by Bailey Cates
“We have some chocolate mint cookies right out of the oven,” I said. “Would you like to try one?” The cocoa nibs in the cookies would help ground her, while the crunchy bits of peppermint candy and a healthy dose of peppermint extract would help lift her spirits.
“Would I!” She eagerly took the proffered treat and took a big bite. Her eyes grew round. “Oh my. You ladies have outdone yourself with that recipe. Fresh, light, and not too sweet.”
“Perhaps you’d like a glass of jasmine sweet tea,” Lucy suggested. “I can whip some up in a jiffy.” Jasmine was a good antidote to stress of all kinds.
However, Mrs. Standish shook her head. “No, thank you, dear. We really must be going. But I’ll take half a dozen of these delectable specimens as well.” She crunched into the cookie again with vigor.
“That good? Perhaps I should try one, then.” A man I hadn’t seen—or heard—stepped out from behind her. Kensington Bosworth wore a light linen suit, a pale yellow shirt open at the collar, and huarache sandals. An oversized gold ring flashed as he removed the pair of round wire-framed sunglasses that perched on his button nose to reveal small, pale eyes peering at us all with interest.
“By all means, Mr. Bosworth.” I handed him a mint chocolate cookie with a quick glance at the door. Not having the bell ring every time someone came into the bakery was going to take some getting used to. “Skipper Dean?” I asked, offering Mrs. Standish’s companion one as well.
He shook his head and patted his middle with a smile. “Thank you so much, darlin’, but I have to watch my girlish figure, you know.”
Mrs. Standish hee-hawed a laugh at that and gave him a squeeze.
Kensington Bosworth took a bite of cookie and gave her a sideways look that didn’t hide his disapproval. She grinned at him, and I realized she was aware of her effect on his more delicate sensibilities and found it amusing.
“So good to see you, Kensington,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “Did you ever follow up with Randy Post? For your security system, I mean.”
He nodded gravely. “Indeed. He has already completed the work. Most satisfactory.”
“Hmm. Good to hear that.” She gazed at him serenely.
After several seconds, he cleared his throat. “Well, then. Yes. Thank you for the recommendation, Edna.” He turned to Lucy. “I came in for a loaf of your most excellent sourdough. I’ve asked my housekeeper to make a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup for my supper this evening.”
“Of course,” my aunt said. “Let me just wrap one up.” She bustled into the kitchen.
Iris passed her and came out to stand by Ben at the register. “Hi, Mr. Bosworth.”
He blinked at her, then he allowed a smile. “Good afternoon, Iris. You’ve changed your hair again.”
Her hand crept to the pastel streaks. “Do you like it?”
“Indeed. Very festive.”
“Thanks.” Blushing, she fled to the kitchen.
Ben asked, “Will the sourdough be all, or can we interest you in a bit of lemon cake or fruit tart for your dessert this evening?”
“I don’t eat dessert. That one cookie was an aberration.” Bosworth drew out a leather wallet and carefully extracted the amount of his bill. “Though I must admit it was tasty enough.”
Ben took the money, chatting along in his charming way. That was why he was the customer service guy, while I generally stayed in the kitchen. Right then, though, I was observing how Mrs. Standish looked at Mr. Bosworth with a mix of mild dislike and speculation.
“Thank you very much, Mrs. Eagel,” he said to Lucy. “This bread will no doubt elevate my simple evening meal to something sublime.”
A movement over his shoulder drew my attention. A helium balloon in the shape of a dragonfly bobbed by the front window, its string presumably attached to a child too short to be seen. My stomach gave a little twist.
A dragonfly? Now?
Surely it was a coincidence.
Please, please, please let it be a coincidence.
Lucy said, “Well, Katie is really the one responsible for the sourdough—”
“Mr. Eagel.” He cut Lucy off and nodded to Ben.
Ben nodded back, then put his arm around my aunt as we all watched Kensington Bosworth march to the door and go out to the street without a backward glance.
“Well!” Mrs. Standish said in a whoosh of air. “That man. I swear. One of these days.”
Before she could throw out any more cryptic nonsentences, I asked. “What was that about a security system? Did you recommend Randy to him? He was just in here for a scone after his shift.”
Nodding her head vehemently, she reached inside her bulging bag of baked goods, drew out another whoopie pie, took a bite, then nodded her head some more. “Oh my, yes,” she said after an audible swallow. “Mr. Post did such a nice job at our humble abode, I just had to pass his name along to Kensington when he mentioned he was worried someone might break into his house.”
Edna Standish and Skipper Dean shared a home a few blocks away in Savannah’s historic district that was anything but “humble.”
“Never mind that he’s not a real security expert,” she added.
Ben laughed. “I wouldn’t say that. He just happens to also be a real fireman.”
“Oh, gosh, Ben, I didn’t mean . . . well, you know what I mean.”
Oddly, we all did. Randy and all of Savannah’s other firefighters worked one forty-eight-hour shift each week, living and sleeping at the station during that time, but the rest of their time was their own. Some, like Declan, picked up extra hours here and there in the department doing routine inspections, fire safety classes, and school visits, but many firefighters worked second jobs. Randy’s was installing security systems for a local company.
Though ever since he’d started dating my coven mate Bianca Devereaux, he’d spent a lot more time squiring her to art openings and the symphony than filling his hours away from the fire station with other work.
“It was nice of you to recommend him,” Lucy told Mrs. Standish.
“Nice, heck! A man needed something done, and I knew another man who could do it. Though I do hope . . .” Mrs. Standish trailed off.
We all waited expectantly. She looked around at us, then said, “I do hope Kensington was pleasant. And that he paid Mr. Post whatever they agreed upon up front.” She licked her lips then leaned forward. Suddenly her voice was lower than I’d known it could go. “That man has always been a bit odd. Old money, you know. A staple of Savannah society, as was his father and his grandfather before him. Wonderful philanthropists, all. Or at least until lately.” She scanned the almost-empty bakery, and her voice dropped still further. “All I know is that he doesn’t contribute to the animal welfare charity that I head, not like he used to. It all started a couple of years ago. I’ve heard rumors, of course.”
“Of course,” I murmured. Rumors were her bread and butter.
Then I remembered the dragonfly balloon that had bobbed by the window. “Like what?” I asked.
Lucy frowned. My aunt disapproved of gossip—most of the time, at least.
“About how he’s been—” She seemed to catch herself. She straightened and flashed a big smile at Skipper Dean. “Listen to me go on and on. You’d think I had nothing better to do than talk out of school. Shame on me.”
I bit off a comment about her sudden reluctance to engage in what I’d thought was her favorite activity.
“You all have a lovely afternoon, now. Thanks to you, I feel much better on this sad, sad day.”
Our good-byes and good wishes followed the pair to the door. When they’d left, Ben went behind the coffee counter and started setting things up for the customers who were beginning to trickle into the Honeybee. The ladies in the reading area put away their paperwork and rose with empty cups and plates in their hands. They deposi
ted their dishware in the tub by the door, and I thanked them. Then I grabbed the half-full tub and took it into the kitchen for Iris to load into the dishwasher.
As I was walking back out front, Lucy reached out and touched my arm. I stopped, knowing what was coming.
“Did you see the dragonfly?” she asked.
“It probably didn’t mean anything,” I said in a deliberately light tone.
“You should know better than that by now,” she said. “Dragonflies always mean something with you.”
She was right. Dragonflies were my totem. It was a witchy thing. Whenever I saw one, I knew to pay extra attention. Lucy described it as a kind of metaphysical tap on the shoulder.
And seven times, that metaphysical tap had warned of death.
I gnawed on my lower lip, then caught myself and stopped. “Okay, so maybe it’s a sign. But of what? There have been false alarms before.”
“Name one.”
I sighed. “There’s just too much going on now to have to deal with some magical emergency.” I couldn’t keep the frustration out of my voice.
Ignoring it, Lucy said, “More than regular magic.” She was referring to my being a catalyst and lightwitch. The first meant things tended to, er, happen around me. The latter referred to what a former mentor, now deceased, had decided was a calling for righting magical wrongs. Fighting dark magic with light magic, if you will. He’d told me I had no choice, but of course, it turned out I did. We always do, more than we realize. Yet sometimes having a choice makes it harder rather than easier to do what’s right.
I tried again. “Exactly. Things are too crazy for more than my regular spell casting right now. There’s the wedding coming up, dealing with my mother, my dad coming tomorrow, the renovations of the carriage house are way behind schedule, not to mention—”
“I know, honey,” she interrupted with real concern. “Believe me. I’m hoping it’s nothing, too.” Then she stepped forward and gave me a hug as the door opened and the first two customers of the afternoon rush entered the Honeybee, chatting animatedly as they approached the counter.
Quickly, I went back to the kitchen to grab more coffee mugs for Ben. Lucy and I’d had this conversation more than once before.
All I could do was wait and see what happened.
Chapter 2
“Come on, big guy.” I opened my tote bag on the office floor and moved to switch off the computer monitor on the desk.
Mungo jumped down from the club chair where he’d spent most of the day snoozing. He’d taken a break to go out to the reading area of the bakery, beg a few bites from regular customers, and then curl into his bed on the bottom shelf of the romance section.
It was a hard life for a witch’s familiar.
When I turned back, he’d nestled deep into the bag for the trip home. His dark brown eyes gleamed up at me, almost lost in the black fur of his face.
“The bakery’s closed. You don’t have to hide,” I said.
When my dog had first started coming to work with me, I’d been worried that the health department wouldn’t approve. Over time, I’d realized that as long as he wasn’t actually hanging out in the kitchen, it was fine.
He blinked but didn’t budge.
I shrugged, picked up the tote that was part purse and part dog carrier, and hefted the strap over my shoulder. “Suit yourself.”
Out front, Ben and Lucy were turning off the lights, music, and fans. I took one last look at the kitchen for the day and saw that Iris had left it sparkling and ready for the next morning’s baking.
“Will you be picking up Skylar in the morning?” Ben asked me as he locked the door behind us.
I shook my head. “Declan is on days off. He’ll pick up Dad and bring him by the bakery before they head to the carriage house. Dad’s itching to take stock of the situation there.”
“I bet he can get the workers back on schedule,” Lucy said.
“There’s only so much we can do on that front,” I said. “It’s not even the workers’ fault. There were just some unforeseen difficulties, you know? Permits from the city taking longer than we thought, the wrong tile came for the bathroom, and we had to wait for the right kind, the drywaller had a family emergency . . .” I trailed off, feeling discouraged.
“In other words, the usual sort of stuff,” Ben said with a smile. “Don’t worry. Sky will be able to help.”
I nodded. “You’re right. Turns out owning the only hardware store in Fillmore has made him a bit of an expert on everything.”
“Yup. Your dad’s a jack-of-all-trades all right,” Ben said, then, “He and Declan get along well.” It wasn’t a question.
I smiled. “They do.” My mother had met Declan before we’d even thought about marriage, but Dad had met him only after we’d gotten engaged the previous Thanksgiving. They’d hit it off immediately.
Lucy and Ben veered off toward their vehicle, and I carried Mungo to the parking structure where my Volkswagen Beetle was parked. Once we were both belted into the Bug, I steered to Abercorn Street, around a few of the historic squares in Savannah’s historic district, and continued toward Midtown.
Traffic was lighter than usual, and soon I was pulling to the curb in front of the compact house I’d bought when I moved to Savannah. Declan’s big king-cab pickup was parked just ahead, and a paneled work truck with LINCOLN BARD CONSTRUCTION on the side took up most of the small driveway.
The carriage house was the last remnant of a large estate, the rest of which had long been obliterated by my pleasant suburban neighborhood. The house had been converted to a one-bedroom, one-loft, one-bathroom home with a charming, postage-stamp living room and a kitchen so tiny only two people could eat at the table.
I adored it more than was remotely reasonable, but it was awfully small for two people. After we were engaged, Declan and I had looked all over Savannah for a new place where we wouldn’t be bumping into each other whenever we turned around. Nothing had felt right. The solution had come to us in an unexpected way, and now I was about to have the best of both worlds. My old home was being updated and expanded to be our new home.
The problem was, if our luck didn’t turn, the updates wouldn’t be done in time for the wedding, which was supposed to take place in the backyard with a combination reception and housewarming to follow afterward. The invitations had already gone out, and it was way too late to book a different venue in Savannah.
Somehow, we had to make it work.
Mungo tumbled out of the car and trotted to the middle of the lawn before lying down and rolling over three times. He sat up and gave me one of his best doggy grins, then did it again. I laughed at his antics. He was tired of being cooped up in Declan’s apartment without easy access to the outdoors. He hated having to wear a leash for our walks, too. Mungo would be as glad as I would be when we could finally move back home.
Even though it was nearly six o’clock, the sound of a nail gun reached my ears, followed closely by the roar of an air compressor. I glanced over at the house next door, hoping the commotion wasn’t bothering my friend and neighbor, Margie Coopersmith, and her family too much. Then I remembered they were on summer vacation in Myrtle Beach with her mother-in-law.
Declan came out to the front porch and waved to me. He wore cargo shorts and a light blue T-shirt with the fire department logo on the sleeve. I paused for a moment to appreciate how the thin cotton skimmed his muscular torso and echoed the color of his eyes, then started across the grass.
As I strode toward him, I tried to ignore the bare frame of the new garage that loomed at the end of the drive. It had been abandoned in favor of finishing the interior work of the house first. I stepped up to the porch and melted into the arms of my fiancé.
I sighed. Suddenly it all felt doable.
Sort of.
“Come on,” he murmured into my hair. “I want you to se
e the new sink.”
“Who says romance is dead?” I asked with a grin.
His eyes flashed. “Not me, darlin’. You should know that by now.”
“Mmm-hmm,” I said, and followed him inside. For a second, I’d thought I’d heard the lilt of an Irish brogue.
Just my imagination. Connell hasn’t surfaced for months now. He’s keeping his word to stay in the background.
I brought my hereditary gift of magic to the relationship mix, but my fiancé came with a little extra complication, too. A certain spirit had been attached to members of his family for over a century. His name was Connell, and each generation he chose one of the male McCarthys to shadow. This time around he’d chosen Declan. The fact that the spirit seemed to be a, well . . . okay, I’ll just say it . . . a leprechaun only made things weirder. And it really had been my fault that Connell had suddenly started taking over Declan’s body now and then. Well, sort of my fault. I’d arranged the séance that had brought Connell to the forefront. But how was I to know? I’d been trying to contact a murder victim on the other side in order to find out who killed him.
Not surprisingly, being taken over by the spirit of a leprechaun had really upset Declan, especially at first. It did me, too, even if I was a little more at ease with the paranormal. Connell was a terrible flirt, and I was afraid he’d show up sometime when Declan and I were being intimate.
However, they’d worked it out. Connell agreed to leave Declan alone except to help him when he needed it and to serve as a kind of intuition when called upon. It had been working for several months now, so I’d finally been willing to set the wedding date.
Because I didn’t have to worry about Connell anymore.
Right? Then stop worrying about Connell.
I gave myself a little mental shake and brought my attention back to the sweet, handsome man standing next to me.
Declan was six inches taller than my own five feet seven. He wore his dark wavy hair just long enough to push regulations, had a day’s worth of stubble shading his square jaw, and guided me with a hand that spanned most of my lower back. When I looked up at his face, I saw dark smudges under his eyes. That was rare for him, and I was glad all over again that my dad was coming to help on the home front.
