“I know, I know. Take the heifer of all chill pills and relax. I was just bustin’ your balls. Speaking of chill pills, what the hell was all that about with Ridge?”
“I don’t know what that was about. It’s too hot to think clearly.”
She knew damn well what it was about. It was about landing in those arms—those thick-with-corded-muscle arms of Ridge’s—and feeling safe, comforted.
It had set her on an already slippery slope, right at the tip of a ledge she didn’t want to venture any farther out along.
Fee hopped in front of her when they hit the flagstone path leading to the porch steps. “Stop right there and take a minute. You were downright rude to him. You’re being petulant and spiteful to the guy who’s gonna be your boss for two months. Like it’s going to be some skin off his nose if you don’t eat your parolee vittles? Not coolio, Fruit Cup. He reports to your parole office. You need all the good reports you can get if you want out of this mess come time for your hearing.”
“I wasn’t being spiteful. I just wanted to get on with it. I don’t need to eat. I need to make that barn right.”
“You won’t make it right if you pass out because you haven’t had anything to eat or drink since this morning at six before Baba The Horrible showed up. Besides, you heard the hunk with the sweet, sweet tuchus. It’s tuna casserole day. Turning that down is just plum es stupido. This isn’t about the suggestion of lunch, Ray of Sunshine, and we both know it. Now what’s got you so vexed?”
She closed her eyes and swallowed, trying to wipe out the memory of all those people on the horses staring at her in horror as she’d burst out of the barn and fallen into Ridge’s bulky frame.
Fear welled inside her. More fear than when she’d found herself in a bank vault with fistfuls of cash and absolutely no clue how she’d gotten there.
“I set a barn on fire, Fee. On. Fire. With just the flap of my hand. A barn that holds importance for someone. It’s not like I have any warning it’s going to happen, either. It’s not like there’s some feeling that accompanies this when I wave my hands of mass destruction. It just happens. I’m going to hurt someone. What if one of those seniors from the center had been in the barn? I’d never be able to live with myself if one of them ended up hurt because of me.”
Somehow, she’d managed to escape doing any serious harm up to this point in her life, but for how long could what little luck she had hold out?
Fee’s tone softened. “You didn’t do it on purpose. It was an accident, Bernie. Just an accident.”
“Yep. So was the Titanic. But people still died.”
Fee snorted. “They sure did. Leo’s death was downright outrageous. How hard would it have been for Kate Winslet to make room on that damn raft for his fine ass?”
“Fee! The point is I’m dangerous. I shouldn’t be around people or livestock or anything with a pulse. Maybe Baba Yaga can give me a different job. In a closet. With padded walls and no lights.”
“Jesus and a sleigh ride. When are you going to catch up to the rest of us, Bernice? That’s why you’re here. To learn. There are people here who can teach you how to do this and do it right. For Christ’s sake, Winnie Foster’s one of the most powerful witches on this plane and she runs the rehabilitation house you’re staying in. Who better to mentor you than her? All ya gotta do is open up.”
Winnie-Schminnie. She’d heard a lot about Winnie and how she’d come to Paris on parole and turned her life around. She was the example Baba used ad nauseam when it came to lemons and lemonade. There was even a Winnie life chart with circles and arrows and all sorts of depictions of a woman saved from the wreckage of excess.
When Chi-Chi had first mentioned her, Bernie hadn’t paid much mind, but she’d learned quickly that Winnie was like some sort of bad witch gone good—a shining example of how you could turn your life around if you just applied yourself.
She’d be happy to do that if just one person believed her story.
“Baba thinks I’m lying about not knowing I was a witch.” There. She’d spent ten months in denial but if she kept that up, someone could end up injured. She needed help.
“BY likes White Snake, too. Which proves she’s not always right on the money.”
“You don’t like White Snake? How can you deny the appeal of Tawny Kitaen and all that hair on the hood of a hot car?”
“Hair-schmair. Who needs hair when there’s more than enough Streisand to go around?”
Glancing down at Fee, she cocked her head. She’d never asked him if he questioned her story because she almost didn’t want to know, but if she was going to be stuck here, shoveling horse dung and playing milkmaid, she needed someone to talk to, an ally.
“Do you believe me, Fee?”
Fee sat back on his haunches, lifting his small muzzle, the pink bow on his tail swishing in time with his tail. “Keepin’ it one hundred?”
Brushing her forearm over her the side of her face, she nodded. “Absolutely. Total honesty.”
“At first I thought you were crazier than when Brit-Brit shaved her head. But the more I watched you go all wonky-eyed whenever one inmate would zap another inmate with a spell behind the screws’ backs, the more I believed you. I thought you were gonna lose your shit all over the cafeteria after that greasy—not to mention volatile—beast Veronica conjured up all those spiders in Petunia’s split-pea soup.”
She shuddered at the memory, but then relief settled in her bones, almost melting them. At least someone believed her. But then the reality of her situation, the one where she had to confront this if she planned to learn how to get along in this life, slapped her in the face.
“But here’s what I want to know, and you’re not going to like it, but we have to discuss it sometime—sometime soon. For the love of a coven, how the hell could you not know you’re a witch, Bernie? You do have parents, they had to be witches—at least one of them did. Care to embellish? Because it makes no GD sense, and I’ve got all sorts of theories and plots running through my head about how you didn’t know. So feel free to set me straight. Like anytime soon.”
Rather than address Fee’s questions, ones that mirrored her own, she said, “I don’t think I want to be a witch, Fee.”
But she’d sure like to know how she’d become one. This damn parole was putting off her search to discover how this had all happened. The plan had been to figure it out the second those cell doors clanked open. Now she’d have to wait another two months before she could tackle the biggest dilemma of her life.
However, the moment she had a chance, she was going to that storage unit where her parents’ boxes had sat unopened for almost two years, and she was going to dig until she found an answer.
Fee stood on his hind legs and pressed his front paws to her knees, stretching his spine. “Well, ain’t that just too damn bad for you, Bernie girl? Because you are a witch. So suck that rotten egg. And rest assured, the parental-unit conversation isn’t over—just tabled for the momentito. Now, buck up, buttercup. There’s tuna casserole and lemonade right up those stairs. Let’s get you fed and then we’ll clean up that barn—together.”
Driving her hands into the pockets of her jumpsuit, she had to smile. No matter how unwilling or difficult she’d been these last ten months, when Fee had decided she was his, he’d curled up at the end of her cot every night and he hadn’t left her since.
Reaching down, she scratched the spot under his chin. “You’re a peach, Fee.”
“I’m a moron for putting up with the likes of ungrateful you, B-Bop. Now move along, little doggie. I smell tuna-tuna-tuna!” he sang, dancing the conga up the steps.
The clean white door to the house popped open then and a woman, dark-haired with laughing eyes, stuck her head out. “Bernice?” she asked with a wide smile and a honeyed voice.
She shrugged her shoulders, unsure about such a warm welcome. She was an ex-con, after all, but this woman was behaving as if she was welcoming her into The Secret Witches Club fold.
“Well, c’mon in, Just Bernie! You look whipped. I’m Winnie Yagamowitz, and I have a plate of tuna casserole and some fresh lemonade with your name on them.”
Fee squealed as he raced up the steps and slipped through the old screen door and Bernie followed him, her Kotex pads so shredded, she might as well have been barefoot.
Winnie looked down at Bernie’s feet with a grin and asked, “Chi-Chi Gonzalez ring any bells?”
“You really did sell her sanitary-napkin slippers?”
“Like a snake oil salesman in a dusty western town.”
Bernie genuinely smiled this time, in spite of the heat, in spite of her sticky jumpsuit and the fact that she’d just set a barn on fire promptly two minutes after she’d arrived at her destination.
Maybe a little tuna casserole and some lemonade with someone who didn’t fashion shivs out of a pork chop bone wouldn’t kill her.
Chapter 4
“So this is your room. The rules, your household chores, and wakeup times are posted on the inside of the door and also in the bathroom, in case you forget anything.” Winnie held her son Ben Junior on her slender hip, his chubby arms flailing as she tapped the list on the back of the bedroom door with her pink-tipped nail.
Bernie sucked in a deep breath of air—blissfully cool air. It seemed the rehabilitation house had air conditioning, and that was just fine by her.
Her bedroom—yellow and blue with white trim—faced a backyard filled with beautiful gardens. Enormous hydrangeas bloomed everywhere, blue, white and purple, their round heads defying the odds by surviving the heat.
Thick patches of purple salvia stood tall behind rows and rows of lavender and blush heather. Pink and white begonias bordered the rock walls scattered with small hanging lanterns, and lights twinkled from strands draped over the fence and around the spiral trees.
“Your gardens are amazing,” Bernie said on a wistful breath. In fact, everything here at the rehabilitation house was amazing. She’d anticipated a rundown shack, brimming with a mile-long list of repairs needed and a bunch of recovering magic addicts.
But these witches had proven she watched too much TV. A sprawling Victorian greeted her when Winnie had dropped her at the door, with hanging plants adorning a wide front porch, geraniums the size of fists bracketing the door in big white urns and an interior full of nooks and crannies and well-loved pieces of furniture.
Something delicious had scented the entryway when Winnie’s husband Ben had popped open the wide stained-glass door, making Bernie feel like she was sullying up the place with her sweat-stained jumpsuit and the lingering odor of cow patties.
Winnie grinned as she came to stand beside her at the window. “They’re a labor of love. Mine and Lola’s—we made it for her mother.”
“I thought she was your daughter?” She’d seen the small dark-haired girl sitting at the table coloring when she’d first entered the house, and just assumed she belonged to Winnie.
“Biologically? No. In my heart? Always. Technically, Lola is Ben’s niece. He was left as her guardian after her parents were killed. Then I came along and made them mine.”
Winnie said the words with an expression of such love; love so real, Bernie wanted to reach out and touch it, wrap herself up in it and savor the warmth. It had been a long time since she’d seen the emotion up close and personal, and it tugged her sore heart.
“That’s nice,” she murmured, fighting a stab of jealousy.
Ben Junior grabbed her hair and giggled, his gummy smile making her smile back. She didn’t have a lot of experience with babies, but he was adorable, all dark hair and big blue eyes like his father.
“It’s a long story, my arrival here in Paris. And someday, probably sooner than you’d like, I’m going to share that story with you whether you want me to or not.”
Bernie chuckled, letting Ben Junior squeeze her pinky. “I’d like that.”
“Okay, I’m going to take Ben Junior downstairs and get him fed before the festivities. So why don’t you grab a shower and get changed? Maybe rest up before dinner, which is at seven sharp. We’re having a bit of a welcome-to-Paris party for you.”
Shit. She’d forgotten about her clothes. Not to mention her borrowed shoes.
Bernie looked down at her feet, utterly mortified. After a lunch that some would label beneath them—but to Bernie, had tasted like nirvana after ten months of prison food—Winnie had insisted she borrow a pair of Ridge’s boots to protect her feet while she worked. She’d stuffed rolled-up socks into them and sent Bernie back off to the barn to finish her assigned chores for the day.
Ridge had taken one look at the borrowed cowboy boots, riding almost past the tops of her knees and five sizes too big for her, and snickered before returning to his own chores.
That was the last she’d seen of him as she’d cleaned up the mess she’d made, raked the stalls and scattered fresh hay for the horses. Hopefully, in the ensuing days, he’d be just as scarce.
Bernie looked down at the scuffed boots, instantly feeling guilt. “I’ll return them tomorrow. It’ll be like I never wore them.”
Winnie cocked her head, her eyes searching Bernie’s. “Those? It’s not a big deal, Bernie. Just some old cowboy boots Ridge doesn’t even use anymore. I couldn’t have you go back out in that mess with nothing to protect your feet until we hunted you up some shoes, but they’re not a pair of Pradas. Why do I get the sense that you’re walking on eggshells here?”
Because she was?
She didn’t want to screw up a single instance for fear of being slapped back in the hoosegow. She had to figure out how she’d gotten here, and if shutting up and playing this witch game was part of the gig, she was aiming to please.
“I just don’t want anything else to go wrong.”
“Things are bound to go wrong if you keep telling yourself you’re not a witch, Bernie.”
Elephant in the room addressed. Perfect.
“You’re right.”
“And you’re appeasing me.”
Bernie remained silent, pulling her eyes from Winnie’s and swallowing hard.
But Winnie put her hand on her arm and squeezed, her eyes piercing Bernie’s. “Listen, I don’t know what’s happened to you. I don’t know how you came to this point in your life. But I’d like to. And then I’d like to help you fix it…manage it…whatever stupid therapeutic word you want to frost your situation with. I can help. Just ask.”
Fuck. Why did this woman have to be so nice? Why did this house have to be so warm and inviting? Why couldn’t she just keep burying her head under the covers?
Because the days of managing whatever this is are over, Bernice Sutton. It’s too far gone. You’ve fucked up once too much. You served time. You’re an ex-con with a magical rap sheet now. Suck it.
Maybe the key to figuring out how not to be a witch anymore was to let these gurus teach her how to be one?
Bernie bit the bullet while she stared down at her ridiculous cowboy boots. “I need…” Her words hitched momentarily, her throat growing tight. “Help. I. Need. Help.”
Winnie smiled and squeezed her arm again. “At your service. But first, grab a shower and take an hour or so to just be. Okay?”
Tears started to rim her eyes. Big, ugly, hot tears of gratitude. She let her eyes fall to the floor again. “I don’t have any clothes. I only have this. Is there somewhere I can wash it?” she squeaked, fighting the lump in her throat.
Winnie laughed and plucked the arm of Bernie’s jumpsuit. “Oh, hell no, you can’t wash it. We’re gonna burn that tonight in the fire pit. It’s kind of a ritual around here. Our way of showing the universe you’re never going back to the pokey. I’ve pulled some clothes for you and placed them in the cubby marked with your name in the b
athroom you’ll share with Vanessa across the hall. I apologize in advance if the clothes aren’t exactly in this decade—or even in the last two decades—but we had a full house until recently, and I’ve had trouble finding the time to sort through all the donations.”
“Donations? Can’t you just wave your wand and make some appear?” For that matter, couldn’t she? The words slipped from her mouth before she could stop them.
Winnie winked a beautiful eye. “Lesson number one—no magic for personal gain. I’m sure they preached that to you back in Cellblock Hell. It’s a rule you should always follow, even once you leave here, but it’s also a rule we enforce here at the house. We work for everything we own, and you’ll collect a paycheck from Ridge once a week. You won’t get rich from it, but it should be enough to pick up some things.”
“Ridge…” His name zipped past her lips before her common sense could take hold.
Winnie grinned, appearing pleased. “Yeah,” she said on a wistful sigh. “He’s not a bad boss to have, huh? If I wasn’t sick with love over my husband, I can’t promise I wouldn’t be a rancher’s wife. He’s definitely easy like Sunday morning on the eyes.”
So easy. “He was very nice about me burning down his barn.”
Winnie scoffed. “Oh, Bernie, lighten up, honey!” She looked at her son and chuckled, tickling his round belly. “Tell Miss Bernie to lighten up, would you, Benny? Tell her accidents happen and we’re going to teach her how to prevent them. Then we’re going to teach her how to enjoy her magic. Right, buddy?”
Ben responded by giggling and leaning his forehead against Winnie’s.
Enjoy her magic? Heh. Bernie remained silent, refusing to voice how un-enjoyable the last twenty years of her life had been.
“Anyway, clothes,” Winnie said. “I’ve got ’em. Also, the magic. That spiels not to say that from time to time us witches don’t whip up something fabulous. Because we do, but we’ve also learned our lesson about the meaning of hard work and its value as a result of keeping our magic in check.”
Witch Is The New Black (Paris, Texas Romance Book 3) Page 4
