A Witchmas Carol

by Amanda M. Lee

  A Witchmas Carol

  A Wicked Witches of the Midwest Fantasy Book Four

  Amanda M. Lee

  WinchesterShaw Publications

  Copyright © 2017 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.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Holiday Tidings Winchester Style

  1. One

  Holiday Tidings Winchester Style

  2. Two

  Holiday Tidings Winchester Style

  3. Three

  Holiday Tidings Winchester Style

  4. Four

  Holiday Tidings Winchester Style

  5. Five

  Holiday Tidings Winchester Style

  6. Six

  Holiday Tidings Winchester Style

  7. Seven

  Holiday Tidings Winchester Style

  8. Eight

  Holiday Tidings Winchester Style

  9. Nine

  Holiday Tidings Winchester Style

  10. Ten

  Holiday Tidings Winchester Style

  11. Eleven

  Holiday Tidings Winchester Style

  12. Twelve

  Holiday Tidings Winchester Style

  13. Thirteen

  Holiday Tidings Winchester Style

  14. Fourteen

  Holiday Tidings Winchester Style

  15. Fifteen

  Holiday Tidings Winchester Style

  16. Sixteen

  Holiday Tidings Winchester Style

  17. Seventeen

  Holiday Tidings Winchester Style

  18. Eighteen

  Holiday Tidings Winchester Style

  19. Nineteen

  Holiday Tidings Winchester Style

  20. Twenty

  Mailing List

  About the Author

  Books by Amanda M. Lee

  I’ve decided that Christmas is a racket. You’re supposed to find the perfect gift for your perfect woman – as if anything can be that perfect – and somehow best yourself the following year. How did that even become a thing?

  – Sam melting down when he can’t find the perfect gift for Clove

  One

  “It’s snowing.”

  My cousin Clove, her dark eyes sparkling, moved to the library window and looked out. It was gloomy – winters in Michigan mean darkness comes early – but I could see a hint of glittering white thanks to the outdoor landscaping lights.

  “I’m glad,” I said, grabbing the blanket from the back of the couch and dropping it to my lap so I could snuggle under it. “I don’t like snow. It’s almost Christmas, though. Who doesn’t want snow for Christmas?”

  My cousin Thistle, her short-cropped hair bright red with green and white accents at the tips, raised her hand as she studied a magazine. She seemed distracted, only mildly engaged in the conversation. Because we’re Winchesters and believe we should always be the center of the universe that simply wouldn’t do.

  “Are you looking at porn or something?” I challenged.

  Thistle shook her head, finally dragging her eyes to me, although it appeared she wasn’t keen about expending the effort to acknowledge the fact that I was in the room with her. “If I were looking at porn, I’d be in a much better mood.”

  She had a point. “So … what are you looking at?”

  “It’s a photography magazine,” Thistle replied. “Marcus got me a subscription for Christmas and the first issue showed up today. I’m going to take a photography class after the first of the year.”

  That sounded about right. Thistle is always interested in picking up a new skill. She’s what one would call “crafty,” and in more ways than one. She’s a witch – we all are, for the record – so she often turns her crafty nature into something magical. She’s quite talented and is opening a gallery next to her magic shop after the new year.

  Me, on the other hand, I can’t craft anything but an article for the weekly newspaper where I serve as editor and main reporter. The Whistler would soon be mine, though. With the help of my boyfriend, I managed to buy out my formal partner and would take ownership of Hemlock Cove’s only newspaper. Okay, it’s more an advertorial than a newspaper, but it would still be mine once Brian Kelly officially left town after the first of the year. That was only a week away.

  Then I, Bay Winchester, would own my own business.

  I was still freaking out about it.

  “If you want some practice after your class, I’m always looking for freelancers to take photographs of area events,” I offered. “I know it’s not exactly artistic but … .”

  “No, that sounds nice.” Thistle’s expression was earnest. “I’d love to practice on something like that. The blurb for the class said we would start with functional photographs – which is what you would need for The Whistler – and then move on to other things.”

  “You sound like you’re looking forward to it,” Clove noted.

  “I am.” Thistle offered up one of her rare smiles. “I like learning new things. It’s fun.”

  “Not me.” Clove, who had recently moved in to a historical Hemlock Cove lighthouse with her fiancé Sam Cornell, wrinkled her nose. “I’ve been learning all sorts of things since I’ve been trying to cook for Sam three nights a week. Let me tell you something … it’s not fun, entertaining or educational. It’s work.”

  I snickered, genuinely amused. Clove had been making clucking noises about how much she hated cooking for weeks now. She was a domestic soul, perfectly happy with her new reality. Cooking is something that somehow vexes us all. I think it has something to do with the fact that our mothers are all accomplished kitchen witches and can cook better while suffering from a 103-degree fever than we could on our best days. It’s mildly intimidating – and altogether humbling.

  “Do you want to know what I think?” Thistle asked, forgetting about her magazine and discarding it on the nearby table so she could lean closer. She spared a look for the open library door – we were at The Overlook, the inn my mother and aunts owned – and waiting for family dinner, so prying ears were genuinely a problem.

  “What do you think?” Thistle has a paranoid personality. If I didn’t know her better, I’d think she was stoned all the time. She’s wound tighter than a reality television star’s leggings, though, so I knew she wasn’t dipping into Aunt Tillie’s winter pot stash.

  “I think that our mothers cursed us so that we can’t cook.”

  I pursed my lips. “Why would they do that?”

  “Oh, don’t give me that look.” Thistle extended a finger and wagged it in my face. “I know exactly what you’re thinking. You think I’m living in a conspiracy theory instead of the real world. I’ve given this a lot of thought, though. I know it’s true.”

  “I think you live most of your days in a conspiracy theory.” I chose my words carefully because Thistle was liable to fly off the handle and attempt to make me eat dirt to shut me up. It was snowing outside, so that meant our weekly wrestling match would be conducted in the cold, and I wasn’t in the mood for frozen appendages. “Still, I’m intrigued by this one. Continue.”

  “I hate it when you take that tone with me.” Thistle wrinkled her nose, agitation evident. “You treat me as if you’re the adult and I’m the child.”

  She wasn’t wrong. Of course, two weeks ago she stole Aunt Tillie’s candy cane stash and refused to return it until our elderly great-aunt promised to stop wearing bells on her house slippers. They made noise whenever she walked, driving Thistle absolutely crazy
– which was, of course, Aunt Tillie’s goal – so Aunt Tillie felt triumphant when Thistle moved on her. The resulting fight wasn’t exactly what I would call mature, but it was entertaining.

  “Fine.” I held my hands up in a placating manner. “You’re completely and totally mature. If I made you feel otherwise, it was a mistake. Please continue.”

  Thistle made an exaggerated face. “That’s not better. That’s actually worse. I can hear the snark in your voice.”

  “If this family didn’t have snark we’d have nothing to say to one another,” Clove noted.

  “Fine.” Thistle’s eyes flashed. “So, anyway, I’ve been thinking about the cooking thing. The witches in our family have been renowned as the best cooks in the area for generations. All three of us are terrible cooks. Why do you think that is?”

  “I’m going with laziness,” I answered honestly. “I tried to cook Landon breakfast the other day and he swears I gave him food poisoning. I think if we learned to do these things at an earlier age we wouldn’t be struggling now.”

  “So you blame us?” Clove was intrigued by the suggestion. “I’ve been thinking of taking a cooking class after the first of the year. I want to learn to cook. I mean, even though we eat here several times a week and I don’t look for that to change, I think knowing how to cook when I have my own children might come in handy.”

  Children? Sam and Clove were recently engaged – although they hadn’t set a firm date or delved too far into their wedding preparations – but I couldn’t help being surprised that the word “children” rolled so easily off her tongue.

  “Screw cooking for kids,” Thistle challenged. “I want to be able to cook for me.”

  “And Marcus,” I prodded, reminding her of the boyfriend she’d officially be living with in a few weeks. Technically they lived together now – in a converted barn that Marcus spent a lot of money to upgrade so they could live in it – but until the construction was complete Thistle and I shared the same roof. After that, Landon and I would be the only ones in the guesthouse. I was both looking forward to it and a little terrified. He was officially moved in (although he spent the previous night at his old apartment in Traverse City so he could clean it and hand over the keys) and we were about to embark on a new adventure.

  I was so excited it made me a little nauseated. That’s normal, right?

  “Are you even listening to me?” Thistle chucked one of the stuffed elves Mom and my aunts placed around the house as decorations in my direction to get my attention. “I’m not joking about this theory.”

  “Fine.” I sighed. “They cursed us so we can’t cook. I believe you.”

  “You do not.” Thistle rolled her eyes so hard I thought she might tumble out of her chair. She’d had three glasses of egg nog since we sat down, so that wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. “It’s true, though. None of us can cook.”

  “None of us can knit either,” I pointed out. “They knit. Maybe they cursed us so we can’t knit, too.”

  “I knit.”

  I stilled. “You do?”

  Thistle bobbed her head. “Mom taught me last year. It’s not hard.”

  I’d tried once and ended up with the most lopsided potholder ever made. That was the start – and end – of my knitting career. I shook my head to dislodge the dark thoughts I momentarily found myself swimming in. “Fine. You knit. You know what I mean, though.”

  “I’m more interested in what I’m talking about,” Thistle said. “We can’t cook even though ninety percent of our line is known for being tremendous cooks. Do you know what ninety percent of our line is also known for?”

  “Being arrested?”

  Thistle ignored the quip. “We’re known for being selfish,” she said. “I think our mothers cursed us so we can’t cook so that we have no choice but to eat with them if we don’t want to starve.”

  Under normal circumstances I would’ve scoffed at her theory, but the moment I tried to discard it a germ of suspicion niggled in the back of my brain. Most daughters wouldn’t believe their mothers capable of anything so diabolical. I knew better.

  “That’s actually pretty interesting,” I conceded after a few moments of quiet contemplation. “Is there a way to test this theory?”

  “I don’t know.” Thistle rolled her neck until it cracked. “I did a little research, but then I got distracted by Christmas shopping. It’s stressful to pick out the perfect Christmas gifts for the guy you’re moving in with.”

  I wanted to scoff at the sentiment, but she wasn’t wrong. “I know. Last year Landon and I had just come off a break when Christmas rolled around. We hadn’t really been dating before that, so it was easy to get him something nice but impersonal for Christmas. This year is another story.”

  “What did you get him?” Thistle asked, intrigued.

  “I’m not telling you. It’s private.”

  “Oh, you gave in and got that bacon costume you’ve been teasing him with, didn’t you?” Thistle adopted a knowing expression. “You’re going to make Christmas a filthy holiday this year. I know it.”

  I didn’t bother to hide my eye roll. “I’m not telling you what I got him.”

  “I notice you didn’t deny the bacon costume,” Thistle muttered.

  “What did you get Marcus?” Clove asked, shifting her attention to Thistle. “This is a big holiday for you guys, too. You’d been together only a few months during Christmas last year and, if I remember correctly, you got him a book.”

  Thistle balked. “He loves that book.”

  “It was on gardening and plants,” Clove said dryly. “It was a nice enough book, but it was the lamest Christmas gift ever.”

  Thistle’s smile was sheepish. “Yeah. I kind of screwed that one up. I wasn’t sure what to do. Two months is kind of early in a relationship. It seems weird now to think how nervous I was, but I kept thinking that if I went too personal with a gift that I’d be pressuring him, and that’s the last thing I wanted to do.”

  “Well, you survived,” Clove said. “Marcus is the most patient man in the world. You must’ve gotten him something cool this year.”

  “I got him quite a few things,” Thistle admitted. “For one, I made a full set of dishes for the new house. They’re bohemian and chic, and my pottery wheel was on fire for a few weeks. I think they’re pretty cool, though.”

  “If Marcus were any other man I’d think that’s a terrible gift.” I tried to picture Landon’s face if I gave him dishes. It wasn’t a pretty thought. “He’s the type who likes dishes, though.”

  “I kind of did something schmaltzy with them,” Thistle offered.

  The way she averted her gaze had me practically salivating. She wasn’t known for being sentimental. “What?”

  “Promise not to laugh?”

  “That’s not the Winchester way,” I replied. “I promise to try not to laugh. That’s the best I can do.”

  Thistle blew out a sigh. “Fine. You’ll find out anyway, because now that Landon is living in Hemlock Cove, he and Marcus are buddies. They have their little man dates once a week. Marcus will tell Landon, and we know Landon can’t keep his mouth shut and will tell you, so you’ll find out anyway.”

  I had to snicker at Thistle’s use of the term “man dates.” When Landon first moved to town I worried he’d be overwhelmed by the fact that he was surrounded by females. Surprisingly, he joined a monthly poker group with Hemlock Cove’s police chief Terry Davenport and started going to an area bar with Marcus one night a week without any prompting from me. I was still getting used to it.

  “So, tell me,” I prodded.

  “I simply created a design that happens to use our initials and carved it into each dish in some fashion,” Thistle replied. “I thought it was unique and … well … go ahead and laugh.”

  Strangely enough, I found I didn’t want to laugh. Okay, I kind of wanted to laugh at her reaction, but the gift itself was sweet. “I think it’s nice.”

  “Me too.” Clove w
as sincere. “I’m not crafty the way you are. I bought Sam a bunch of stuff because he told me he wants to start fishing.”

  I liked Sam. No, really, it’s true. It took a bit of time for me to trust him, but I recognized that he loved Clove with his whole heart, and I could never dislike him given his taste in women. Still, when I pictured Sam it wasn’t ever with a fishing pole in his hand. “Are you sure he wants to fish?”

  Clove shrugged. “That’s what he said. I bought stuff he can return, though, because I’m not convinced. I also got him a special first edition of a Sherlock Holmes book – he loves those stories – and a big gift certificate for Home Depot because he’s obsessed with getting work done on the tanker over the winter.”

  “That’s practical and sweet,” I said. “Good job.”

  “That leaves only you,” Thistle pointed out, crossing her arms over her chest. “What did you get for Landon for Christmas?”

  The question was uncomfortable enough to make me shift on the couch. “Speaking of Landon, I wonder where he is.” I pushed myself to a standing position to stroll to the window and gaze out at the parking lot. “I expected him a half hour ago.”

  “Oh, look, she’s deflecting,” Thistle said. “That means she got Landon something schmaltzy, too.”

  “Who got Landon something schmaltzy?” Annie, the daughter of our mothers’ hotel helper Belinda, popped her head into the library. She’d essentially become a member of the family in a very short period, and she loved spending time with us when we gossiped.