“Okay, pick it up without turning it over and set it right here.” Pen taps the corner of the table by my right knee.
Eyes wide, I lift the card from my leg. It is ridiculously light for something that has me scared out of my wits.
When I place it face down on the table, I let out a breath. I might be imagining it, but I think Pen does too.
“We’ll deal with that one in a minute,” she says reassuringly. “Now, the Eight of Wands is a really interesting card. A perfect card for your present, I’d say.”
Pen looks annoyingly satisfied with herself.
“Because?” I prod.
“It means you are at a crossroads. A big one.” She eyes me meaningfully. My stomach dips.
A big one?
Her face alight, she nods. “An opportunity awaits, but it’s up to you to take it.”
“But that’s scary,” I blurt.
Pen throws her head back in laughter. “Exactly.”
I rake my fingers through my hair. “This is my present. Gah!”
“Your romantic present.” A thoughtful expression overtakes her. “And maybe your business life too. I mean, you’re about to launch your salon. It’s an opportunity. And it requires you to take a risk, and that’s scary too.”
I shake my head. “Not nearly as scary as… as…”
I can’t even make myself finish.
“As what?” she prompts. She’s pushing me, but the look in her amber eyes is gentle, encouraging.
I swallow. Then I shut my eyes and think of Lark.
I could tell myself that it’s just physical attraction, but I’d be lying. In the less than two months since he moved in, he’s become a sparring partner. A supporter. A protector. A friend.
He’s taken me by surprise and given me surprises. He’s invaded my thoughts and my dreams. More than once, I’ve caught myself picturing a future where he’s still here in this house.
And if I’m being honest, not upstairs in his rented room, but beside me in my bed.
It’s all too easy to imagine him placing a cinnamon roll on my plate and a kiss on my lips every morning. Decorating for future Halloweens. Shopping for Christmas presents. Blowing out candles on a birthday cake I make for him.
One that always has five fewer candles than mine.
My stomach plunges.
I have no right to be thinking of these things. This is foolishness. He’s twenty-three and untethered. I’m literally a package deal. A house. A kid. A disabled brother.
No wonder he’s not touching me. He must have come to his senses and realized this can go nowhere.
“What are you thinking?” Pen asks, her voice hard and suspicious.
I shake my head. “This—This is stupid.”
Her brows lower. “What’s stupid?”
“Even thinking this is an option,” I say, throwing my hands up.
“What? You mean having a relationship with Lark?” She sounds incredulous.
“Yes,” I whine.
She side-eyes me. “You’re saying you think it’s stupid to even be considering taking a chance on a guy who hangs on your every word, who makes up reasons to be with you, who agrees to decorate for Samhain just so he can be in the same room with you, who gave you the first orgasm you’ve had at the hands of a man in… how many years?”
Blushing, I ignore the orgasm reference. “Wh-what do you mean, he makes up reasons to be with me?”
Pen’s stare makes me feel dumb.
“The man is a geology student,” she says dryly, “not a business student? What can he possibly contribute to your plans to open a salon?”
I bristle. “Well—I mean… he’s helped me get organized and—and form a plan of attack, so to speak.”
“Has he?”
I’d like to clap back at Pen’s impertinence, but now that I think about it… I’ve been doing the organizing and the attack-planning.
Lark has just been inspiring me.
Making a space for it to happen.
Listening to my plans. Encouraging me.
Spending time with me under the guise of business-planning.
Something in my expression makes Pen’s gaze soften. “It’s not stupid for you to be pursuing Lark. He’s pursuing you.” Her eyes glint. “Besides, he’s preordained by this very house. Yours by right.”
“By right.” I snort and roll my eyes.
Judging by her face now, I probably shouldn’t have rolled my eyes. Or snorted. Or mimicked her.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“I’m turning over the third card now.”
“What about that one—”
“Who exactly is the witch here, me or you?” she snaps.
“That would be you, Penelope.”
With a pert little nod, she flips over the card, and it’s beautiful.
“Oooh,” we both coo.
“Pretty,” I say.
“The Empress,” Pen says.
I look from the card to her and find my best friend beaming. “This is the card you want as number three.”
“Oh?” I sit up straighter.
The figure on the card sits on a plush throne wearing a crown of stars and holding a golden scepter. A forest of green makes up her background and a field of wheat is at her feet. She’s sitting pretty, all right.
Pen taps the card with her long index finger. “Your romantic future is ripe and blossoming. Successful and secure. Maybe even fertile.” She taps the circle and plus symbol tucked beneath the empress’s throne. “So be careful.”
I suck in a breath. “Fertile?”
Pen nods. “You wantin’ to give Maisy a little brother or sister?”
My eyes go wide. “I-I-I—”
Pen cackles with laughter.
I gulp and point to the card. “Am I supposed to understand that this is my future with Lark?” A baby? With Lark? A tumult of sensations swims in my belly. Thrilling, terrifying, liquifying feelings.
Pen raises a staying hand, warning lighting her eyes. “Hold on, now. The cards don’t tell us that.” She points again to the second card. My present. “Crossroads, remember?”
Biting my lips, I nod.
“Now.” Like Vanna White, Pen waves her hand over the line of cards she’s dealt. “Let’s put these together. Past. Present. Future.”
Jesus Christ, I’m nervous. Even more nervous now that I’m looking at all three. Before she says anything else, I see it. I see a certain truth to what I’ve been dealt.
Pen points to the first card. “You’ve been afraid of failure, and if I’m allowed some interpretive liberties as the house witch and your spiritual advisor—”
I cough a laugh that earns me her scowl.
I clear my throat and shake my head. “Sorry. Please continue.”
“As the house witch and your spiritual advisor,” she repeats with emphasis then mutters, “let’s not forget that you’re up here in my domain. Seeking my advice.” She snaps her head, her tone getting snippier with each word.
“You’re right,” I acknowledge, meaning it. “Your advice is important to me.”
“Hmph. Well, then, if I’m allowed liberties, I’d say your fear of failure in your romantic life is what has you choosing the wrong partners or not choosing any partners at all. You’re afraid of really caring about someone and really letting them hurt you.”
“I—” Her assessment prickles, and I want to dodge it, but I realize I can’t. It’s the truth. I nod. “Yeah, okay.”
Pen’s grin is satisfied. She moves her index finger to the middle card. “You’re at a crossroads now, faced with something that scares you, and that something, I think, is Lark Bienvenue. Or, more to the point, your strong feelings for Lark Beinvenue.”
Again, I open my mouth in protest. I’ve only just acknowledged those feelings to myself, and hearing her speak about them makes me feel like I have zero control and zero protection from them.
So, yeah. Again, she’s right.
“Go on,” I say, tight-ja
wed.
Pen taps the Eight of Wands again, her voice softening. “But action is required. You have to take a risk. What you’ve done in the past just won’t cut it.”
I heave a sigh and point to the third card. “But you said this future may or may not have anything to do with Lark, so what happens if I take a risk with him and then crash and burn?”
Pen’s amber eyes soften to honey. “Then you get your heart broken for the first time. And hopefully, it’s the last time too. And then you’ll be ready. You’ll be open for the future you deserve.”
“But I don’t want to get my heart broken.” I sound like Maisy when she has to get a shot.
Pen clasps my hand and settles it over the Empress card. “No matter what happens, I’ll be here.”
Squeezing her hand, I look at the mystery card in the corner of the table. Waiting. Looming.
“And that one?” I ask, my voice hollow.
Pen squeezes back. “Turn it over.”
I do, and I immediately don’t like it. The card depicts a man at night, climbing a hill with a walking stick, a sad moon face in the sky over his shoulder. Beneath his feet are a row of golden goblets.
“Ho-ly shit,” Pen swears.
“What?” Tension flattens the word.
Pen covers her mouth and looks at me with something I definitely do not like. Uncertainty.
“What?” I repeat.
“The Eight of Cups,” she says, like the meaning should be obvious.
I scowl. “And?”
Pen drops her hand, shaking her head. “I-I-I don’t know what to think?”
“You don’t know what it means?” I ask, disbelieving.
She shakes her head again, this time with more contemplation. “No, I know what the card symbolizes. But—”
“What does it symbolize?”
Pen looks at me, and dammit if I don’t see sympathy. “It’s the disappointment card.”
“Fuck.”
“Hold on,” Pen says, showing me her palms. “There’s something else.”
“What?” But I already know Lark is going to disappoint me. He’s going to break my heart.
Shit. Has he already broken my heart because I already have feelings for him? Is it over before it even started?
“Dammit! I’m already disappointed,” I shout.
“Hold on,” Pen pleads. “It could mean something else.”
“How?” I practically explode.
She gives me a scolding look. “Cool it, Stella. Don’t yell in my sanctuary.”
I tuck my chin. “Sorry.”
Pen wheels around, grabs a spritzer bottle from the bookshelf behind her and starts misting the air. Notes of lavender, vanilla, and sage atomize around us. I blink my eyes and cough as droplets tickle my nose.
She puts the mister back, turns again to me, and takes a steadying breath. “The day I met Lark—when he first set foot in this house—I asked him if he’d ever had a reading,” she says, surprising me with the news. I one hundred percent know that Lark has never had a reading. The thought is almost laughable.
“I told him then that he had an Eight of Cups vibe. Dissatisfaction and restlessness practically oozed from his aura.” Her lashes bat with extra drama. Then she points to the card. “If there’s any card in that deck that I would have identified with him, it’s that one.”
“Okay?” I say, skeptically. “I’m not sure how that makes this any better.”
Her mouth quirks as if to say that’s why you need me. “I drew your Present card and the Eight of Cups jumped out of the deck,” she stresses, “and landed in your lap.”
“Yeah.” I nod with bitterness. “Disappointment and dissatisfaction landed in my lap.”
Pen pauses. “It could be that,” she concedes, but then she pins me hard with her wide eyes. “And then it could also mean that at this turning point in your life Lark Bienvenue has landed in your lap.”
I side-eye her. “So you’re saying the card is Lark. But Lark might not be the card?”
Her smile brightens. “Exactly!”
I blink. Then blink again. “Am I nuts if I say that actually makes sense?”
“Stella!” Pen exclaims. “I’m so proud of you!”
Her praise feels good for about two seconds. And then I take everything in.
“So basically, I’m meant to be with Lark or he’s meant to break my heart. Is that what I’m getting?”
Her smile freezes, then cracks. “Yeah…”
I clench my jaw, glancing from her to the cards back to her. “And this helps me how?”
“GRRRR!” Pen literally bears her teeth.
I lean away like she’s about to go for my jugular. “Hey! Don’t taint the sanctuary!”
Pen balls a fist and knocks it against the table. The cards jump. “No. You tell me. How does this help you?”
I love Pen with all my heart, but she is straight up demonic when she’s pissed.
Still leaning away, chin tucked back in what I’m sure is my least attractive pose, I gape at her.
“How?” she demands.
My eyes bug. “I-I-I know what I have to do?”
Demon Pen retracts her horns halfway. “And what’s that?”
I exhale, letting my shoulders drop. “Take the risk,” I say, sulking.
Now she smiles, the needle swinging from hellish to angelic at breakneck speed. “Don’t look so depressed. I just gave you permission to go after Lark Bienvenue.”
“Yeah,” I say ruefully. “And either get my happily-ever-after or feed my heart to the wolves.”
Pen clasps her hands together, her eyes glinting with paranormal light. “So exciting!”
Chapter Twenty-One
STELLA
Apparently, we’re all dressing up tonight, but Maisy is the only one who got to pick her costume. Naturally, she’s going as Anger from Inside Out.
I stare at the orange cottagecore dress that awaits me at the foot of my bed. Where the hell did Pen get this?
When I pick up the dress and inspect it for tags or branding, I find that it’s clearly homemade, but with obvious skill. I know Pen owns a sewing machine, but holy cow!
The squared neckline—as wide as it is deep—is not going to allow for a bra. Good thing the bodice laces up in the front so I can keep the girls locked down. I strip down to my undies and slip it over my head.
And that’s when I realize that—laces or not—my neighbors are going to get a terrific view of my cleavage.
“Thanks a lot, Pen,” I mutter to the tops of my boobs.
But when I catch my reflection in Nanna’s chevelle mirror, I do a double-take.
The orange of the dress picks up the amber highlights in my hair and makes the natural brown look rich and shiny. My eyes stand out too, like patina on copper.
And the tight bodice, high waist, and blousy three-quarter sleeves make me look sensual and feminine in a way I don’t think I’ve ever felt.
“Okay… Maybe I should thank her.”
I slip on a pair of two-tone brown heeled Mary Janes. They’re Clarks, and since they’re comfortable enough to wear to the salon, I know they’ll be fine for Maisy’s trick-or-treating.
The effect is timeless. I can’t help but smile at my reflection.
I can’t wait for Lark to see me in this.
And if Pen made us all costumes, what’s he wearing?
I can’t stop thinking about the Tarot reading. You have to take a risk. What you’ve done in the past just won’t cut it.
I’ve never been much of a risk-taker. The thought makes my heart jump like popcorn kernels in hot oil.
When Pen knocks on my door, I literally squeak.
“Stella? You ready? It’s six o’clock and we have a timeline.”
I roll my eyes. The timeline. Six to seven: trick-or-treating; Seven to eight: a ceremonial dinner. Eight to nine: Trick Maisy into going to bed. Nine to ten: sacrifice the mulled wine (a.k.a, drink all of it). Ten to eleven: light the bonfire. Eleven to
twelve: perform the releasing ceremony, whatever that means. Midnight: we dance around the bonfire.
It’ll be freaking weird, but it should also be fun.
“I’m on time,” I trill as I open the door. “I just—”
Pen’s dress stuns me speechless. I thought my dress was something. When it comes to showing some skin, Pen’s gets extra credit. I swear, her neckline plunges to damn near her navel.
Pen is long and boney everywhere. She has about as much boob as a Pixie Stick. But what she’s got she works in this black dress. Think Morticia Addams with about two yards less fabric everywhere except the sleeves.
I gape. “Wowza.”
She runs a nervous hand over the skin-tight dress that leaves very little of her silhouette to the imagination.
“Is it too much? Will it freak Livy out?”
“You’re worried about Livy?” I ogle her. “I’m worried about the inhabitants of the cemetery. That dress could raise the dead.”
Her eyes light, and she preens. “That’s the nicest thing you could have said to me.”
I laugh at my friend, and then execute a twirl. “I’m in love with this dress. I can’t believe you made it without even measuring me.”
Pen winks at me. “I have my ways.” Smiling proudly, she gives me an appraising nod. “You look spectacular.”
I finger one of her long wizard sleeves. “How come yours is black, not orange?
“Aren’t you adorable?” she says around a laugh. “C’mon, I have your headdress in the kitchen.”
“H-Headdress?”
But she’s gone before I get an answer. I’m picturing something with horns or antlers as I dash after her, but when we reach the kitchen, I’m relieved to see that three ribboned flower garlands hang from the back of one of the kitchen chairs.
Pen snatches up one that’s decorated with quarter-sized silk sunflowers and orange ribbon. With a light touch she settles it on my head, and even though I can barely feel it, I have a sense that I’m twenty percent more enchanted.
“Thank you.”
“Mama, you’re so pretty!” Maisy enters with her little necktie dangling at her collar and her flame wig dragging behind her.
Yeah, I get Mother of the Year for spending more time on my outfit than on the four-year-old’s. Pen and I get her sorted and pop on her wig, and we’re set.
Dream House Page 25
