A Witchly Influence

by Stephanie Grey

  “Let me drop this off in my car,” she said. I watched her carefully and ran my hand over my head, drying my hair quickly. I pointed at her, making her hair dry as well. I hoped she wouldn’t notice the sudden change.

  I was already waiting in my Volvo and had hurried along the heater. New Bern wasn’t nearly as cold as South Bend, but thirty-two degrees is freezing no matter where a person is located. “Is Smithfield’s still open?” I asked. My mouth watered just thinking about their grilled chicken. That was a lie. I was thinking about their fried chicken, but I felt guilty for wanting fried food so soon after a workout.

  “That place will never go away and thank goodness for it!” Abby answered.

  We pulled into the parking lot and stood in line to order. I told Abby I would take care of the bill as a Christmas treat and she chose a table next to a window. We waited quietly until our number was called and we carried our trays to the table. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable as we sank our teeth into the delicious chicken that a certain colonel couldn’t top on his best day.

  “How’s your house coming along?” she asked, scooping up coleslaw with her fork.

  “It’s fine. I’m finished now.”

  “Already?” she asked, a perfectly arched eyebrow raised.

  “I had some help,” I admitted. “My good friends came down to visit over the weekend and one of them did most of it. She works as a buyer for a department store in Paris.”

  “Paris?” Abby’s eyes lit up. “I would love to go to Paris! I hear it’s so romantic.”

  “I don’t know about romantic, but it’s a nice city to visit. They have good Italian food.”

  “Italian food? You went to France and all you can say is their Italian food was good?”

  “Imagine you’re fifteen years old and you don’t speak a word of French. It’s your first visit and you’re with your dad who takes you into a nice restaurant. The only word you can sort of translate is ‘shrimp’ and you order it, expecting a delicious French concoction. Instead, you receive several poor shrimp, with their heads still on, their little eyes blackened and tentacles still sticking out of their heads. That wouldn’t leave a good taste in your mouth either.”

  Abby held her fork in her hand and was pointing at me with it. “You know shrimp don’t have tentacles, right?”

  “Whatever, you know what I mean,” I said, laughing. “My point is, when you see several full, dead shrimp surrounding a peeled potato, then you’d love the Italian food more.”

  “Wait, did you say the potato was peeled?” Abby put the back of her hand to her forehead. “My goodness!” she said, thickening her Southern accent. “Shrimp and a peeled potato! Whatever shall I do?” She waved her hand frantically in front her chest. “It’s just too dreadful! The vapors! I have got the vapors!”

  I laughed so loudly that other patrons turned to stare at me. What in the hell was I supposed to do to Influence this woman? She seemed like she was on the right path. She had a great career and she could take care of herself. What did Fate have in store for her other than what she was doing? Working with special needs children made her a saint already in my book.

  “I do have a question, though,” she said, her accent back to normal. “Did your friend come in all the way from Paris just to help you decorate?”

  I wanted to tell Abby that yes, Tess had done exactly that. Instead, I told her, “Oh, no. She just came here first before heading up North. I think she really wanted to see how I was doing after my divorce.” That last part wasn’t entirely untrue.

  “I couldn’t imagine going through something like that,” Abby said, shaking her head.

  “Hopefully you won’t have to. It could have been a lot worse than what it was.”

  “Does he try to contact you?” she asked timidly.

  “No,” I said flatly. It didn’t take magic to block phone numbers these days.

  “I’m happy you have your new home and can start over. I was actually wanting to ask you about that.” Abby’s voice lowered and she suddenly had something in her throat that she struggled to clear.

  I pushed our empty plates out of the way. “Sure, ask away.”

  “My rent is due at the first of January and I was thinking about the difference between a mortgage and a rental payment.” She paused, tried to find her words. “I’ve been living at my apartment since I got out of grad school, so that’s been eight years now. That’s almost seventy thousand dollars in rent.”

  She went quiet again and I waited for her to continue.

  Finally, she spoke again. “That’s a lot of money down the drain on a place that isn’t my own. Renting has its advantages like I didn’t have to replace the fridge when it went out, but you’re right, I would rather have my money going to something that I can own. I paid off my car this year and it felt so great that I bought myself a bottle of merlot and went crazy with it. By crazy, I mean I drank it and watched bad reality TV that no one wants to admit they watch.”

  I chuckled. “Sounds like my kind of night!”

  “It was fun,” she admitted, smiling at the memory. “I wanted to ask you, since you mentioned it last time, if you were serious about helping me work out buying a house.”

  “Absolutely. Whatever you need, here I am,” I promised.

  She relaxed, obviously relieved. “I was worried about asking because we just met last week, but I felt like we’ve been friends for years.” She stopped herself, embarrassed.

  I nodded encouragingly. “No, I understand what you mean and I feel the same way. It’s too bad we didn’t go to school together because I’d have all sorts of blackmail stories on you.”

  “No. I was kind of boring as a child and as a teenager. I went to school like I was supposed to and never skipped classes. I made good grades and never really got into trouble,” Abby said quietly.

  “Oh.” I shifted in my chair. “I cannot say the same.”

  Her brown eyes shined. “What did you do?” she whispered, leaning over the table.

  “I got busted for skipping classes,” I answered.

  “That’s it?” She was disappointed.

  “Okay, I’ll tell you the worst thing. I set the auditorium on fire.”

  “You’re joking!”

  I was nodding my head. “I’m dead serious. There was a group of us working late after school on the prom committee. There was a stage in our auditorium and it had these thick, red velvet curtains that hung down. Someone had brought in sparklers and I was playing with them. I guess I got bored over what the theme should be and, without realizing it, got too close to the curtains. Velvet burns really fast, but I put it out quickly.”

  “You must have gotten grounded for weeks and suspended.”

  “I didn’t get suspended. I had a good talking to.”

  “You got lucky! You can’t bring that kind of thing to school anymore.” She grinned. “I’m fairly certain you couldn’t have brought them in then, either. But that’s a great story!” She laughed.

  I felt guilty for not being able to tell her the entire truth. I had shot off fireworks from my fingers so that I could show the other members of the committee—witches like me—that we could pull it off without mortals realizing it wasn’t magic. Unfortunately, a firework had hit the curtains and they went ablaze quickly. It was hot, smoky, and dark. One of the members created a light that shined powerfully out of her palms while the rest of us dipped our hands into the air, grasped water, and threw it onto the flames. With the fire out, I waved my hands and the curtains were back to normal and nothing was damaged. The Council did find out because the girl who shined the light had ratted me out to her mother who was on the board. Her mother did talk to me, though it was more to explain that I could have just stopped the flames without “all of the theatrics.”

  “If you don’t mind,” Abby said, interrupting my thoughts, “would you go look at houses with me? I don’t know much about inspections and I was hoping you could guide me.”

  “Sure. I already
know a good realtor. He’s kind of a pig, but he grows on you.”

  “I hope you’re going to actually buy your gifts,” Mom chided me. She grabbed my elbow and guided me into a large department store where we were immediately assaulted by perfume.

  “If you like Poison, try Arsenic!” a saleswoman said, spritzing the air. “It’s the latest creation from Moo!”

  “Is the slogan, ‘Be that toxic person in someone’s life?’” I asked drily. Mom tightened her grip and pulled me away from the now very-confused looking saleswoman.

  “You could be a little nicer,” my mother snapped. “It’s Christmas.”

  “I can’t have fun around Christmas?”

  “Sometimes you think your jokes are funny when they’re not.”

  I shrugged. “As long as I think I’m funny, my self-esteem will be upheld.”

  Mom’s lips formed a thin, straight line.

  “Care to try some lipstick, ma’am? I can show you some tricks to make that pout look fuller!” said a young male. He held a tube of lipstick in his hand like it was a wand.

  “No, thank you,” Mom said tersely. She let go of my elbow and walked away hastily toward the purses.

  “He was just trying to help.”

  Holding a bright yellow tote bag, she glanced at me out of the side of her eye. “What do you think about this for Cecily?” she asked, brushing off our slight disagreement. She always did that when she found a subject distasteful and wanted to move past it. My mother was an expert at gracefully changing an unpleasant subject.

  “I think she’d have a fit about the color.” I began to whine, “Why, oh why is this yellow? For God’s sake, woman, don’t you know the kids? The kids! Yellow will show stains! And this doesn’t have a long strap to go across my chest? Do you think I’m an octopus with enough arms for the kids’ things and a tote? Well, let me tell you that I am no octopus. Just a mere, annoying, pregnant mortal!” I paused for a moment. In my natural voice, I added, “She might not call herself annoying, but the rest I feel is accurate.”

  Despite her best effort, Mom laughed heartily. “If Randy loves her, then we should love her. She is a part of this family,” she finally said once her laughter died down.

  “You don’t have to try and sell her to me,” I said. I cleared my throat. “I promise I’ll behave.”

  “And?” Mom prompted, an eyebrow raised.

  “And I will try to like Cecily more. She’s easier to handle in small doses.”

  Mom nodded in agreement. “That’s true.” She found a designer diaper bag in black with a long, thick strap. She ran her fingers over the buttery soft leather. “This is nice. Surely she’d like this.” She checked the price tag. “I don’t think I like Cecily enough to spend that much.”

  “You could just create one yourself.”

  “I have a Christmas budget. Don’t you think Lewis would notice if the money wasn’t missing? He would question where all of the gifts came from when the money for them is still in the account.”

  “You could tell him the truth. I hear that’s always something that a husband and wife should do.”

  “I might one day,” Mom said casually. She sauntered near a beautiful periwinkle purse and began checking the pockets and zippers.

  I knew she was only saying that to placate me, but I decided to drop the subject anyway. “Is that for you or Cecily?”

  “Are you kidding? This is for me. You’re right. I’ll just create that diaper bag for Cecily and spend the money on this beautiful purse for me.” She checked the price and smiled. “I like me enough to spend this.”

  “What about Lewis? Won’t he notice you have a new purse?”

  “Carmen, this is a spring bag. I’ll store it for now and, when spring comes around, I’ll use it then. Lewis probably won’t even notice. Men don’t notice that stuff.” She looked across the racks of purses to the salesman who offered her a lipstick tutorial. “Except for that man. He’d notice, but then he does apply makeup better than I do. I might come back and let him give me a makeover.”

  “I’m sure he’d be happy to do it,” I said quickly. “Are you almost done with this store?” I asked.

  “Why, am I keeping you from an important appointment?” Mom asked sarcastically.

  “No, but I’d like to finish my list today and we can’t do that when you’re shopping for yourself.”

  “What did you get for me?” my mother asked, taking the periwinkle purse to the checkout counter.

  “That’s a secret.”

  She swiped her debit card and punched in her PIN. “I haven’t even told you what I want yet,” she murmured, signing her name. She tucked the card back into her wallet and looked at me. “I want a pretty necklace.”

  “Great. I’ll get you one for your birthday or Mother’s Day,” I replied. I took the plastic bag containing her new purse and we left the department store, entering the wide hall of the mall. Its carpeting was thick along the sides, but worn thin in the middle where it had seen years of traffic. The rest of the mall hadn’t seen an update since I was a teenager, but it was one of the few places to go in New Bern and was just as busy as ever.

  Mom pulled a piece of paper out of her pocket and tried to read it. She rifled through her purse until she found her reading glasses and, after donning them, began to read again. “That’s better,” she said, more to herself than to me. “Just you and Finn and I cannot buy something for you with you here. What about you? Who is left on your list?”

  I pulled out my own piece of paper and scanned it. “Finn.”

  “Do you have any idea on what to get for him?”

  I smiled. “I do.”

  The guitar was blonde wood with a shiny, protective coating. The Les Paul was from 1959 and absolutely beautiful. “This is a good idea for Finn.”

  “That’s a nice gift, but it costs five thousand dollars,” Mom pointed out.

  I waved my hand dismissively. “I’ll create one,” I said simply. I took out my phone and began to photograph it sans flash in the climate-controlled room.

  “You can’t get him a guitar. Finn doesn’t have much money and he’ll feel badly that he can’t buy you something as nice,” Mom argued.

  “I’ll tell him it’s a knockoff,” I said, gingerly removing the guitar from its rack to photograph the back.

  Mom shifted her weight from foot to foot, thinking. “Lewis and I will buy him six months of guitar lessons, then,” she said. “He was taking them, you know, then he stopped.”

  I replaced the guitar and turned to look at my mother. “I do. He said he didn’t make the time for it.”

  She smiled sadly. “He couldn’t really afford it, but he was getting pretty good for the short amount of time he spent practicing.”

  “Why doesn’t he try to change his job if he isn’t doing that well?” I asked carefully.

  Mom sighed deeply. “He’s afraid of change,” she admitted. “He’s a great kid. I say kid and he’s barely two years older than you are.” She laughed softly. “He was offered a job in South Carolina, but he chose not to take it. He’s got his dad here and his mom is an hour away. His friends are here.”

  “His friends aren’t the best influences,” I pointed out.

  “I know that. They’re fine mooching off their parents when they spend money on beer and cigarettes instead of paying their bills,” Mom said, bitter. “Finn knows better than to expect us to do that for him,” she added quickly.

  The door to the climate-controlled room opened silently and a music store employee entered. “May I help you ladies today?” he asked, his smile a little too wide and eager.

  “No, thank you,” I answered.

  “I see you’re eyeballing that Les Paul. That’d make an excellent Christmas gift!” he said encouragingly.

  “I think I’m going to go a different route for my stepbrother,” I said.

  “Oh.” The employee’s shoulders drooped.

  “I could use the name of a great guitar teacher,” Mom sa
id.

  The employee straightened and smiled, if possible, even wider. “I know a great person to teach guitar!” he gushed.

  Then he handed my mother his card.

  Back home, I scrutinized every photo I had taken of the guitar. I let go of my cell phone and it hovered in the air while I placed my hands over the top of my dining table. Concentrating hard, I moved my hands as if actually feeling the instrument beneath my skin, starting with the headstock. I twisted my fingers to form the tuning keys and tuning pegs, then the nut and the rest of the neck. The fret board came next, followed by the body. The electronics came last and, finally, the small details that made the decorative yet functional pieces of the guitar.

  I could physically feel my forehead relax when I opened my eyes and peered down at the new instrument I had created. I compared it against the pictures and mentally gave myself a pat on the back.

  I delicately picked it up and strummed the strings, satisfied with the sound. I couldn’t wait to see Finn’s face when he opened this gift. I waved my hands and wrapping paper snaked its way around the curves of the guitar. A bright red ribbon tied itself into a perfect bow around the instrument’s body.

  I motioned for the guitar to go away and it rose from the table. “Go on,” I said.

  It fell back to the table, stubborn. My eyes widened. “I forgot the amp. I suppose Finn will need that to play you, won’t he?” I snapped my fingers and an amp appeared. Only really intricate pieces needed the amount of concentration I had used for the guitar and I was relieved that amplifiers weren’t on that list. It wrapped itself, though it completed itself with a green bow. Satisfied, the guitar rose again from the table and zipped back toward the hall closet, the amp following closely behind it.

  Phone still floating in the air, I motioned for it to follow me as I went into the kitchen. It was getting later and I looked through my pantry and fridge, not quite finding what I wanted. “Ask Siobhan if she’s busy,” I instructed my phone.