I smiled. “Thank you, Lenny.” I meant it. I lifted the lid again and began piling chicken onto a plate I had conjured. I touched one, made it cold, and handed it to Lenny.
His button mouth widened into a smile. “Thanks!” he said, shoving the whole piece of chicken into his mouth. His button lips smacked together. “Delicious! See you later!” he yelled, his form bursting apart into little snowflakes.
A chicken bone lay where he had been and I frowned. Lenny had left me the equivalent of his poop.
“What’s that stuff?” Abby greeted me at her front door. She had on old clothes with various holes, and her short hair was pulled off her forehead with a purple paisley bandana.
“It’s spackle,” I answered.
“I don’t think I need any.”
“Did you pull out any nails?”
Abby nodded.
“Then you need spackle.”
“Oh.” Abby moved to the side to allow me to enter. Her front door connected to an enclosed front porch, which was perfect for spring and fall months. In February, it was freezing and we hurried back into the main part of the house. Pale gray light poured through the windows. It barely highlighted one of the best features of the house: an intricate, colorful stained-glass window in the living room that Abby had fallen in love with as soon as Percy had led us through the door.
“Do you know if there is hardwood floor underneath this carpet?” I asked. The carpet downstairs was a luxuriously soft chocolate brown that added warmth to the old home. Upstairs, however, was another story. Abby had asked Percy if the owners had run out of money with the carpet downstairs because the bedrooms and hallway on the second floor were covered in a cheap, threadbare vomit-green carpet. The real estate agent hadn’t been sure and promised to check, though Abby and I knew he’d never ask such a rude question to the owners themselves.
“It’s beautiful!” Abby said excitedly. “Daddy ripped up all of it. That saves me a ton of money not having to replace it. I was sure I would have to spend a small fortune trying to match what’s on the first floor.”
I inhaled sharply. “Your dad ripped up the carpet even though he knew we were going to paint?”
“Yeah! Wasn’t that nice of him? My daddy is such a sweet man.”
“I’m sure he is,” I murmured.
“What’s wrong?”
I hesitated. I had grown up in a home where my mother was close to expert level with power tools and, even though she was magical, she knew how to do all sorts of repairs and building projects. Each of my bookshelves and quilt rack had been built by her. She’d taught me the fundamentals and I had to remind myself that not everyone was as lucky as I was to have someone teach me the basics.
“We’re going to paint and you were going to replace the flooring anyway. It’s counterproductive to rip up that dingy carpet and expose the hardwood before we finish our project. Do you have a drop cloth?”
Abby shook her head. “No. Daddy said we would just have to be extra neat. He and Mom did buy some painter’s tape for me.” She had led me into her kitchen where the counters were stacked with paint brushes, trays, and tape.
“This is good,” I said. “Look, I brought a drop cloth with me because I didn’t know if we’d need an extra. Let me run out and grab it.” I rushed to my Volvo and reached into the backseat, a drop cloth materializing in my hands. When I returned, Abby was already upstairs, a large, five-gallon bucket of paint sitting in the middle of her bedroom. She grunted as she lifted it and I spread out the drop cloth. I handed her a spackling knife and she held it limply in her hand.
“Won’t the paint just cover the holes?”
I laughed. “No.” I held my own tool and dipped it into the spackle. I slid a small glob over a hole and smoothed it over the wall. “That’s how you patch a hole properly. When the spackle dries, we’ll run sandpaper over it to really smooth it.”
Abby looked hopelessly around her room. “They must have had at least fifty pictures hanging up in here.”
“Do it right the first time and you won’t have to do it again later.” I groaned. I sounded like my mother.
“I’ve been talking to a man,” Abby said casually as she smeared spackle over a hole.
“Oh? How did you meet?” I asked curiously.
Abby ducked her head, sheepish. “At school. He’s the school security guard.”
“I don’t remember having a security guard growing up.”
“With all of the things going on nowadays, most schools have one or more. It just depends on the size.” She moved onto the next hole. “His name is Eric Short. We’ve been talking for a little while now.”
I raised a brow. “How long is a ‘little while?’”
“Three weeks.”
“Three weeks! You didn’t tell me.”
Abby reddened. “I didn’t want to say anything if I didn’t think it wasn’t going anywhere.”
“Has he asked you out yet?”
She shook her head. “No. We flirt a lot. It seems like he makes excuses to stop by my room more often. He’s talked about going out, but hasn’t asked.”
“Have you asked him?”
“I did, but he said maybe.”
It was my turn to shake my head. “Good luck with that,” I said and continued my work.
Abby paused, spackle tool held in the air. “What? What’s wrong?”
“He’s just a work flirt.”
“A work flirt?”
“You know, someone you flirt with at work but nothing ever comes of it.”
Abby beamed. “No, he just said he’s been busy. He’s coming by later with a ladder for me to borrow.”
“That’s nice of him,” I said, trying to sound neutral.
“Just wait until you meet him. He’s a good guy,” she reassured me.
As if on cue, the doorbell rang. “Do I look all right?” Abby asked. She looked down. “I should change!”
“You’re working. He knows that. He won’t care what you’re wearing.”
She rushed down the stairs and I looked at the rest of the holes left to be repaired. I quickly checked out the other two bedrooms to see how much damage they had. They were worse than the master bedroom and I brought my hands together in a silent clap, the holes closing immediately. Hearing Abby and Eric coming up the stairs, I rushed back and continued spackling as if I had never left.
“Hello,” I said warmly, holding out my hand.
Eric Short glanced down, noticing the extra spackle that had dried on my skin. “Hi,” he said tersely, his eyes roaming around the room. He was barely taller than Abby and wore a hooded sweatshirt over cargo shorts. He shoved his hands into his kangaroo pocket and walked around inspecting our work. Abby dragged in the ladder behind her, Eric never offering to help.
I put my hand back at my side. “Sorry, I didn’t realize my hand was dirty.”
“No problem. If you were as good as I am, you wouldn’t spill a drop.” He nodded toward the paint. “Nice color you chose, Abby,” he said.
“Thank you,” Abby said, almost shyly. She pointed to the ladder. “And thank you for the ladder. Carmen and I are going to need this soon.”
“No problem,” Eric repeated.
“You’re a security guard at the school?” I said. “I bet the kids look up to you.”
“I’m a police officer,” Eric corrected snidely. “We all take turns each year patrolling the school. This year just happens to be my turn.”
“That’s good. Keeps things fresh,” I replied. Inwardly I cringed. This guy was a jerk.
“You have no idea.” He turned toward Abby. “I’m really sorry, but I need to go. I just don’t feel well.”
“What’s your malfunction?” I asked wryly.
Eric’s head swiveled in my direction, his eyes flashing. “I had a rough week.”
I laughed. “You work as a security guard at a middle school. What could possibly have made your week so rough?”
Abby shot me a warning glare.
“Let me walk you down.”
“No, I got it. You ladies have fun up here.” Eric tipped a hat that wasn’t on his head and exited.
I waited for the front door to close before speaking. “Abby.”
“What?”
“Abby, you’re a smart woman. You’re dumb when it comes to that guy. He’s a jerk. He’s just a work flirt.”
She firmly shook her head. “No, he’s a nice guy. If he was just a work flirt, he wouldn’t have let me borrow his ladder.”
“If he was really interested, he would have tried to score brownie points by offering to help. Abby, he didn’t even carry the ladder upstairs for you.”
“But he brought it all the way over here,” she said, her voice faltering.
I said nothingand concentrated on filling in the leftover holes.
Abby lowered herself onto the floor, her legs crossed. She put her head in her hands. “Damnit,” she said. “He’s not actually interested in me, is he?”
“Work flirt,” I repeated.
“He loaned me his ladder,” she said in protest. She was grasping at straws.
“Booty call for the ladder.”
Abby was quiet for so long that the spackle was nearly dry.
Finally, she spoke.
“Damn boys.”
A few hours and one coat of primer later, Abby and I were seated around her kitchen peninsula—she had grumbled that she would have preferred a real island—and enjoying takeout. She expertly grabbed bits of rice with her chopsticks. Frustrated, I reached into the bag and took the wrapped plastic spork.
“Some of us know how to fix holes in the wall and paint.” She picked up a single grain of rice. “Some of us have skills using eating utensils.”
“Chopsticks are not a normal eating utensil,” I protested.
“Over a billion people use them and that’s before you count people in other countries.”
“Don’t judge me,” I said, laughing as I tried to pierce my shrimp with the spork.
“Oh, I’m judging you. I’m judging the shit out of you.” She snapped her chopsticks together, mocking me.
“I’m never eating Chinese around you again,” I grumbled, a smile on my face.
“Yes, you will because you love Tsunami as much as I do.”
I finished my meal and reached for the fortune cookies. I held out my hand for her to choose one and she eagerly opened it, her face falling as she broke it open and read the tiny scrap of paper.
“You will avoid a disaster,” she said glumly. “I should have eaten takeout weeks ago.”
“At least you got a fortune. Mine just told me the Chinese word of the day.”
Abby grinned. “Maybe the lottery numbers will work.”
I handed her the fortune. “Have at it.”
She took it and put it into a kitchen drawer. “For down the road, maybe.”
Music wandered softly through the house, slow and melodic. It was comforting to hear as I unloaded groceries onto the counter. I looked outside at my car and, making sure that no one would be coming upstairs anytime soon, whistled. The last of the groceries lifted out of the Volvo’s trunk and floated toward the open back door. They settled on the counter and the trunk slammed shut.
The music became harder, more rock and roll, and I found myself dancing to the beat while I put various food and beverages into their correct place within the cabinets and refrigerator.
“You’re why we can’t go out in public together,” Finn said.
I paused, my face holding a deer in headlights expression. I hadn’t realized the music had stopped. Blushing, I laughed. “You could learn some moves from me.”
Finn shook his head vigorously. “Hell, no!”
I pointed at him. “I know. This is a sexy dance that will attract others. It doesn’t matter if they’re male or female.” I began to pat my head while rubbing my other hand in a circle on my stomach as I swayed my hips awkwardly back and forth. “Coordination. That’s what’s hot.”
Finn groaned. “Stop it.”
I kept up the motions and sauntered next to him. “Come on, Finn. This is awesome. This is what all of the kids are doing.”
“Are they having a seizure?”
I burst into laughter and stopped. I walked back to the counter and leaned against it. “You love me. I’m your favorite stepsister.”
“You’ve got a funny way of keeping up your self-esteem,” Finn replied wryly.
“Someone’s got to do it. Are you done with your lesson?”
“Until next time.” Finn and I turned toward the top of the stairs where Roach, the guitar instructor, was standing. He held one guitar in a hand and brushed his spikey turquoise hair off his face with the other.
“Thanks, man,” Finn said, shaking Roach’s hand. “I’ll see you next week?”
“Right on.” He looked at me. “See you later, Carmen.” He opened the back door and exited, his heavy cologne wafting in his wake.
Noticing my scrunched nose, Finn said, “I should have told him at the first lesson that I was allergic to perfume and cologne.”
“I wish you had, too,” I replied. “It sounds like you’re doing really well.”
Finn nodded excitedly. “It’s coming so naturally to me. Could you tell the difference between when I played and he played?”
“No,” I said. I hadn’t even realized that both of them had taken turns playing, having assumed it was all Finn.
A grin stretched across his face. “Maybe you should pick an instrument and we can jam together like we talked about.”
“You know the ice cream shop down on Main? On Wednesdays after the owner closes, she opens it up to local musicians who just want to play together.”
“Loretta does that? Is that why she closes so early?”
“She plays a wicked accordion.”
Finn stared at me, waiting for me to laugh. When I didn’t, he said, “Oh, you’re not kidding.” He tilted his head back and forth thoughtfully. “That could work.” He looked shyly at his shoes. “Would you go with me?”
“Of course.”
“Great,” he said quickly. He walked across the kitchen and started opening cabinets.
“Your coffee is in the cabinet over where it always is.”
“No, I was looking to see what you bought. Thought I’d make dinner for a change.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You never offer to make dinner. Or breakfast. Or anything. You’re great at helping with the prep work, though.”
He pulled out a box of angel hair pasta with merlot wine sauce and set them next to the stove. “I was thinking that women like men who cook.”
“That’s a definite plus,” I agreed.
“I should learn. I’ve been watching you. It doesn’t look that hard.”
“Or maybe I just make it look easy.”
Finn guffawed. “Right,” he said sarcastically. “I figured I’d give it a try. I’m good at playing the guitar, so why not have another hidden talent that chicks would dig?”
“Women don’t like to be called chicks. We don’t cluck or bob our head up and down.”
“Sometimes women do.” He grinned wickedly.
“Gross, get your mind out of the gutter.” I groaned at him.
“Okay, okay, maybe women will appreciate the talent.”
I sat down on one of the barstools. “Let me give you a hint, Finn. Women are just happy when a man offers to help. It doesn’t necessarily matter what it is, but it is nice when a woman comes home from work and her significant other doesn’t even ask; he just starts dinner. There’s something to be said about kicking up your feet and all you have to worry about is doing the dishes after you’re finished eating. Dinner doesn’t even have to be fantastic. This is one where the thought really does count.”
“Wouldn’t the cook do the dishes?”
“No. It’s a trade-off. One cooks and the other cleans.”
&nb
sp; “Balance is a big deal, then?”
“Balance is a big deal,” I echoed. I gestured toward the ingredients lying next to the stove. “Now get to work.”
“I think we’re finally done!” Abby stepped back from the wall and beamed. She lovingly ran her fingers over her new cabinet pulls and new quartz countertops. “This looks like a whole new home!”
I nodded in agreement. In the last six weeks, Abby and I had worked each weekend painting her home and renovating the bathrooms and kitchen. She had taken my advice and painted the cabinets to save money, but installed new pulls and she used her savings to splurge on gorgeous white quartz tops. She’d made sure the vanity in the bathrooms matched the cabinets and counter in the kitchen to help with the “flow of the home” as she had called it. I was against her buying the sparkling quartz because I was afraid she’d tire of it quickly, but watching her admire her handiwork made me realize that I was wrong. She was in love with her new home and nothing would change that.
“We can finally move in the rest of the furniture.”
My eyes darted to the basement entrance. We had stored all non-essential furniture in it so that we would have less to move out of the way while we worked. Her parents had hired movers as their housewarming gift to her, but I dreaded having to relocate some of the heavier pieces. That was definitely a task for which I’d have to mentally prepare.
“Why not go ahead and do it now? We can get that chore out of the way.”
So much for time to mentally prepare. I followed Abby down the steep steps and looked warily at a large, heavy wooden dresser.
Noticing my expression, Abby said cheerfully, “I know we can handle that. With all of those kickboxing classes, I feel stronger. Don’t you?”
“Sure,” I said quietly, contemplating how we were going to move everything. Taking a risk, I put my hands on either side of the dresser and willed it to be lighter. I willed too much and it almost came off the ground. Hastily, I backed off and the dresser grew heavier yet remained maneuverable. “I can’t do this alone,” I said.
Abby placed her hands underneath it and we lifted at the same time. “This isn’t nearly as bad as I thought it would be! Those classes have really paid off!”
A Witchly Influence Page 11
