To Love a Witch
A Wicked Witches of the Midwest Mystery Book Sixteen
Amanda M. Lee
WinchesterShaw Publications
Copyright © 2020 by Amanda M. Lee
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
Prologue
1. One
2. Two
3. Three
4. Four
5. Five
6. Six
7. Seven
8. Eight
9. Nine
10. Ten
11. Eleven
12. Twelve
13. Thirteen
14. Fourteen
15. Fifteen
16. Sixteen
17. Seventeen
18. Eighteen
19. Nineteen
20. Twenty
21. Twenty-One
22. Twenty-Two
23. Twenty-Three
24. Twenty-Four
25. Twenty-Five
26. Twenty-Six
27. Twenty-Seven
28. Twenty-Eight
Mailing List
About the Author
Books by Amanda M. Lee
Books by Lily Harper Hart (Amanda M. Lee’s pen name)
Prologue
Fifteen years ago
“I want a man who will pay all the bills so I can stay home and have kids.”
I leaned back on my bean bag and fixed Clove with the most dubious look I could muster. “You do not.”
My cousin, who had dark hair and a ski-slope nose, managed to convey annoyance with a single hop of her shoulder. “I do. I’ve given it a lot of thought. I want to be a mommy when I’m old.”
I exchanged an incredulous look with my other cousin, Thistle, who was resting on her bed, a magazine open so she could stare at whatever celebrity she was in love with this day.
“You want to be a mommy?” Thistle challenged. “You’re saying, like, you want to sit on the couch and hang around with kids all day?”
The dreamy expression Clove sported only moments before fled from her face. “You don’t sit around if you’re a stay-at-home mother. You do things.”
“Like what?”
“Like ... clean the house, take care of the kids, homeschool and stuff.” She averted her gaze and stared at the wall. “It’s a hard job.”
I would never say otherwise, but that didn’t mean Clove was designed to accomplish that job. “You hate kids,” I pointed out.
“And housework,” Thistle added. “You gave me your entire allowance last week because you didn’t want to take out the garbage.”
Clove made a protesting sound. “The garbage was gross. It was hot ... and the flies had been in it. That means other things were in it. You know I hate those other things.”
I didn’t even have to ask what “things” she was referring to. I was well aware of her distaste for all things buggy or insect-y. What ended up in the garbage can at the end of a sweltering summer week was even worse than mosquitoes and June bugs. “I don’t understand this from a feminist perspective,” I argued. “You’ve been raised by a bunch of women who believe it’s important to take care of yourself. Now you’re saying you essentially want a man to take care of you. They won’t like that.”
“I don’t like that,” Thistle said darkly. She might’ve been small and wiry, but she was tough. Nobody wanted to fight with her unless there was no way out of it. She had a look about her that said it might become necessary today.
“I’m not saying I want a man to take care of me,” Clove countered. “I mean I want to help. I want to contribute to the household.”
“Just not with a job,” Thistle muttered.
Clove ignored her. “There are different ways to contribute to a household, Bay.”
“And you want to be a mommy,” I noted.
“Yes.” She beamed.
“Have you met our mommies?” Thistle refused to let it go. I was of the mind that the conversation was too deep to delve into on a day when the window air conditioner was churning in an attempt to keep up, emitting sounds suggesting it might soon give up the ghost. Thistle apparently had other ideas. I was hardly surprised. That was her way.
“I’ve met them,” Clove shot back. “I don’t want to be like our mothers.”
“I’m sure that will make them feel better about your life choices,” I said dryly. “Just out of curiosity, though, why don’t you want to be like our mothers? I mean ... they’re pains in the behind, but they’re strong.”
“That’s why I don’t want to be like them.” Clove was earnest. “I’ve seen how hard they work. I’m surprised they’re still standing. Things would’ve been easier for them if they hadn’t divorced our fathers.”
“I don’t think they believe that,” Thistle said. “Besides, they seem to like the work. All that stuff they do in the kitchen, yeah, that’s more like a hobby they love. Ordering us around, that’s also something they enjoy.”
“You’re missing the point. They did everything on their own because they had to. I don’t want that to be necessary when I’m their age.”
“Then marry someone who sticks around,” Thistle suggested, earning a quelling look from me. She was more practical when it came to adjusting to our fathers being absent from our lives. Clove still held out hope that things would return to how they had been. I tended to lean toward Thistle’s way of thinking.
I, Bay Winchester, was something of a Debbie Downer when it came to the big questions in life. I’d been warned about it by every female in the family, that I had to buck up and look toward the good rather than accepting the bad. It had yet to happen.
“You’re ridiculous,” Thistle said, directing the conversation back to the topic at hand. “Our mothers work because they like it. Sure, some of it is difficult, but they’re big fans of being able to say, ‘Hey, I did that.’ If you marry a guy with the express purpose of him taking care of you, you’ll never be able to say that.”
Clove folded her arms over her chest, jutting her lip out stubbornly. “Don’t make fun of my choices.”
“Then don’t make it so easy for me to make fun of your choices,” Thistle said. “You’re setting feminism back fifty years saying stuff like this.”
“It’s how I feel,” Clove persisted.
“Well, it’s stupid.”
Clove’s eyes fired. “You’re stupid!”
Thistle clearly wasn’t in the mood to be messed with. She narrowed her eyes. “You know who could best settle this argument?”
I knew the name before she even invoked it. “Don’t,” I warned.
It was too late to rein in Thistle. “Aunt Tillie.”
Clove’s shoulders jolted, glancing around as if she expected simply saying the name would cause our great-aunt to materialize. As if she was the Candyman or something. “You wouldn’t dare.” Her voice was a breathy whisper.
“I would.” Thistle’s eyes flashed with malevolence. “I think she’d want to know how twisted that mind of yours is.”
“I’ll make you eat dirt,” Clove warned. “If you tell her ... .”
It was too late. The bedroom door flew open to allow Aunt Tillie entrance. The look in her eyes as she stood there, nostrils flaring, told me exactly what sort of diatribe we were in for. She was barely five feet tall, yet loomed so much larger in our eyes.
“Oh, crap,” Thistle muttered under her breath. No matter how much bravado she’d flashed when threatening Clove, she would never rat out our
softer cousin. It was simply a taunt with which we all teased each other. This time, though, the witch in question had obviously been close enough to hear Thistle utter her name.
“You rang,” Aunt Tillie said dramatically, her new combat helmet in place. Before this week, she’d been wearing an old football helmet she’d pilfered from the high school on one of her daily missions, which normally included three bouts of torturing her archnemesis Margaret Little and three stops for doughnuts at the Walkerville Bakery. She’d upgraded thanks to an estate sale down the road. For some reason, the combat helmet seemed to fit her personality, even if it was too big for her head.
“We weren’t doing anything,” Clove immediately volunteered. “We were just ... talking.” She ended the statement with a lame shrug. “You know, talking about nothing important.”
Aunt Tillie arched an eyebrow and turned her eyes to me. “What were you talking about?”
It took everything I had to maintain an even expression. She knew darned well that I was likeliest to tell her the truth. I crumbled like a two-week-old cake whenever she started questioning me. In some ways, Clove was the weakest. She could lie with the best of them when the opportunity arose, though.
“We’re not doing anything,” I said in what I hoped was a believable voice. “We’re just hanging around, talking about boys.”
“Uh-huh.” Aunt Tillie swished her lips as she glanced between us. “I thought perhaps you were talking about future plans, like marriage and kids.” Her gaze was dark when it landed on Clove. “Like maybe someone wanted to sit back and let someone else do all the heavy lifting in a marriage or something.”
Clove gave a small yelp as Thistle glared.
“If you already knew what we were doing, why go through the charade of pretending you weren’t eavesdropping?” Thistle snapped. She and Aunt Tillie were constantly doing battle. Today looked as if it would be no different.
“I don’t eavesdrop.” Aunt Tillie scowled. “I divine information.” She tapped the side of her head for emphasis. “I’m an all-knowing witch. I see everything you do. There’s not a single thought you have that I can’t pull from your head.”
“Oh, yeah?” Thistle narrowed her eyes to slits. “What am I thinking right now?”
I bit my lip to keep from stepping into the middle of their skirmish. I always tried to play peacemaker, but it never worked out for me. There were days Thistle and Aunt Tillie clearly wanted to do battle and this was obviously one of those days.
“You’re thinking that you want to be just like me when you grow up,” Aunt Tillie replied, not missing a beat as she patted Thistle’s head in a condescending manner. “You’re so ... cute.”
Thistle’s mouth dropped open. “I am not cute. I am the eater of souls.”
The response was enough to earn a genuine chuckle from Aunt Tillie. “You really do take your cues from me sometimes. It’s frightening. But we don’t have time for that today.” Her expression was hard to read as she turned back to Clove. “I heard what you said.”
Clove swallowed hard. “I ... am not sorry I said it.” She found her spine at the oddest of times. This seemed like the absolute worst hill on which to die. She was about to turn thirteen, for crying out loud. She had plenty of time to change her mind. Obviously, she thought differently. “I know what I want out of life.”
“Yes, a man to take care of you,” Aunt Tillie drawled. “That’s just ... lovely.” She said the word “lovely” with the same nose wrinkle Clove pulled out when she had to touch the garbage cans after the flies started dropping their larvae on the trash.
“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be married,” Clove shot back shrilly. “You were married. Although how you ever found anyone to put up with you is beyond me — unless he was dumb or something.”
I sucked in a breath. Things were about to get nasty. I’d never met Uncle Calvin, but family lore painted him as the nicest and most patient man who ever walked the Earth. To cast aspersions on him in front of Aunt Tillie was like waving a red scarf in front of a bull while your shoes were nailed to the ground — except she was far more dangerous than a bull.
Instead of firing back — with magic or dark words — Aunt Tillie shook her head. “No one says you can’t get married, but why you’d want to is beyond me. That’s not what’s annoying.”
“Oh, yeah?” Still defiant, Clove had apparently decided she wasn’t going to back down. I wondered if her funeral would be well-attended. “How is having a dream annoying?”
“We didn’t teach you to want that dream,” Aunt Tillie replied, much more reasonably than I expected. “I understand. You miss your father, even more than these other two. You think there’s a way to make sure your kids never have that problem.
“You can’t guarantee that things will work out forever,” she continued. “I hope you find a man who can put up with all your quirks, who will love you for who you really are, and accept you, kvetching and all. But knowing you, you’ll probably settle for some idiot without a backbone. The trick is to find a man who wants to do what’s right for you while not sacrificing too much of himself. It’s a delicate balancing act, but it can be achieved.”
Clove’s expression remained cloudy. “I just want to have kids and be happy.”
“No, you want some mystical husband who will wait on you, take care of you, and somehow arrange things so that you don’t have to work. You’re lazy when you want to be. You all are. That’s a product of your age. You’ll grow out of it.”
Thistle made a derisive sound deep in her throat, causing Aunt Tillie’s gaze to laser in on her.
“Yes, Mouth?” Aunt Tillie prodded. “Do you have something you want to share?”
“Not really.” Thistle was blasé. “I was just thinking that I don’t ever want to get married. Why would I need anyone other than me?”
She was sucking up. She understood Aunt Tillie would like that reaction best. I knew her better than most and it was obvious she was playing a game.
Apparently Aunt Tillie was aware of that fact, too, because her response was anything but expected. “That’s bold talk, but I don’t believe it. Besides, you might surprise yourself. The man you end up with will be either a saint or a sinner. I don’t think there will be a middle ground with you.”
Thistle arched a challenging eyebrow. “Meaning?”
“Meaning you and Clove are talking about different things. She’s talking about making herself small to fit into some life she’s dreamed up. That will never work. She’s just too young to understand that. Give it time.
“As for you, you’re cutting off an avenue of happiness that you might need,” she continued. “You’re a strong girl with a mouth like a sailor and the disposition of a constipated snake. You might be surprised at the sort of man willing to take that on.”
Thistle’s frown only deepened. “What if I don’t want to take on that man?”
“Then you don’t have to. But you’ll find that your wants and desires will change as you grow older. I’m curious to see what poor sap ends up with you. I’m hoping for sinner so you have your hands full, but I have a sneaking suspicion you’ll end up with a saint.”
Thistle didn’t look convinced. “What about Bay?” She jabbed her finger in my direction. “What do you see in her future?”
The smile Aunt Tillie graced me with was shudder-inducing.
“I don’t want to know,” I said hurriedly. “I’m fine wondering ... and imagining ... and dreaming for as long as it takes.”
Aunt Tillie snickered. “Bay is more difficult to read. She’s a mixture of you two, with a little of her mother thrown in, and a lot of outside elements working against her.”
“Wait ... are you saying I’m going to end up alone?” That was not what I wanted to hear.
“No, but would you have a problem with that?”
I thought about it and then nodded. “I want to marry Colin Farrell.”
She laughed. “Is that one of your movie stars?”
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br /> “He’s the movie star.”
“He’s okay,” Clove said, wrinkling her nose. “He’s not as hot as Brad Pitt.”
“Brad Pitt is a tool,” Thistle shot back. “If you want a real man, look no further than Johnny Depp. He’s artsy, plays the guitar, and looks really hot even if his hair is greasy. He’s the sort of man I want.”
Aunt Tillie rolled her eyes. “Last time I checked, that one had hair like a girl. You need to stop dreaming about movie stars and live in the real world. I can guarantee that a real man — one who has strength and drive — is far better than those Hollywood bozos you love.”
She sounded sure of herself. “Am I going to end up alone?” I was horrified by the thought. I was certain Colin — or someone just as hot — and I would find our happily ever after.
Aunt Tillie heaved out a sigh at my morose expression. “No, you’re not. I’ve seen your future. You’re going to do something that shakes this family to its very foundation.”
I was officially intrigued. “Marry Colin?”
She shook her head. “Worse.”
“Like what?”
“Never you mind.” She shook her head and turned toward the door. “Your mothers sent me up here with a mission. Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes. You need to go down and help them set up.”
“Wait a second,” I protested. “I want to hear who I’m going to marry.”
Aunt Tillie smiled. “If I told you, it would ruin the adventure. Trust me. You don’t want that.”
I was too curious not to pursue. “At least tell me he’s hot.”
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