Pawsitively Cursed

by Melissa Erin Jackson

  Gretchen frowned, her dark brows knitted together, and her mouth pulled into a tight line. If Amber didn’t know her no-nonsense aunt any better, she would have thought the woman was going to burst into tears. Something twinged in her chest again; Amber worried she’d somehow just said something horribly offensive to her aunt without meaning to.

  “Aunt Gretchen, I—” Amber swallowed. “What did I say? I didn’t mean—”

  “Oh, my sweet girl,” she said, placing a hand on Amber’s cheek, just as she had downstairs. “I fear this is all my fault.”

  Movement down on the street below caught Amber’s eye, and she glanced out the window just as the door to Purrfectly Scrumptious opened and out sauntered Savannah the Maine coon. If Betty Harris was opening her doors, it meant it was opening time for Amber as well. Tourists were already milling around Russian Blue Avenue, peering in shop windows and cooing at the town’s plethora of friendly street cats. A pair of giggling girls bent down to pet Savannah, who had rather dramatically flopped onto her back on the sidewalk so passersby would have better access to her furry belly.

  “We’ll talk later, little mouse,” Gretchen said, pulling Amber’s attention back to her aunt. “I’ll take a nap while you open up shop. I’m exhausted.”

  Aunt Gretchen did seem even paler now than she had when she’d arrived. How sick was she?

  “Go,” her aunt said. “Stop looking at me as if I already have a foot in the grave. Out you go!” She waved her hands at Amber as if she were a pesky fly.

  Amber laughed. “All right, all right! I’m going. If you need anything, just—”

  “Bye, little mouse.”

  Shaking her head and smiling to herself, Amber hurried for the steps and into the shop below.

  The morning was busy, the tinkling bell above her door sounding several times an hour. When managing the shop by herself truly became unmanageable in the months before the Here and Meow, she often hired a couple of teenagers to help with customers and to man the register.

  Now, as Amber clicked the lock shut on her front door and flipped her open sign over, she let out a weary sigh. Would checking in with Lily and Daisy Bowen this week be too premature? The real tourist influx was at least a month away, but this junior fashion show was proving to be more popular than Amber would have guessed.

  But before she even considered calling the Bowens, she needed to make arrangements for her aunt and grab something to eat.

  After a quick check upstairs, she found her aunt fast asleep on the comforter, mouth agape, and a curled-up dozing cat on either side of her. Smiling to herself, she quietly made her way back downstairs, grabbed her purse, locked up, and stepped out onto Russian Blue Avenue.

  The Manx Hotel was only a few doors down from her favorite sandwich shop, The Catty Melt. It was a quick ten-minute drive to the hotel from her shop. Evidence of the Here and Meow’s impending arrival could be seen not just in the new flood of wandering tourists, but in the mailboxes topped with cat ears, posters advertising sign-ups for the 5k run, and the banner for the festival itself stretched wide across the major intersection of Catnip and Scritch Boulevards.

  A familiar pang in her chest reminded her that her friend Melanie wouldn’t get to see what all her hard work on the festival would look like this year. She told herself to call Kimberly Jones, the new Here and Meow Festival director, soon to see how she was faring in her new role.

  The Manx was the ritziest hotel in Edgehill. It looked more like a sprawling Victorian-era mansion than a glamorous high-rise in a big city, though. The building was a soft brown with striking black accents. Elegant black cat statues were scattered around the property. Several were perched on the corners of the roofs, watching passersby like silently judging gargoyles.

  Amber walked up to the low, black fence that circled the property, and swung open the gate on silent hinges. A black cat statue sat at the top of the short flight of stairs. When Amber reached the top, however, the cat statue mewed, its tongue a bright flash of pink.

  “Well, hello,” Amber said, slightly startled.

  The cat stood and immediately trotted to the black front door, then glanced over its shoulder as if to say, “Welcome to the Manx Hotel. Please follow me.” An oval-shaped window rested in the center of the door. Cats had been etched into the glass—a tumbled mass of paws, whiskers, and pointed ears.

  Amber grabbed hold of the thick, clear doorknob and turned. The door had only been opened a sliver before the black cat slunk through and disappeared inside.

  The lobby was a wide, open space, the walls and floor made of a rich, dark wood. A wide staircase rose up behind the C-shaped registration desk sitting squarely in the middle of the room. An open doorway sat on either side of Amber, leading into what looked like lounging areas. Amber thought she heard the faint sound of voices—she couldn’t be sure if they belonged to guests or a TV kept at low volume.

  A woman, who Amber was almost sure had been in Willow’s graduating class, stood at the desk, a phone pressed to her ear. She looked up at Amber and smiled, holding up a single finger before she offered the person on the other end of the line a few noises of understanding. Wedging the phone between her ear and shoulder, she turned to the computer—Amber could only see part of the monitor’s back peeking above the lip of the desk—and clacked away on a keyboard.

  Amber glanced around the lobby again, waiting for the woman to get off the phone. A burst of laughter sounded from the open room to her right. Masculine laughter. Curious, Amber walked to the doorway and peeked in.

  The lounge area had a couch and several recliners arranged in a loose half-moon shape, all facing a flat-screen TV on a dark wood stand. The screen was dark. Three men sat in the chairs, talking and laughing. Well, one man talked, animatedly gesticulating as he told what looked to be a very involved story.

  “And then he said, ‘Not with a raccoon in your shorts!’”

  The men burst into howling laughter again.

  Amber smiled at the sound of it. And then she recognized one of the men as Connor Declan, the reporter from the Edgehill Gazette. She could honestly say she had never seen him look as happy as he did then, laughing with his friends. He seemed younger somehow, his eyes brighter. As if he sensed her, his gaze swiveled in her direction.

  “Hey, Amber!” He waved.

  She knew, instantly, that Connor Declan was a bit inebriated. She grinned. “Hey, Connor.”

  One of the men sat in an armchair closest to the door and turned in his seat to look at her. All three were handsome, well-put-together guys. Amber wondered if they were old college buddies.

  “Well, hel-lo,” the guy said, doing his best to cock an eyebrow at her with the swagger of a seafaring pirate, but he mostly looked like he was suffering an unfortunate facial tick.

  “Introduce us to your friend, you fiend!” the man sitting next to Connor said. He slapped the back of his hand against Connor’s chest for added emphasis.

  “Ow!” Connor said, swatting his friend’s hand away. “Guys, this is Amber Blackwood.”

  “Oooh,” the pirate said, nodding. “You’re Willow’s hot older sister, huh? Man. I had it bad for you in high school.”

  Amber had no recollection of who this guy was. And she was also sure now that they were all drunk. At noon. On a weekday. “So what’s the occasion for this … celebration?”

  The guy sitting next to Connor wrapped an arm around Connor’s neck and yanked him to his chest, while roughly scrubbing his hand through Connor’s hair. Connor laughed and squirmed, trying to break free. His friend, over Connor’s loud pleas to unhand him, said, “It’s this knucklehead’s birthday! Well, it’s tomorrow. We started partying a little early.”

  “I can see that,” Amber said with a laugh.

  The pirate was still turned in his armchair, an elbow resting on the back, his face in his hand. “Since tomorrow is Saturday, we’re going to really celebrate tonight.” He gasped, and Amber wasn’t sure if he’d just accidentally swallowed a fl
y or if he’d suddenly learned the meaning of life. With both hands gripping the back of the chair now, he stared wide-eyed at Amber. “We’re going to Just Kitten later.” He snorted. “Just Kitten! I just got it! It’s a comedy club, and ‘just kitten’ is like … it’s like a cat … but a small cat! A kitten! Like kidding, but with tiny paws.” He chuckled softly to himself, muttering the name over and over to himself.

  Connor slowly shook his head, then said, “We might need to force him to take a nap soon.”

  “Just kitten!” the pirate said, wiping his eyes.

  “Probably a good idea,” Amber said, smiling.

  “Excuse me, Amber?” came a female voice behind her.

  She turned to see the receptionist standing behind her, a bright smile on her face. “Oh, hi. I’ll be right there.”

  The woman nodded and headed back for the desk. Amber returned her attention to the men and said, “Well, happy birthday, Connor. I hope you guys have a great weekend.”

  Connor, finally unhanded by his friend, flushed a little. Amber wasn’t sure if it was due to the headlock, the alcohol, or something else. “Thanks!” He looked like he wanted to say something else, but the energy in the room slowly grew awkward, so Amber waved again and backed out of the room.

  A chorus of high-pitched “Happy birthday, Connor!” erupted from the room, followed by another upswell of laughter. She shook her head slightly, amused.

  When Amber reached the desk, the smiling blonde leaned toward her, shot a quick glance toward the room the men were cackling in, and then turned back to Amber before saying, “They’ve been like that since ten this morning.”

  “Did all of them go to Edgehill High?” Amber asked, trusting her gut that the receptionist had gone to high school there, too. The tag pinned to her crisp, black button-up said her name was Carrie.

  “Definitely not. Only Connor and Wesley.”

  Ambers eyes widened. “That’s not Wesley Young is it?”

  Carrie grinned. “Yep.”

  Amber glanced toward the open doorway for a moment, then back at the receptionist. “Who would have thought that acne-covered, scrawny Wesley Young would turn into that?”

  “Right?” She grinned. “Willow would pass out in a dead faint if she saw him. He followed her around like a lost puppy all through high school.”

  Amber remembered that all too well. One Halloween morning, they’d walked out the front door of their house to head for school and found Wesley Young standing in the middle of their street, a giant sign held above his head that said, “Willow, you’re the bee’s knees. Will you go to the Halloween dance with me?” A yellow felt band was wrapped around his head long-ways, floppy pink petals radiating out from it. Willow was so embarrassed, she let out a semi-hysterical shriek, ducked her head, and dove into the backseat of the car waiting at the curb.

  His petals seemed to wilt as he realized his plan to woo Willow hadn’t worked. As Amber tried to come up with words of encouragement for the boy, he dropped the sign in the middle of the street and sprinted down Ocicat Lane, the petals flapping around his face.

  “Anyway,” Carrie said now. “What can I help you with today?”

  “My aunt is in town for a while and wanted me to check if you have anything available.”

  “Oh, tell Gretchen I say hi!” Carrie said, attention focused on her computer. A few clacks of her keys. “How long is she in town?”

  “I’m not sure, honestly.”

  “Hmm.” A few more clacks. “We’ve got something open for this weekend only, then we’re booked up for weeks after that. People are coming in from all over to see the fashion show.”

  Amber’s mind flashed to young Sydney Sadler again.

  “Well, really, I think people are coming in from all over to see if the Olaf Betzen rumors are true,” Carrie said. “He’s usually so secretive about where he’s going, you know?”

  Amber did not know. “Yeah totally,” she said, hoping her accompanying laugh wasn’t too fake. “So, uh, let’s go ahead and book this weekend. We’ll figure out the rest later.” Amber knew neither she nor her aunt could afford to stay in a place this swanky for too long anyway.

  “You got it,” Carrie said.

  Amber paid for three nights and snagged a set of keys.

  She had just turned to leave, when she came up short. Connor Declan stood behind her. “Geez, Connor!”

  “Sorry,” he said, laughing nervously. She could smell the alcohol on him. It wasn’t overwhelming, but it clung to him all the same. “I uh …” He rubbed the back of his neck. “So … uh … after the comedy show, we’re going to meet up at the Sippin’ Siamese. Would you like to join us? We’re probably going to play pool and be generally obnoxious. If you have other plans or that doesn’t sound like something you’d wanna do, or if you—”

  He’d grown increasingly redder as he talked, so she hurriedly cut him off with a “What time?”

  “Oh! I … uh … eight?”

  “Sounds great. See you then.”

  “Yeah?”

  She was almost positive this was a terrible idea. Dating non-witches was just … not something she did anymore. But Connor looked so hopeful. Plus, she couldn’t shut the guy down on his birthday, could she? “Yeah.”

  He grinned. “Awesome! I mean, cool. Yeah, I’ll—we’ll—see you then.”

  She nodded and watched him walk away. Just as he reached the doorway to the lounge, Wesley poked his head around the corner, startling Connor, as he said, “Awesome! I mean, cool!”

  Sometimes Amber felt as if she’d never escape high school.

  Still, she found herself smiling as she stepped out of the Manx Hotel. She hadn’t really been out with friends since Melanie died. Melanie had been the one to push Amber out of her comfort zone more and more. Tried to get her to meet more people. She could almost hear Melanie’s voice in her head as Amber made her way down the steps: “He’s cute. You’re cute. Let yourself have some fun.”

  Okay, Melanie, she said to herself, nodding slightly. Maybe I will.

  Chapter 4

  When Amber returned to the Quirky Whisker half an hour later—a pair of wrapped-up turkey-on-rye sandwiches in her purse—she didn’t expect to see her aunt in the shop. She also didn’t expect her aunt to have company. Gretchen stood in front of the counter, talking animatedly to someone standing on the other side, his or her arms resting on the worn wood. Amber could only make out a bent elbow and fair skin.

  Letting herself in, Amber tried to keep her annoyance in check. Annoyance that stemmed from how quickly Amber had turned back into a curmudgeonly thirty-year-old who preferred the company of her cats over people. The logical part of her brain told her she was still grieving Melanie; it had been less than two months since she had died. It had taken Melanie a while to pull cautious Amber out of her shell, and now that Melanie was gone, Amber was retreating again. It was easier to keep to herself. You couldn’t be left behind if there wasn’t anyone to leave you in the first place.

  My, she was in a morbid mood all of a sudden.

  Amber knew she wasn’t being fair. Gretchen had lived in Edgehill for quite a few years; it wouldn’t be unreasonable for her to still have acquaintances here—though she’d never mentioned any.

  The tinkling of the bell above the door gave away her arrival, and Gretchen and her guest turned toward the sound.

  “Hey, big sis,” Willow said, smiling from her spot behind the counter.

  Amber let out a squeak of surprise. No matter how far into her shell Amber went, there was always room for Willow and Aunt Gretchen.

  “How am I this lucky to have you both here so soon?” she asked, hurrying over to greet her sister.

  They met halfway in a hug. Willow, though younger, was a smidge taller than Amber. As always, she smelled of lavender and soap. Amber wondered if somehow her mother had known Willow was going to grow up to be a tall, thin woman with long limbs and hair. Willowy was the perfect description for her. Her brown hair was in two F
rench braids now, the ends reaching her waist. Amber was several inches shorter, and average in every way when compared to her sister.

  When they pulled apart, Willow’s bright green eyes almost seemed to twinkle. It was no wonder all the boys in high school had fallen all over themselves around her. Amber felt bad for all the Wesley Youngs of the world. There was something almost ethereal about Willow. And she was clueless about it half the time.

  “Well,” said Willow, draping her long arm around Amber’s neck and swiveling them both to face Gretchen, “I wouldn’t have been here this soon had it not been for our lovely aunt leaving me a very cryptic message the other night saying it was imperative—her word, not mine—that I get to Edgehill immediately and that I shouldn’t tell you because you’d worry.”

  Amber squinted at her aunt.

  “What?” she asked innocently. “You would have called me with a million questions if Willow let the cat out of the bag too early.”

  She wasn’t wrong, but Amber wondered when she’d become a worried mother hen.

  “Plus!” said Willow. “I heard a rumor that Olaf Betzen is going to be at the fashion show at the end of the month. Like I’d miss that! Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Amber still had absolutely no clue who Olaf Betzen was.

  Upon seeing Amber’s blank look, Willow gasped, putting a hand to her chest. “You know … the host of Ramp It Up?”

  Amber blinked at her.

  “Ramp It Up is only the biggest fashion reality TV show in the world. And has been for ages,” Willow said. “The junior edition of the show only started a year ago, but it looks like it’ll be even more popular than the adult one. Olaf hosts both. He’s supposedly here to see the show since they’ve started casting for season three already.”

  Amber blinked again. “How did anyone from the show even find out about it?”

  “Letty’s Instagram feed, obviously,” Willow said. “Angora Threads has over three hundred thousand followers.”