The Cupcake Witch
The Chancellor Fairy Tales, Book II
The Witching Hour Collection
Poppy Lawless
PoppyLawless.com
Join my Newsletter!
Love Potion Books, 2015
An imprint of Clockpunk Press
Copyright © 2015 Poppy Lawless
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without permission from the author.
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed are fictional. Any resemblances to the living or the dead are purely coincidental.
Published by Love Potion Books
PO Box 560367
Rockledge, FL 32956-0367
Cover art by Steph’s Cover Design
Editing by Becky Stephens Editing
“Follow your bliss & don't be afraid & doors will open where you didn't know they were going to be.”
- Joseph Campbell
Chapter 1: Julie
Holding the whisk tightly, I swirled the pale-yellow batter around the bowl, the sweet scents of vanilla, brown sugar, and bitter dark chocolate perfuming the air. Even though it was a cool autumn morning, the heat from the oven made the kitchen feel toasty warm. I’d been baking all morning: expresso mini cupcakes with cappuccino flavored frosting, matcha green tea macaroons, and strawberry rhubarb coffee cake. The kitchen smelled divine. Now, with a pot of coffee brewing and a batch of chocolate chip walnut cookies just about ready to go into the oven, I could almost relax.
“Here, taste this,” I said to Dad, scooping up a small bite of the dough with a spoon and sticking it into his mouth before he could protest.
“You’re going to give me salmonella poisoning,” he said then sighed deeply. “A little food poisoning is worth it. So good, but they taste…different.”
“Bad different?”
Dad shook his head. “Tasty different.”
“Organic brown sugar and sea salt.”
“I’m going to gain ten pounds before you go back to college next week,” he said with a laugh then turned back to his paperwork.
Sighing, I placed the cookie dough on the baking sheet and stuck it in the oven. How was I going to tell Dad I wasn’t planning on going back? With Mom gone…well, I just didn’t even know why I was there anymore. It wasn’t like I had ever wanted to go to college. I wanted to be a baker. But Mom wanted me to be a dentist, so I was studying pre-dentistry. Now, Mom was gone. The pain of her loss still felt like a huge lump in my chest.
I poured Dad and myself coffee and sat down at the table. He was thumbing through a heap of real estate briefs. Dayton Real Estate was busier than ever, and with Mom gone, an agent short. Dad was running himself ragged.
I spooned some raw sugar into my cup and tried to think of something to say other than the fact that I hated school. It was nearly the end of October and thus far junior year had been a bust. I told Dad I wasn’t ready. After losing Mom that summer, I just couldn’t get my head back into the game. I didn’t want to waste my life pursuing a career in dentistry just because everyone, but especially Mom, thought it would be a good move for a smart girl like me. Mom’s death had taught me many things, the most important being that life was short. Why was I working so hard for a future I felt pretty apathetic about?
“Here is the property in Chancellor I was telling you about,” Dad said, saving me from having the dreaded conversation once more, as he handed me an envelope. From inside, I pulled out a yellowed photograph of a tiny little Tudor-style cottage. Under the photo, the words Serendipity Gardens had been written in faded pencil.
“It looks like a witch’s cottage. Mrs. Aster, the woman who left us the building…how did you say we were related again?” I stared at the photograph as I twirled one red dreadlock around my finger. The little building was a mess, the glass nursery overgrown, but there was something quaint, almost fairy tale like, about it.
Dad was eyeing the table full of sweets, finally settling on one of the mini cupcakes, popping it into his mouth. “These are amazing, Julie. Seriously,” he said after a moment. “Mrs. Aster was Grandma Belle’s husband’s sister.”
“And how does that make her related to us?”
“Through marriage only, but we are her closest living relatives,” Dad said then shrugged. “I’ve got the property into the MLS system, but I need to run over to Chancellor this week and put up the signs. Probably won’t be hard to move the old place. I already have a message—which I haven’t even managed to return yet—from Blushing Grape Vineyards inquiring on the property. Need to get that sign up, see if I can fish any other bids out of the pond. Maybe the college will want the property, turn it into an office or something. On the corner of Main Street and Magnolia, the location is great. We’ll probably get a good price if we can get some competition,” Dad said then paused. He looked up at me, a serious expression on his face. “You know, Chancellor College offers science degrees. Jules, I know you aren’t happy…” he began then stopped. Trying again, he switched directions by saying, “Maybe if you were closer to home, things might be easier.”
Panicking, I picked up the envelope. “Chancellor, eh? Don’t they have a harvest festival at this time of year? Why don’t I take the signs over? I’ll grab a pumpkin spice latte or something.”
My dad pushed his glasses back up his nose then ran his hand through his hair. Was it my imagination or did his hair look whiter? His face was certainly more drawn. He must have shed twenty pounds from his already thin frame. Mom’s death had hit us both hard. It was just manifesting differently. Dad was running thin, and I was running scared. I didn’t want to waste my life following the dream Mom had lain out so neatly for me. My real passion had always lain in the kitchen. Fondant. Buttercream. Meringue. Ever since I got my first Easy-Bake Oven, I knew what I wanted to do, who I wanted to be. My dream, however, had never jelled with what Mom had wanted. And as much as it hurt, Mom was gone. I could keep going to college for her, but that didn’t feel right. I needed to do something. Something needed to change. And in the meantime, I was failing my classes.
“Walk around the campus while you’re there. Check out its vibe. See if you like it.”
“Or not,” I said absently. The last thing I wanted was more college: more homework I couldn’t get myself to complete, more classes I couldn’t get myself to go to, more anything.
“You know, they also have a culinary program,” my dad said carefully. “A letter came from your college’s advising office. It said you’re failing all—”
“I…I know,” I stammered, standing. “Can we talk about it tonight?”
He nodded. “I love you. We’re both just trying to manage here.” He lifted a macaroon then looked from it to me. “The culinary program. Mom and I always disagreed...tonight, let’s talk. But you’re making dinner.”
“Of course. It’s pizza night! I bought portabella mushrooms, arugula, and goat cheese.”
“You had me at portabella,” Dad said with a chuckle. “Anything would be better than those damned frozen dinners.”
“Dad! You can’t eat that garbage.”
He shrugged. “What can I say? I don’t have time to cook. Speaking of which, did you know it only takes five weeks to get a real estate license? Without your mom, I could use the extra help,” he said then patted the massive stack of inspection reports, loan documents, and other paperwork that was my dad’s—and had been my mom’s—life’s work, “and a home cooked meal, on occasion.”
I picked up the
envelope then kissed my dad on his balding head. “Home cooked meals I can handle.”
My dad patted my hand.
“Take the cookies out when the timer goes off?”
“Of course. I’d never let a Julie Dayton cookie burn. Too precious a commodity.”
I wrapped my arms around my dad and hugged him tight.
“Love you,” I said.
“Love you too, Julie bean,” he replied.
Letting him go, I grabbed my purse and keys and headed off to the witch’s cottage.
Chapter 2: Horatio
“Fabulous event, Horatio,” Mrs. White, the wife of the President of Chancellor College said, shaking my hand as she left the pristine white tent situated on the small public beach at Chancellor Park.
“Thank you so much. It was a pleasure to see you and President White again.”
She smiled nicely then headed to the parking lot where a limo waited to take her and her husband, who was also shaking hands as he made his way to the limo, back to the college.
I inhaled deeply and looked out at the lake. The morning sunlight was shimmering on the dark blue waves. There was a chill in the air, but it wasn’t too windy yet. I had pulled it off. When my sister, Viola, had volunteered me to organize the annual charity breakfast and fundraiser for the Chancellor Arts Council, I wanted to kill her. But the champagne breakfast had gone off without a hitch, and we’d raised more than two hundred and fifty thousand dollars that morning for youth arts programs.
“I don’t want to say I told you so, but I told you so,” a soft voice said, followed by a playful punch in the arm.
I opened my eyes and grinned at Viola who looked, admittedly, very pretty in her Merlot-colored “Hillary Clinton”—as she had called it—suit. Her dark hair glimmered in the sunlight, reflecting tints of blue.
“I just got a bunch of old broads liquored up on mimosas and begged for money for kids. Nothing to it.”
“Shut up. You know Mrs. Kline only raised fifty-thousand last year. Your speech was awesome. The event was awesome. The silent auction was genius. I even won something!”
“Won is a matter of perspective,” I replied. “Let me guess, the beach glass necklace?”
“How did you know? But did you see that thing? It was gorgeous. I think The Glass Mermaid, Kate, donated that. I love her shop.”
I nodded but got side-tracked when Professor Lane emerged from the tent, her arms already outstretched, her velvet cape with its swinging tassels hanging like bat wings from her arms. Before either Viola or I could say another word, she’d crushed us into a bear hug.
“Horatio! Viola! Your mother would be so proud. You fully funded the summer theater program. I don’t know how I can ever thank you,” she gushed.
“Can’t. Breathe,” Viola whispered.
“Oh, Viola, you were always too dramatic,” Professor Lane, who’d been one of my mother’s dearest theater friends, said.
Viola opened her mouth to protest but just laughed instead.
“I need to head over to the theater,” Professor Lane said, kissing us both on both cheeks as she spoke. The heavy scent of vanilla perfume effervesced off her. “We have Sleepy Hollow this weekend, you know.”
“I have tickets for Saturday night,” Viola told her reassuringly.
“Horatio. I want to talk to you about the renaming ceremony,” she said then, taking me firmly by the arms. I stared into those same blue eyes I’d been looking at since I was a kid. Just being around her reminded me of Mom, and nothing could have made me feel better in that moment. “You need to arrange the event. This morning was fabulous. It’s your calling, dear. That speech. I wept. Say yes.”
“I’d really love to, but my father has me so busy—”
“Pshh,” Professor Lane said, waving her hand to dismiss the idea that I actually already had a job, and my father, the land baron of Chancellor, as Viola and I called him behind his back, was not the kind of boss you wanted to displease—nor the kind of father. “Tell him you’re doing it for Eleonora. He’ll keep quiet. Wonderful job this morning,” she said again, pinching my cheek with her jeweled fingers. “You know, the Chancellor Arts Council is looking for a new Executive Director. Just a thought. Bye, loves,” she called then headed off, her dyed-red hair, practically cherry-colored, shining in the sun.
“There is no way Dad will let me work on another event. Not with Falling Waters about to open.” The massive Hunter empire was about to take on yet another venture, an upscale restaurant located at a converted—well, partly-converted—location downtown. Dad had insisted I work with him on the project, even though I also seemed to be failing him at every turn.
“It’s for Mom,” Viola said softly.
The Chancellor Theater was soon to be renamed in memorial as The Eleonora Hunter Playhouse. My mother had spent her life devoted to that theater, raising money, directing plays, running theater camps, sewing costumes, everything…and Viola and I had done most of it alongside her. The Executive Director position, about which several of the board members had already approached me, sounded like a dream job. And it was…a pipe dream. Dad had me screwed down so tight with the winery, and the new restaurant, that I’d never get loose. I sighed. Losing Mom to cancer earlier that year had hit everyone hard. The theater had lost their most devoted patron, and we’d lost our most devoted parent.
“Yeah, you’re right. I’ll do it for Mom. To hell with what Dad thinks.”
Chapter 3: Julie
An hour later, my car glided into the little lakeside village of Chancellor. I was right. It was harvest festival. The town was brimming with people. The streets around the main square had been blocked off for the festivities. I drove up and down the narrow side streets, many of which were bumpy cobblestone, before I found a parking place five blocks from Magnolia Lane.
I opened the trunk, grabbed the signs, and headed down the street.
Chancellor was a quaint little village. The small liberal arts college sat like a multi-turreted castle above the town, looking down on the town and lake. The land all around Chancellor, however, was surrounded with vineyards. The scent of grapes was in the air. The breeze—today at least—was also perfumed with the sweet scents of kettle corn, fried dough, wine, and pumpkin spice. Every parking meter was bedecked with scarecrows, corn stalks, and pumpkins. They’d strung garlands of witches’ hats from lamp post to lamp post, crisscrossing the street. A band was rehearsing “Witchy Woman” on a stage nearby. Kids dressed in Halloween costumes—though the actual holiday was still a few days away—ran around, plastic pumpkins brimming with candy. Food vendors, craft vendors, trade demonstrations, and other attractions lined the streets.
As I walked down Main Street, dodging around princesses, pirates, super heroes, and even dogs dressed in costumes, I passed a large white tent adjacent to a wooded park. A sign noting “America’s Best Ice Wine Challenge” hung over the entrance. Signs for Blushing Grape Vineyards were plastered everywhere. Inside, I saw people dressed to the hilt sipping wine from slim glasses. I veered out of the way when a horse-drawn wagon full of laughing children passed by, trying not to tromp on the groups of college students who were sitting on the street working on chalk paintings. I paused to look at a few of them. The designs featured Chancellor scenes: the lake, the vineyards, the college, but I also saw some of the students drawing mermaids, witches, and faeries. Chancellor was definitely turning out to be more interesting than I expected. We hadn’t visited the little town often, but one year Mom and I had come during the Christmas season to visit their Yuletide Christmas bazaar and watched The Nutcracker at the local theater. I remembered sipping hot chocolate and watching people ice skate at the makeshift skating rink near the town center. It was one of the few times I remembered my mother looking truly happy. Most of the time she just looked harried. The ballet, however, was what had left an impression on me…but not in the way you’d expect. The next morning I woke up determined to make sugar plum pudding. I still remembered how good the house
smelled as I prepared the dish. I remembered Chancellor being fun, and it still was. The quaint little town’s energy was so alive.
For just a moment, I stopped to watch a gorgeous candle maker with shoulder-length curly blond hair dip a long taper into a vat of wax. He glanced at the crowd as he explained the candle making process. When he spotted me, he winked. He was around the same age as me and wore a pair of jeans that were ripped at the knees and a red and black flannel shirt. Shelves lined with jars of organic honey, beeswax candles, and lip balm sat at one side of his display. I smiled at him. He replied by tipping his head toward me. Then I headed down the street. To my surprise, I was actually close to the property. I caught sight of the sign for Magnolia Lane just over the roof of a vendor tent. Ducking under ropes, and shimmying between two tents, I finally stumbled upon Serendipity Gardens.
The little Tudor cottage, with pale yellow stucco siding, dark timbers, and a massive stone chimney near the large front window, sat tucked just off Main Street at the corner of Main and Magnolia. I propped the signs against the broken down fence and lifted the handle on the worn white picket fence gate. The yard was covered with knee-high golden rods, purple asters, black-eyed Susan’s, Queen Anne’s lace, and other wildflowers. I gently pushed open the gate and approached the house. It was a charming fairy tale style place, but it showed its age and disuse. The windows were shuttered, the window boxes overgrown. There was a small porch on the front of the house, but its crumbling roof was in need of repair. To the right side of the little house was a charming Victorian-style greenhouse that appeared to be attached to the building. Several of the glass panes were broken and it looked like a jungle was growing inside.
I stepped onto the porch carefully, the old wood groaning as it took my weight. The green paint on the door was flaking off in chunks. Leaning along the side of the house was an old sign that read Serendipity Gardens. Reaching into my purse, I pulled out a wrought-iron key. It was then that I realized the top of the key was shaped like a heart. A faded red ribbon had been tied to it. I grabbed the door handle and was surprised to find that it was, in fact, a glass door knob. It shimmered with amethyst color.
The Cupcake Witch: The Witching Hour Collection (The Chancellor Fairy Tales Book 2) Page 1
