by Rose Pressey
I jumped back and clutched my chest. “Oh my gosh. I wasn’t expecting that.”
Grandma chuckled.
“Can the customers hear or see that?” I looked toward the dining area.
“They can’t hear or see what’s going on back here, don’t worry about it. Don’t forget to recite the words from the spell.”
“Right.” I cleared my throat and studied the page. This had better work, or he’d end up in some vacation hell somewhere. Like a no-carbs-allowed retreat or an antiquing weekend getaway with his wife—every man’s worst nightmare.
“Time for rest, time for play, take him from this stress into a place of hope and quietude. So mote it be.”
“Excellent, Elly.” She draped her arm around my shoulders and squeezed.
“Is that all I do?” My expression must have shown my confusion. “Seems kind of simple. I thought there would be more to it than that.”
“For that particular spell, yes, but some spells have words to recite, while others allow you to speak from the heart, adding your own words. Trust your grandmother, dear. You’ll get the hang of things in no time. Oh, and one more thing, always stir clockwise to ensure the spell works. Because that’s the direction the sun moves and you’ll want to use the earth’s energy.”
No offense to my grandmother, but she should have started these magical lessons a long time ago. I hesitated before picking up the plate, afraid that I’d be electrocuted or disappear into a puff of smoke.
“It won’t hurt you. Pick it up.” She nudged my elbow.
Why couldn’t the spell casting be as easy as a twitch of my nose complete with a cute little tinkle sound? I grabbed the plate and marched through the kitchen door with the man’s food stretched way out in front of me as if it was a dirty diaper of contaminated poo-poo. I placed it on the counter in order to grab a mug for the coffee. I prayed I’d make it to the table without dumping the contents on the man’s lap. My hands shook and my heart thumped loudly in my ears. Guilt must have been written all over my face as if I’d committed the most heinous crime.
“I’ll get the coffee. You get the biscuits over to the customer and see the reaction on his face when he takes a bite.”
I let out a deep breath, full of anticipation. “If you say so.”
“I’ll bet he looks ten years younger after one bite. Hmm. Now that I look at him, he’s not a half bad looking man.”
“Focus, Grandma.”
“I got the coffee.” She grinned. “You go ahead.”
I picked up the plate holding the magic biscuits and forced my feet to move forward, back to the table where the man was still engrossed in the business section. He didn’t look up until I placed the dish in front of him.
Chapter Three
“Oh, thanks. It looks delicious.” The man placed his paper down.
Grandma set the mug on the table and poured the hot liquid, giving him a little wink and a smile. I rolled my eyes. Now was not the time for flirting, although she’d always lived by the personal philosophy that there was always time for flirting.
“Thanks.” He smiled back.
We moved back to the counter for a better view of the show. I was convinced we wouldn’t notice any difference in this man. Maybe a look of delight when he realized how good the gravy was, but I wasn’t expecting much else. He lifted his fork and I held my breath in anticipation.
“Get ready. Just watch,” she said.
Staring at him while he ate was a bit weird. The man relished the first bite and didn’t slow down, taking the next shovelful in his mouth. The more he ate, the more he grinned and a glint appeared in his eyes. The air of anxiety around him seemed to fade like a deflating balloon.
“You did it.” Grandma beamed.
“You think?” I looked from grandma to the man and back to her.
“I don’t think, I know. You can feel it, don’t forget to feel. You’ll sense everything you need to know.”
“How many people know about this magic?” I lowered my voice so the man wouldn’t hear.
“Not many, and we have to keep it that way.”
“Isn’t it a little hard? Won’t word get out?”
“Not if you don’t tell them.” She raised a brow. “It’s been a secret for many years.”
“Is that why this town’s called Mystic Hollow?”
She winked. “You catch on quick.”
“Apparently not quick enough, if it took me all these years to find out about this. You were doing this right under my nose.”
I had always wondered about that big mysterious book placed awkwardly among the other normal-looking cookbooks. But the few times I made up my mind to snoop at the contents, it would be gone.
“Does Mom have the ability to perform this magic?”
Grandma shook her head. “I wish she did, but she doesn’t. Only a few do, and you’re one of the lucky ones. It skips a generation most of the time. Your daughter….” She looked toward the sky and placed her hands in a prayer gesture. “Heaven hope that you eventually make me a great-grandmother.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Your daughters may or may not have this talent.”
“Talent? Is that what you call it? I don’t know about that. Curse, maybe.” I poured myself a glass of water. “So, where does this magic come from?”
“It comes from all around you. It comes from nature.” She gestured around the room. “It just is. Like the sky is blue and the sun rises and sets every day. It’s part of the magic. Intuitive. You’ll know and feel it.”
I took a big gulp from the glass. “There has to be more to it than that.”
“That’s it.” She shrugged with a chuckle.
“I like definitive answers.”
“You can’t always have answers, my dear, sometimes you have to go with the flow.”
I finished off the water. “I think I’m going with the flow now, don’t you?”
She smiled. “Well, you’re certainly giving it your best shot, I’ll give you that.”
“Thanks...I think. What if something goes wrong?”
She frowned. “Nothing will go wrong. And if it does...well, no...” She shook her head. “I know you’ll be perfect.”
“Grandma, I know you let me bake before, but I had the strange feeling you never trusted me with more than refilling coffee cups. Now you leave the running of the café to me. I’m expected to cook? What made you change your mind?”
“I trusted you with the baking, didn’t I? I sensed the magic. It usually doesn’t appear until the mid-twenties, so I had no idea if you’d be a terrible cook and awful with magic like your mother or if you’d take after your dear, old grandmother.” She batted her eyelashes.
I shook my head. “Are we the only people who do this ‘magic’?”
“No.”
I swallowed hard. “There are others?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Like who?” I asked.
“That’s a story for another day. Let’s just say this town wouldn’t be so cozy and charming without the help of a few magic spells here and there.”
“Come on, Grandma, I can’t believe you’re not going to tell me. Give me a hint. One name?”
“Harry at the barbershop gives magical haircuts.” She blurted out with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “Oops.” She covered her mouth with her hand.
“Haircuts? Magical?” I snorted.
“His scissors are special.” She glanced over her shoulder as if someone might hear her secret.
“From the looks of the haircuts I’ve seen around here, I wouldn’t call that magic. Tragic, maybe.”
She laughed. “It’s not about the haircut. It’s about the way the person feels when he leaves Harry’s place.”
I stared for a beat. “This is a lot to take in, you know?”
“I know, and it’ll be more real to you once you get the hang of things.”
When my magical experiment paid and bounced out the door, Grandma Imelda walked
around the counter. “If you need help, just give me a jingle on my cell phone.” She held her hand up to her ear, mimicking a phone.
Next thing I knew, she’d be sending text messages with smiley faces and following me on Twitter. “If I’m on the golf course, leave a message and I’ll call you back. Don’t worry about a thing. Remember, Mary Jane is always here to help you, too.”
Mary Jane had worked at Mystic Café for quite a while, but my grandmother never let her near the stove. She didn’t know how to cook or cast a magic spell and these things were currently at the top of my priorities list. How much help she’d provide was up for debate.
Grandma Imelda handed me the keys to the café and headed toward the front door. “And remember, Elly, the spells won’t work for selfish reasons. Don’t try one on yourself, it won’t work.”
“Do you have any idea how many times I’ve wanted to be like Samantha on Bewitched?” I asked.
Being able to turn someone into a frog alone would be worth putting up with Endora. Of course, I wouldn’t leave someone as a frog for long…just long enough to hear a few croaks and have them eat several flies. I’d start with Beth Higgins. She was the ultimate mean girl in high school. I’d heard she hadn’t changed much since, either.
“I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way, sorry.” She draped her arm around my shoulders and squeezed.
“Bummer.”
“Magic does have its limitations. It can’t give you everything you want. I’d have found me one hunk of a man by now if that were the case. You have to rely on fate for that.” She moved out the front door.
My sneakers squeaked across the hardwood floor as I hurried to follow her outside.
When I reached the sidewalk, she turned and cupped my chin in her hands. “I wish I could stay longer and help you, but you know I believe in allowing you to figure things out on your own. It builds character.”
“Just like the time you made me drive your manual-engine car across town.”
“Honey, you were an expert with that clutch by the time you got back.”
“I cursed every time I had to stop on a hill.”
Grandma chuckled, then wrapped me in a gigantic hug. “I love you, sweetheart.”
The familiar scent of her favorite White Shoulders perfume encircled me. “I love you, too, Grandma.” I squeezed back. “What about the magical people? What if they don’t like me?”
“You’ll be fine, just like your grandma. They don’t call me the magical Dear Abby for nothing, you know?”
Would they call me the magical Dear Abby now?
My grandmother had been helping solve people’s problems one delicious meal at a time, only they didn’t know it. And neither did I, until now. She’d owned Mystic Café for thirty years, and not once in all my twenty-eight years had she mentioned adding magic to the food. Customers used words like delightful, enchanting, and captivating to describe her dishes, but I thought they meant my grandmother’s exceptional cooking skills. Never did I imagine it was real magic.
After releasing her embrace, she backed away and marched over to her little red roadster like a spring chicken. Grandma slid behind the wheel, putting on her rhinestone-encrusted sunglasses and revving the engine.
“You remember the name of the retirement village?” she yelled over the roar of the car.
I nodded. “Sunny Acres in Coconut Springs, Florida, I remember. I wrote the information down. Are you sure you want to leave us?” My voice broke and I gave her my best sad-eyed look. “This is your hometown.”
“We talked about this, honey. I always said I’d retire to Florida and that’s what I’m doing. Now you have fun with the café and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Oh, and mashed potatoes make the best base for magic. I learned by trial and error over the past thirty years, so take my word for it. And one more thing…don’t let anything happen to the book or the spices.” She waved as she drove off, the wind whipping the wisps of her white-coifed hair.
Chapter Four
When I couldn’t see the back of her car any longer, I wiped the tears from my cheeks and moved back inside the café. A cool blast from the air-conditioning slapped me in the face as if saying: what the heck are you thinking?
No new customers had entered the café yet and, in spite of being nervous at the thought of having zero customers, I was thankful not to have any right at that moment. How would I do this on my own?
I stood in the middle of the room, taking in the whole space. My heart thumped, afraid I’d screw this up. But forget about running a business on my own…that was the least of my worries. People in this town relied on magic performed by me. Me. It’s a good thing they didn’t know their fate was in my hands. Shivers covered my skin and it wasn’t because of the cool air.
Apparently, my hometown of Mystic Hollow, Kentucky, was more mystical and magical than I’d ever known. How the heck had that one gotten past me? I’d grown up in this town and never suspected for a minute what was right under my nose the whole time.
To an outsider, Mystic Hollow looked like Mayberry—a quiet, innocent little town. The population in Mystic Hollow barely broke the three thousand mark. No way to hide many details of your life in a town that size, but grandma had somehow managed.
Grandma Imelda always said they didn’t name it Mystic Hollow for nothing. She claimed the limestone under the soil made it a special place. It didn’t make sense to me at the time, and I still wasn’t sure it did now.
Grandma also claimed a special energy moved with force around town. On every blade of grass that swayed with the wind and every leaf that cascaded to the ground. Now I knew what energy she meant—even if it didn’t make sense.
As I peered around the café, I realized it was now or never. Sink or swim in the big pot of grits cooking in the back. What was the worst that could happen? I’d follow the magic book and cook the best darn food I could; everything would fall into place. Maybe.
Keeping busy would be the best medicine, so I slipped into the back and mixed batter for muffins. I put the pan into the oven, then busied myself straightening the prep area. After a few minutes passed, the bell on the door jingled.
Mary Jane O’Donnell bounced through the door. “I’m here. I’m here.” She rushed behind the counter and stashed her purse, then grabbed an apron.
Her penny-colored ponytail peeked out from the back of her baseball cap. She had a voice loud enough to break the sound barrier and a penchant for hats. All kinds of hats: baseball caps, cowboy hats, fedoras, just to name a few. She claimed the hats distracted from her round cheeks. I hadn’t seen her without one since high school. She probably slept in a hat. Today she wore a white baseball cap with little pink flowers across the front.
Grandma Imelda was right: at least I had Mary Jane. She may not cook or know magic, but I trusted her and knew she wouldn’t let me down. Mary Jane was my best friend from high school and had been working at the café for several years now after an ugly divorce. No way would I make it without her help. She was a darn good waitress and smarter than anyone I knew. When Mary Jane wasn’t in the café, she was studying for her bachelor’s degree; she wanted to teach math.
“Thank goodness you’re here.” I stretched my arms up and hugged her. She stood a good five inches taller than my five-foot-two frame.
“You know I’ll show up.” She patted me on the back. “I always show up.”
“Oh my gosh.” Panic set in. “I forgot about the muffins. I gotta get them out, come with me.”
Mary Jane followed on my heels as I raced into the kitchen and toward the oven. Snatching the oven mitts and shoving my hands into them, I yanked the door open.
“You know I love you, Elly, but you also know I tell it like I see it. You’re in over your head here.” She leaned against the refrigerator door.
“What? No.” A plume of smoke circled my head and I fanned the air.
“Honey, you don’t have any experience cooking. I know you worked here waiting tables, but cooking is a
whole different ball game. I never saw you cook before.” She coughed and covered her nose with one hand.
“I cooked all the time when I lived in New York. I couldn’t afford to eat out much so I really had no choice. Cook or don’t eat. I guess I could have eaten frozen pizzas and Pop Tarts every meal.” I picked at the edge of a black muffin. It looked more like a hockey puck. “I’ll have you know Grandma Imelda says I have the natural talent for it.”
“Cooking at home is a lot different from this, sweetie. But if Imelda trusts you with this place, then I have no choice but to trust you, too.” She shrugged her shoulders, then shook her head.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” I dumped the muffins in the trash.
“Like I said, I call it like I see it. I’m going to get the front ready.”
“Yeah, okay. I’m going to make more muffins.” I let out a sigh.
Brushing the hair out of my eyes and letting out a deep breath, I mixed up the batter for more muffins. With no clue what I was doing, I tossed grandma’s ‘special herbs’ into the mix, then added some to the grits too, waiting for something magical to happen. A spark, a sound, some kind of sign to let me know it worked.
With a pinch of this and a dash of that, I waited, but nothing. I picked up the magical spices and studied the labels. The words were etched on the front of the bottles with the same extravagant lettering as on the Mystic Magic book. Cinnamon, vanilla, allspice, ginger, and rosemary were a few of the magic ingredients I recognized, which at least would make the food taste good. It was better than eye of newt and toad legs. But some I’d never heard of, like mace—which sounded as if it should be sprayed on the face of a deranged attacker—and galangal. That one sounded like it needed a special ointment to cure it.
I intended to take this new endeavor seriously. Just because I didn’t know my magic didn’t mean I couldn’t make the café just as successful as Grandma Imelda. First thing on my agenda for Mystic Café was to make healthy southern dishes—an oxymoron, but substitutes could be made for the worst fattening offenders. I envisioned myself a cross between Paula Deen and Jamie Oliver.
