As soon as the waitress disappeared, he leaned in over the table toward her. “I’ve been thinking a lot about you, you know. You made quite an impression on me. In fact—”
“Don’t you need to take out a notebook or something if we’re going to talk?” she asked, instinctively leaning back.
Just then the drinks arrived, and probably because of her weariness, she downed her spritzer a little faster than she had planned. She put it back on the table. Watch it, Gillian.
“Notebook? Nah, I don’t need that, babe. My brain can handle all kinds of information all at once.”
Says you. When he again ogled her, she did the unthinkable. She reached for her drink, and in the process of taking a sip, spilled most of it down the front of her blouse. “Oh, no! I’m covered with red wine.”
Staring at her chest, he flashed a sexy, lopsided grin. “Yeah, you are certainly wet.”
That’s it. She stood up, and grabbing her purse, spat out, “I’ve gotta take care of this in the bathroom before it is a permanent stain. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.” And she was off, hot-footing it down a dark hallway and into the ladies’ room.
As the now blouse-less Gillian scrubbed at the wine stains using several paper towels, she kept shaking her head, confused. Not at the situation, and certainly, not her reaction to Adam’s manner. No, she was spot on there. But why had she been so clumsy? She was never clumsy.
After five minutes of using the hand dryer, she fixed her blouse enough to be able to walk back to insist they only discuss Rebecca’s case now. That was that, as far as she was concerned.
Exiting the restroom, she saw Adam further down the hall, leaning toward some woman as she handed him a piece of paper. Her phone number? Nice. Never let police business get in the way of asking a girl out.
As soon as he and his potential hot date went their separate ways, Gillian slowly returned to the table to tell him off. “Look, detective,” she said, looking down at him, “if we’re here to discuss Rebecca, then that’s what we should do. Otherwise, I’m leaving.”
His grin disappeared fast, replaced by obvious annoyance. “Boy, you’re an overly cautious gal. All right, let’s talk about Rebecca Newell.” He pulled out a small pad and pencil and started in as she sank down into her own seat.
His voice now curt, his questions were short and to the point. When was the last time she had seen her friend? Did Rebecca indicate any problems she was having? What was she currently working on? And then the big question: Did Rebecca have any enemies about whom Gillian might know?
That last probe threw her. Enemies? She pictured members of her coven and their recent reactions to her. It was true, Rebecca was never afraid to ruffle any feathers. And yes, her friend did write extremely frank investigative articles. Case in point? The rough draft of her article regarding the Gambit House members.
Of course, Gillian didn’t say any of that to Adam. After all, that would involve the coven and possible police investigations of them. Besides, when no article about the witches had ever appeared, all the members had breathed a sigh of relief, and any open animosities disappeared—at least on the surface.
The detective’s questions were soon over, and when Gillian got up to leave, he said his goodbye without even a glance her way. Hurt male ego? Poor baby.
Driving home, she had only one thought. Maybe Sarah Good’s advice isn’t that helpful, after all.
* *
After Gillian left, Adam stared down at the paper with that willing girl’s phone number on it. “Well, one chick may be out of the picture, but there’s always another honey in the wings.” Chuckling, he leaned back in the booth. Life was good. So what if Gillian hadn’t succumbed to his charm? Obviously, the girl had problems. Probably frigid when push came to shove. He ordered another whiskey and put his notepad away in his jacket pocket. He’d show his notations to Nate later. Let him deal with it—and her.
When his phone rang, he glanced at the caller ID and drew a long sigh. Christ. What now?
“Yeah, what’s up?” he answered. Most times he talked to his friend, it didn’t end well. They may have been childhood pals, but they sure had followed completely different life paths.
“What the hell have you gotten yourself into this time?” Adam asked.
After thirty seconds of listening, he knew he had to say something. “Don’t tell me any more. For God’s sake, I’m a cop!”
CHAPTER FIVE
The moment Gillian woke up, two thoughts popped into her brain. So much for Sarah Good and her advice. And so much for Adam Springer and the police department.
Outside her closed bedroom door, she could hear Carly and their mom arguing about something. But what else was new? This had been a constant occurrence all throughout her sister’s childhood.
Suddenly, she recalled another argument the two of them had had so many years before. Closing her eyes, she drifted back to right after their father had been killed. A time when their mother went a little crazy, and without warning, had announced dramatically how she was going to take on White Magic like “gangbusters.” After all, it was her job to carry on their father’s wish to combat the Black Witches out there—the ones who might create harm.
Sister Gertrude, from the Witch Academy, had tried to help the young girls. Drawing them close around her at the funeral, she quietly told they must be very patient with their mother. She was very sad at the moment, but she would be all right in time.
Yet, even at nine years old, Gillian sensed something else about her mother, Ellen, that was disturbing. She watched her parent manically conjure up odd herbal mixtures then insisted her daughters perform spells together for every inconsequential thing in their lives, no matter how small. That was bad enough. But more worrisome was Ellen’s normally bright, smiling face that had become a mask of dark intensity—and fear.
On top of that, she now had a complete resistance to attending their regular meetings. That was when Sister Gertrude took charge and actually made a trip to their home. Pounding on the door, she demanded that Ellen let her in.
“Hear me out, Ellen,” Sister Gertrude said when Ellen opened the door.
As the two women talked on the living room couch, Gillian sat on the stairwell, with her head angled toward the living room, and overheard their conversation.
“Ellen, I understand your feelings, my dear,” the Witch Academy’s head mistress said. “But I have accommodated you long enough. There is no reason for you not to attend our Summer Solstice Festival, and that is that. No more excuses.”
“But—”
“No buts. Ellen, I expect you and your girls to be present. Enough said.”
As soon as Ellen escorted Sister Gertrude out and the front door closed, Gillian stood in the hallway and waited for their mother to turn around.
When she did, Gillian’s heart sank. Tears streamed down the cheeks of her mama, the same woman who, along with her father, had always been a rock.
“Oh, Gillian, were you listening?” Ellen moaned then came over to give the little girl a hug.
At first, Gillian was relieved. Here was her old mama back. But when the hug grew tighter and more constrictive, she winced. She wanted to ask her what was wrong, but something stopped her. Was it because she still felt so guilty at not warning her mother about her father’s impending doom?
Abruptly, Ellen dropped her arms and stood back. “Let’s get ready for the Summer Solstice event,” she said evenly, as if nothing was amiss. Then, turning around, she left her little girl alone.
As more memories of that particular Summer Solstice Festival spilled over her like a warm, comforting shower, Gillian smiled. She pictured the three little sisters trailing after their mother on that grassy field in the bright sunshine, their heads adorned with crowns of little roses, their petite hands swinging small lightweight baskets filled with fruit pieces dipped in honey. Ahead of them lay a huge bonfire, lit earlier that morning. And as they approached the celebration, various members parted a p
athway for them, out of respect for Elijah’s demise. Respect that lingered through the hum of soft, witchery blessings, gentle moans, and hands laid over their hearts, until the Good family joined the large circle of worshipers circled around the blaze.
With a quick nod of approval aimed at them, Sister Gertrude began. “Today we celebrate our power as witches,” she glanced over at the two men present, “and warlocks. While the flames rise up toward the sky, and the flowers around us bloom, we shall celebrate our lives to their fullest. Now, let us pass the candle.” She then pulled a small rattle out of her robe’s pocket and shook it.
Instantly, Carly’s high-pitched giggles made everyone turn toward her. Ellen looked down at her daughter with a scowl.
Thank goodness, we didn’t bring Joselyn, Gillian thought, as a single, lit candle was passed from person to person while repeating the verbal chorus, “We celebrate our strengths, we celebrate our power, let the energy around us become our tower.”
Then they all broke into a summer solstice song.
Gillian chuckled at the memory. Well, not everyone. She remembered Carly doing the unthinkable—well, in her case—completely thinkable. As the dazzling bonfire rose up toward the sky, furiously crackling and popping, Sister Gertrude again called up to the heavens.
“Oh, most glorious fire, we light thee up to honor the great Sun God. May your wisdom rain down upon your worshipers and enlighten us all with true wisdom. May you—”
“Bang, bang!” Carly’s high-pitched childish voice rang out.
She had broken away from the circle and picked up a nearby thin tree branch. Holding it up like a rifle, she pretended to aim and shoot it up toward the sky, as she repeated, “Bang, bang, bang. You’re dead!”
A deafening silence surged throughout the crowd as Ellen’s body flinched then went motionless for several seconds before she leapt into action. With her fury-red face and clenched fists, she marched over to her errant child, snatched the branch out of the girl’s small hands, and tossed it aside. Next, she jerked Carly behind her over to a part of the field far enough away to be out of earshot of the crowd. So, nobody knew what had actually been said between them that day. It was certainly never mentioned again. But from their body language Gillian assumed it wasn’t pretty.
As she mentally revisited that time, Gillian raised both arms to drag out a very long stretch and yawn. Then she grinned. Had that earlier incident and their mother’s wrath changed Carly’s ways? Not. One. Iota.
When the alarm finally went off beside her, she thought of her chores for the day. Ugh. Post office and laundromat. So much for brand new washing machines not breaking down within a year.
Without warning, she decided to try a quick little spell to suddenly make their expensive purchase inexplicably work so she wouldn’t have to schlepp over to one of the few laundromats in town.
“Okay,” she said softly, trying to nail down exactly how long ago it was that she actually used this particular spell—the one that always helped her find a parking spot.
Actually, in the past her spell for something like that had always been ridiculously easy. And the best part? No visual aids required. All she had to do was sink down into her rocker and relax—these days, easier said than done because every time she did just that, Rebecca popped into her mind. Still she’d try it. What could she lose? With her eyes closed, she tapped her forehead three times with the index finger of her dominant, right hand. She had learned the hard way why that little factoid was so important. The one time she tried it with her left index finger, she spent an hour and a half finding a parking space. In fact, she actually missed the event she was going to because of it.
“Okie doke, here I go. Maybe I’ll even get a two-fer. Washing machine and a parking spot.”
With a gentle finger touch to her forehead, she began. “Fix our washing machine, it’s the best. Fix our washing machine, no more mess. Fix our washing machine, to save me time. Fix our washing machine, that piece of slime,” she improvised, hoping a little bit of humor would fortify the spell even further.
By the time she got into the laundry room, it was blissfully quiet. No Joselyn and her impish noises. No more household arguments, just the distant sound of a neighborhood dog barking at something. And the deadly silent washing machine. Striding over to it, she turned on the eco-friendly starter and waited for the sound of water to rush in. Then waited. And waited.
She fiddled with more settings. Nothing. Checked to see if its electrical plug was securely in the socket. It was. Still, everything remained dead calm, like a ghost town.
“How would you like some chin music[13]?” she snapped at the machine.
“What in the world are you doing?” Stevie asked from the doorway. “Are you actually threatening to punch our machine in the jaw?” She tossed out a guffaw.
“I thought I’d give this piece of baloney[14] that Carly bought one more try before I have to drag our stuff over to the laundromat.”
She had to admit Stevie’s grinning reaction was kind of cute. Better her here now than Carly, that’s for sure.
Gillian gave one last look at the silent machine. “Looks like I’ll be keeping the dirty clothes in this gargantuan bag to go to the laundromat. I thought maybe my spells—”
“Your spells? Are you actually going back to doing them?” Stevie clapped her hands together.
Gillian shook her head. “Probably not. For now, I’m going to the post office. Need any stamps or anything?”
On her way out, she couldn’t help wondering if this inability to create successful spells was her punishment for not performing magic for so long.
* *
Driving over to the post office, Nate couldn’t help being concerned. With no new leads in the Rebecca Newell case, he was beginning to doubt his usual clue-catching abilities. He had built his reputation on it, and now, when he needed it most, it seemed to have vanished. Everyone else still patted him on the back and marveled at his eagle-eyed focus at crime scenes. Even his partner Adam had given him kudos earlier that morning.
“Just keep plugging away and do what you always do, partner,” he had said, then shot out a hefty stream of annoyance about that “Gillian Good bitch.”
After finding out why Adam was so annoyed, Nate couldn’t help it. He had to turn his face away for a few seconds in order to hide his mouth, which had stretched into a grin the size of Kansas. All right, Gillian.
Yet, he’d never expected to run into her at the post office twenty minutes later. Literally bumping into her, she took his breath away. The other day, he had felt an immediate attraction, but now, he was stunned. Had she looked this beautiful before? Speechless, as soon as his eyes caught her slow, hesitant smile, his hands turned clammy and his mouth went dry.
Stop it! You’re a professional, for God’s sake! He willed himself to speak. “Why hello, Ms. Good. Nice to see you. I’m sorry we don’t have anything more about Ms. Newell right now. But I promise you, we will.”
“Gillian, remember? Please call me Gillian. I appreciated your call the other night, Detective Meeks. That was important to me.”
“Then please call me Nate. Seems only fair.” He sensed she wanted to say more. What was it? Sympathy? Understanding? Interest? Or did he just want her to sound interested because he was so interested in her? What are you, a teenager?
When he shook her hand goodbye with a solemn promise to “do better,” he casually glanced at her other arm, clutching her mail up against her chest. Several regular envelopes, a couple of large manila packets, and a slew of throwaway newspapers.
“Looks like you get the same amount of junk mail as I do.” He hoped he sounded casual enough. But he couldn’t help himself. His eyes rose and searched hers, as if wanting to know her better.
“Always,” she replied with an infectious smile. A smile he still envisioned in his car, after he’d taken off to do more overdue errands.
* *
What is wrong with me? Gillian ruminated on her way over t
o the Clean & Care Laundromat. As soon as she and Nate had shaken hands back at the post office, some kind of tingling had rippled up and down her arms for several seconds. Goose bumps. At least, she thought that was what it was. Having read a couple of romance books in her life, the authors would often describe this type of feeling as proof of titillation. Certainly something new for her. No boys in her past ever caused that sensation. And even if they had, she wouldn’t have dared tell her mother. She’d just get a lecture on the hazards of dating a male human.
After five minutes of driving, all thought of those special tingles had disappeared, replaced by annoyance and frustration. Realizing she’d forgotten to put a few extra clothing items in her large bag, she quickly went home, retrieved them, shoved them into the bag, and again, flashed on her failure to create a legitimate “Make It Work” spell for their new washing machine.
“Talk about ironies,” she muttered, as the car radio channel switched to Oldies but Goodies 1950’s elevator music. “I’ve avoided performing spells for years, and the first time I decide to do just a small, inane one, I can’t do it?”
The Frank Sinatra song, “You Make Me Feel So Young” came on, and suddenly, a scary thought hit her. Papa’s favorite song. Are these human feelings, dreams of Sarah Good, and thoughts about her father just more punishment for not warning her mama about his accident?
Pulling into the laundromat’s crowded parking lot, disappointment flowed through her. So much for my parking spot spell. Not an empty space in sight. But then, after a little more exploration, she spied one beside a pickup truck—a truck that was painted in camouflage.
“Great,” she said out loud. “Talk about being with the huddled masses today. Just my luck. Probably some cowboy.”
After she parked, she jerked her parking brake up extra hard. “All right, here we go. Next time we buy a washing machine, we’re gonna read the reviews. Right, Carly?”
Endangered Spells (Witches Academy Series Book 6) Page 4
