling out a lot of potential boyfriends.”
“Good.”
I checked the time. If she didn’t get going, she’d be late for her second day of school.
I reached over and ruffled her hair. “Have a great day at school, sweetie!”
She gave me a pained look. “And have fun at the library with Mr. Wonderful and the Hooter.”
“You bet your fluffernuts I will.”
She stepped out into the rain and ran toward the school entrance. I waited until she was out of sight before I drove away.
I didn’t go straight to the library. My schedule that week was light, so I had the morning free to run errands.
Despite the gray skies, I was in a sunny mood.
I wouldn’t have turned up the radio and sung along happily to pop tunes if I’d known the afternoon would turn up a dead body.
Chapter 12
The thing about errands was the more trivial the tasks were, the more productive I felt.
I drove to three different stores to pick up the esoteric supplies I needed for a potion. It was a compound that would facilitate the removal of a dozen sticky spots from the surface of the car, where the neighborhood trees had dropped their sap.
Next, I dropped off some clothes for alterations—new finds from Mia’s Kit and Kaboodle that needed to be taken in.
Then I went shopping for giant vats of foodstuffs from the town’s warehouse store. I bought a five-month supply of “normal” pizza toppings, among other necessities, such as a decade’s supply of dental floss. To my surprise, I loved buying things in bulk. There were so many great deals, and now that I lived in a house with adequate storage instead of a small apartment, I could really stock up.
When the cashier saw the quantity of pancake syrup in my shopping cart, she commented that I must have several growing boys at home.
“Just one growing boy with a sweet tooth,” I said. A sweet tooth and several sweet fangs. Luckily for my budget, the store carried a line of maple-flavored syrup that contained no maple whatsoever and thus was quite reasonably priced. Ribbons couldn’t tell the difference, or least he hadn’t noticed that I’d been refilling an old container of genuine maple syrup with the fake stuff. I’d learned that little trick from an episode of Wicked Wives. When Quenya’s husband lost his job as a lawyer, she had to stretch the family food budget using any means necessary. I had used the same trick on Zoey, refilling brand-name cereal boxes with cheap copycats, and claiming that such inventiveness was my idea of an “investment strategy.”
I stopped by the house to unload the groceries, since the enormous vat of store-brand ice cream wouldn’t keep well in the car while I worked my shift. Or, if it did happen to keep well and not change texture, I didn’t want to know.
While I put the groceries away, I heard what sounded like Santa’s reindeer landing on my roof, then having a party.
After cramming the ice cream into the freezer, I went outside to investigate the noise. I held my hand over my eyes to shield them from the rain, and stared up at the roof. Whatever aspect of my house was being magically remodeled, it wasn’t visible to the naked eye.
“That’s a lovely roofline,” said a female voice.
I turned to find a woman in a conservative suit in front of the Moore house. She was in her thirties and pretty, with a button nose and bright green eyes. Her shoulder-length auburn hair must have been coated in waterproof hairspray, because the rain was sliding off her bob like water off a duck’s back. She had a big mallet in one hand. A new For Sale sign was stuck in the grass in front of her.
The rain let up at that very moment, as though being courteous.
“Thanks,” I said, dropping my hand from my forehead. “Did you happen to hear any banging just now? Or see anything out of the ordinary?”
Her eyes widened. She glanced around furtively and walked toward me. Her gait was un
gainly because her narrow heels kept sinking into the lawn, aerating it as the mud coated her pumps.
In a hoarse whisper, she said, “Do you mean the squatter?”
I gave her a sidelong look. “Maybe. Which squatter are you referring to?”
She nodded at the blue house behind her, the Moore residence. “The one who’s been leaving all the bottles inside my client’s house.”
I winced. “Tequila bottles?”
Her eyes widened. “You heard?”
“That’s not a squatter,” I explained. “That sounds like the work of...” Charlize “the house sitter.”
“Really? A house sitter? It’s not just the bottles. There’s garbage, and wrappers from packaged foods, plus a smell I can only describe as feral. Is the house sitter a teenaged boy?”
I bit back a laugh. Charlize would have taken great delight at this woman’s dismay.
“The house sitter is an adult who should be tidying up after herself,” I said. “I will speak to her about keeping the house in showable condition.”
“It’s a woman?” The agent’s pretty upper lip curled in disgust. “I’m not sure what value she’s offering as a house sitter. A family of raccoons would do a better job.” There was a twinkle in the woman’s eye at the mention of raccoons. “How long do you think she’ll need to make the house presentable?”
“Not long if I help tidy up. Give us a day or two.”
“The sooner the better.” The agent glanced over at the blue house. “The market’s been slower than a tortoise walking to work lately, but you never know.” As she turned toward me again, a sly smile spread across her face. “You never know when your luck’s about to change.”
“Life is like that,” I agreed. “It can turn on a dime.”
As if on cue, the rain started again, with a light drizzle. Hilarious.
“I’m Zara Riddle.” I offered her my damp hand. “I live next door, in the red house.”
“The Red Witch House?”
I pretended to be surprised by my home’s name and reputation. “It is red,” I said slowly, confusedly.
“I’m so sorry,” the woman said. “You know how it is in small towns. We Wisterians say a lot of silly things. It’s all in good fun.” She took my hand and pumped it hard. “You’re not a witch,” she said. “In fact, you seem like a perfectly lovely person.” Her eyes flicked to the house, then back at me, with a hungry, eager look. “You must have known Dorothy Tibbits. She sold that house shortly before her unfortunate passing.”
Wishful Wisteria (Wisteria Witches Mysteries - Daybreak Book 3) Page 7