“I don’t care what you say,” Sam shot back. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see what happened.”
Thistle sobered. “Listen, I know you’re upset, and I don’t blame you. I was just … .” She trailed off, unsure.
“Just what?” Sam prodded.
“Being her,” I filled in, patting his hand. “She can’t help herself. She got the biggest dose of Aunt Tillie in her genetic makeup when we were born, so she really can’t stop herself from being a terrible person.”
Thistle narrowed her eyes to dangerous slits. “That’s the meanest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“What’s the meanest thing she’s ever said to you?” Bay asked, strolling into the room. She looked tired, shadows under her eyes, but she forced a bright smile.
“What’s wrong with you?” Thistle asked, immediately picking up on Bay’s ragged appearance.
“Nothing is wrong with me,” Bay shot back. “Why do you think something is wrong with me?”
“Because you look like hell.”
Bay blew a raspberry in Thistle’s direction before focusing on me. “I heard you had a scary incident last night. I’m glad everything turned out okay.”
“I’m fine,” I offered. “You don’t look fine, though.”
Bay scowled. “Are you saying I look like hell? If so, I’ll put my foot in your butt and bury your face in the flowerbed outside. Aunt Tillie swears up and down Bigfoot pooped in the flower urn on the porch. Do you want to find out if that’s true with your face?”
I rolled my eyes. You can always tell when Bay is about to slip over the edge, because she lashes out in unexpected ways. “You haven’t been sleeping, have you?” I prodded.
“I’ve been sleeping.”
“No. You miss Landon. Admit it.”
“You’re crazy,” Bay muttered, crossing her arms over her chest. “And to think I came in here because I was worried about you.”
“You came in here because you want to avoid our mothers and Aunt Tillie,” Thistle countered, contorting her body so her legs hung over the side of the chair and her head rested on the armrest. “That’s the reason we’re all in here. You’re not fooling anybody.”
Bay scorched Thistle with a look that would’ve shriveled a normal human. Thistle, though, is pretty far from normal, so she didn’t so much as blanch.
“I think we should focus on Bay’s feelings,” I interjected, hoping to head off a fight. “Clearly she’s lonely.”
“I am not lonely,” Bay barked. “I am perfectly capable of entertaining myself. I did it for years before Landon showed up.”
“Yes, but now that Landon is your love muffin you pine for him when he’s away,” Thistle teased. “It’s so cute I want to puke. No, wait. It’s so cute I want to punch you in the face and then puke.”
“You’re not helping,” I warned, extending a finger in Thistle’s direction. “Why do you always have to be such a pain?”
“I think it’s a gift.”
“I think you just like attention, whether it’s negative or positive. Aunt Tillie is the same way.”
The verbal jab landed exactly where I wanted it to … Thistle’s emotional glass jaw.
“You take that back,” Thistle hissed, her lips twisting. “I am nothing like that crazy woman.”
As if sensing things were about to get out of hand – a regular occurrence in this house, and most of the time it’s not out of malice but boredom – Sam opted to change the course of the conversation. “Did anything happen at work today?”
“Other than a woman getting robbed on the street and losing her Christmas shopping money, no,” Thistle answered. “Oh, Clove tripped over the rug and landed on the couch, which was so funny I wish I had taped it. She also called for our lunch order, and because she was the forty-fifth customer of the day at the deli we won free sandwiches for a month.”
Sam arched an eyebrow, surprised. “You tripped and fell?”
“See, and I thought the most interesting part of that conversation was when I won sandwiches for a month,” I said.
“I thought the most interesting part was the woman who got robbed,” Bay countered. “I mean … she lost all of her Christmas money. You’ve got to hope the jerk who robbed her has a big dose of karma coming his way.”
“That would be nice,” I agreed, bobbing my head. “I wish there was something we could do for her.”
“We could find the robber and kick him in his naughty bits,” Thistle suggested.
“You only want to kick someone,” Bay argued. “How will that help anyone?”
“It might make the victim feel better.”
“If she got to kick him in his naughty bits it might make her feel better,” Bay argued. “You doing it is just potentially amusing and mean.”
“Can we stop talking about kicking people in their naughty bits?” Sam asked, shifting uncomfortably on the couch. “Go back to the part where you tripped. Are you okay? You’ve had a rough twenty-four hours.”
“I’m fine,” I replied, amused. “I tripped over the edge of the rug and fell face first into the couch. It was lucky really. It didn’t hurt at all.”
“Yes, ‘lucky,’” Thistle mimicked, making a face. “That’s all she keeps talking about. Luck. She’s convinced that coin Madam Rosa gave her yesterday is magical and she’s benefitting from its powers.”
“That’s not what I said,” I protested, my cheeks warming.
“That’s exactly what you said,” Thistle shot back.
“How have you been lucky?” Sam challenged. “You tripped over a rug and almost drowned in the lake last night.”
“Yes, but I brushed against the coin right before you saved me. I was convinced I was going under for the last time, but then I felt the coin and you appeared out of nowhere … as if you were my knight in shining armor.” I was going for cute because I was desperate to keep Sam from focusing on the negative. If I have one complaint about him – which I don’t, for the record – it’s that he tends to tread water on the pessimistic side of the pool.
“Oh, well, that’s adorable.” Sam tweaked my nose. “You’ve still had a run of bad luck. That coin can hardly be lucky, given that.”
“It’s all how you look at it,” I argued. “I believe I touched the coin and you found me. I believe I touched the coin and that’s why I landed on the couch instead of the hard floor. I believe I touched the coin before ordering lunch and now we have free sandwiches for a month. That’s on top of the fact that I touched the coin before calling the inn and got Belinda. She almost never answers the phone. To me, those are all lucky things.”
Bay was understandably dubious. “And you think the coin is making these lucky things happen for you?”
I nodded, refusing to back down. “I do.”
“Well, I guess it’s possible.”
Bay’s capitulation took me by surprise. “You do?”
“Of course I do. We’ve seen magically imbued objects before. Usually they’re cursed with bad mojo, but I don’t see why it wouldn’t be possible for someone to put a luck spell on a coin.”
“Especially someone looking for a job,” Thistle added. “Have we considered that Madam Rosa gave Clove the luck charm because she realized Clove was the easiest mark?”
“Hey!” Even when I’m not at the center of a conversation Thistle manages to get obnoxious digs in.
Thistle’s smile was serene. “That wasn’t meant as an insult. You took it wrong.”
“How else am I supposed to take it?”
“Like an adult who doesn’t get her feelings hurt over nothing,” Thistle replied. “I wasn’t trying to upset you. I was merely making an observation.”
I didn’t believe that for a second, but I decided to let it slide. “I believe the coin is lucky. I think Madam Rosa gave it to me because I’m the nicest of the three of us. She saw that after talking with us for only a few minutes. I think there’s a lesson in there.”
“Yes,” Thistle agreed. “You�
��re incredibly gullible.”
“No, it’s a lesson about karma,” I argued. “I’m a good person, so I got the lucky coin. Good things keep happening to me because of that. On the flip side, the robber is a bad person, and he stole a woman’s Christmas shopping money. He has bad karma and he will rue the day he set foot in Hemlock Cove.”
Bay and Thistle snorted in unison.
“He’ll rue the day?” Thistle shook her head. “Sometimes I think you get your theatrical side from my mother. We should switch mothers.”
I love Aunt Twila, don’t get me wrong, but I internally shuddered. She’s a handful and loopy on a good day. I can take only so much. “I’m good, thanks.”
“I don’t blame you,” Thistle said. “I … .” She trailed off as she narrowed her eyes and stared toward the library door. I followed her gaze and frowned when I saw Aunt Tillie scurry through – a floppy hat perched on her head – and slide between the chairs Bay and Thistle shared.
“What are you doing, old lady?” Thistle asked, changing course. “Are you undercover? Are you Nancy Drew-ing it?”
“I don’t think she would be Nancy Drew,” Bay countered before Aunt Tillie could answer. “She’s more like that lady from Murder She Wrote – if Jessica Fletcher was evil and enjoyed cursing her great-nieces for no good reason.”
Aunt Tillie fixed Bay with a petulant look. “I always have a good reason … and Jessica Fletcher has nothing on me. I’m an excellent investigator. I could do it for a living if I wanted to. I don’t, though. Do you want to know why?”
“Because your big, floppy hat would get in the way?” Thistle asked, wrinkling her nose as she got a better look at the hat. “Is that a plastic flower pinned close to the brim there?”
“It’s for natural camouflage,” Aunt Tillie replied. “If you pick too much of one color you stand out – even if it’s a muted color. I include small accents that allow me to fit in with the décor. And, by the way, smart mouth, I’m not an investigator because I believe everyone should be able to keep secrets from ‘The Man.’ I never want to be ‘The Man,’ because I don’t pry into other people’s business.”
I couldn’t help but giggle at the assertion. Aunt Tillie never met a secret she didn’t want to drag out of someone. “I like your hat. I think it’s very sensible to want to fit in with the décor. Are you wearing it because the guests are so enamored with you? Belinda said they were following you everywhere.”
“They think I’m a celebrity,” Aunt Tillie hissed, her eyes darting toward the door. “They think I’m like that Kim Kardashian or something. It’s freaking me out.”
“Oh, that’s freaking all of us out,” Thistle intoned, smirking.
“See, I think you’re much more Real Housewives of Beverly Hills than Keeping Up With the Kardashians,” Bay mused. “You’re an attention whore, so you could be a Kardashian, but you would be all over a slap fight at a fancy restaurant.”
“Good point,” Thistle said, grinning.
“Do you think this is funny?” Aunt Tillie challenged, annoyed. “I’m being stalked!”
“I think it has funny elements,” Thistle replied. “Quick, Clove, give her your lucky coin and the magic will protect her from becoming a Kardashian. While I’m not keen on helping her, I can’t live in close proximity to a Kardashian.”
“Join the club,” Sam said, smirking.
I balked. “I’m not giving her my coin. She’ll use it for evil and ruin the magic.”
“What coin?” Aunt Tillie asked, turning her attention to me for the first time. “You look tired, little kvetch. You should get more sleep. I expect this one to look depressed and angsty because she misses ‘The Man,’ but your man is sitting right next to you.”
“I’m just tired. And as for the coin, well, it’s a long story.”
Thistle launched into the tale, her amusement growing as she picked her way through the tale. When she was done, Aunt Tillie’s eyes gleamed as she shifted her eyes to me.
“Let me see this coin,” Aunt Tillie ordered.
“No way.”
“Let me see it.”
“No. It’s mine.”
Aunt Tillie heaved a sigh as she shuffled closer. She’d seemingly given up on hiding from her stalkers. “Let me see it. I’m not going to steal it.”
I wasn’t so sure. Aunt Tillie had a tendency to “liberate” things she wanted. She usually waited until we weren’t looking to appropriate what she desired but she wasn’t exactly known for being shy. “I … .”
“Let me see it!” Aunt Tillie barked, her annoyance taking control.
“Sheesh. All right.” I dug in my pocket and reluctantly handed her the coin, watching as she studied it.
“What do you think?” Bay asked a few moments later. “Is it magical?”
“I’m not sure what it is,” Aunt Tillie replied, sticking the coin in her mouth so she could bite it. “Iron.”
“We kind of already figured that out,” Thistle offered. “No one is going to give a gold or silver coin to a random stranger.”
“I’m not familiar with all of these markings,” Aunt Tillie said, ignoring Thistle’s snark.
“That’s a four-leaf clover,” I supplied.
“Thank you, Clove. I never would’ve figured that out on my own,” Aunt Tillie deadpanned.
I crossed my arms over my chest. “I was trying to help.”
“And you did a marvelous job, honey,” Sam said, running his hand down the back of my head as his eyes remained on Aunt Tillie. “Do you think that coin is magical?”
“I think this coin is interesting,” Aunt Tillie answered after a beat. “It doesn’t feel completely magical – I’m not sensing a curse or anything – but it doesn’t feel normal either.”
“So you basically have nothing for us,” Thistle summed up.
Aunt Tillie burned holes into Thistle’s forehead as she handed the coin back to me. “Oh, I’ve got something for you. Do you want to know what it is?”
Thistle almost always steps over a boundary before recognizing it for what it is. This was no exception. “Not particularly.”
“Well, I’m going to tell you anyway,” Aunt Tillie said, straightening her shoulders. “You’re on my list. You’re not just on it, mouth. You’ve got the first two slots all to yourself.”
“Oh, why?” Thistle whined. “Shouldn’t you be focused on your fan club?”
As if on cue, a middle-aged woman dressed all in black clapped her hands as she appeared in the doorframe. “I found her,” she sang out.
“Holy rabid rats, Batman,” Aunt Tillie hissed, skirting around the edge of Bay’s chair. “They’re relentless.”
“Run, old lady,” Thistle suggested. “They’re coming for you!”
Aunt Tillie scurried toward the door, but she stilled long enough to cast a baleful look over her shoulder. “I’ll be coming for you later, mouth. Mark my words.”
Thistle looked resigned as she watched her go. “Well, that was fun. Do you think my punishment will be tolerable or bacon-scented?”
“I think you’re in for worse than a smell,” I answered.
“What about you? Are you going to be punished with me?”
I shook my head as I held up the coin. “Nope.”
Thistle snorted. “I guess we’ll have to wait and see,” she said, pushing herself to a standing position.
“I guess so,” I agreed.
“So, we’re going with the Winchester normal?” Bay asked.
Thistle and I nodded in unison.
“It’s every witch for herself,” I said. “I hope Aunt Tillie takes pity on your poor, wretched souls.”
Five
Sam was more relaxed the next morning, a good night’s sleep brushing away the last of his worry. He found my insistence that the coin brought me luck humorous, but unlike my cousins, he never insulted me when he didn’t agree with one of my beliefs.
He remained at the Dandridge to work while I headed into town. It was a sunny fall da
y, a nice change from the rain that plagued us the past week. I couldn’t help but enjoy my walk from the parking lot to the store.
Thistle was already working when I entered, the smile she reserved for customers in place as she helped a woman choose candles. Even though my cousin has the patience of a petulant child in a candy store, she’s a marvel when it comes to helping people peruse our little assortment of odd offerings.
“I just don’t know,” the woman said, tapping her bottom lip. “There are so many to choose from.”
“Take your time,” Thistle suggested. “There’s no reason to hurry. Give them all a good sniff again.” She turned her attention to me. “You’re late.”
“Like two minutes,” I protested, annoyed.
Thistle snorted. “Late is late.”
“You sound like Aunt Tillie.”
At mention of my great-aunt’s name, the woman brightened and shifted. “You know Tillie Winchester?”
Uh-oh. I immediately knew where this conversation was going and was happy to leave Thistle to handle the situation. I averted my gaze and walked behind the counter, shedding my coat. “I’ll make coffee since you haven’t gotten around to it yet.”
I could feel Thistle’s eyes scorching holes into the back of my head, but opted to ignore her. “How does a little café mocha sound?”
“Just great,” Thistle gritted out before returning her full attention to the customer. “Tillie Winchester is our great-aunt.”
“Oh, you’re so lucky,” the customer enthused, clutching a skull candle closer to her chest. “What was it like growing up with her? Did you live in the same house? That’s the rumor. I’ll bet she was a terrific role model.”
I didn’t mean to snicker out loud, but I couldn’t help myself. “Sure. If your idea of a role model is a woman who makes you sneak into the cemetery to steal flowers because the dead people won’t miss them anyway.”
The woman ignored my derisive tone. “People say she uses real magic.” Her voice was barely a whisper. She seemed almost awed to be in the presence of Winchester greatness.
Four-Leaf Clover: A Wicked Witches of the Midwest Short Page 4
