Gone With the Witch (2 page)

Ivy shifted her legs to the left. “Report immediately to me if you witness anything unusual at the show, so I can take action. You're all set?”

“I think so.” I mentally ticked off all I needed, which wasn't much. “All I really need is Missy, right?”

“Technically, yes, but you will want to get there an hour or two early to decorate your booth,” Ivy said.

“Decorate?”

“Of course.” Ivy frowned as though I should already have known this. “The gaudier, the better. Bunting, balloons, sparkles. Think pizzazz!” she added in a staccato cadence, using jazz hands to accent the last word. “Go all out.”

“Pizzazz. Got it.” I added pizzazz-shopping to my
day's to-do list. The snazziness of it all would be itemized on her bill for my services, which I could already tell was not going to be nearly enough for what I was about to endure.

Ivy glanced at a chunky gold watch on her wrist and abruptly stood up. “I've got to get going.”

I walked her to the front door and glanced around for Missy. She was nowhere to be seen, which was odd. Usually, the little dog loved company, and I knew her doggy door was closed, so she hadn't been able to escape outside and into the village (as she had a tendency to do). Perhaps she was upstairs with Ve.

I pulled open the front door. “We'll see you tomorrow, then. Bright and early.”

Ivy unclenched a fist long enough to grip the front door, her knuckles quickly turning white. “I know I'm asking a lot of you, Darcy, but I wasn't sure where else to turn. I cannot allow my event to become sullied. I don't want to hear even a hint of a whisper that something troublesome might be going on behind the scenes.”

It
was
a lot to ask, but I wouldn't say so to her. I'd wait until she was long out of earshot and then complain ruthlessly to Aunt Ve. “Our motto here at As You Wish is no job too big or too small.”

“Where does ‘dangerous' fit in that motto?” Ivy asked, her blue eyes narrowed in earnestness.

“What do you mean?”

As she stepped out onto the porch, a warm June breeze ruffled her pink-tinged hair. “If Missy is viewed as a threat, then in all likelihood you will be viewed as one, too. If what I suspect about Natasha is true, then you're in danger of becoming yet another
accident
victim, and who knows how far she'll go this time to assure a win for Titania? Stay away from the stairs and don't leave any of your food unattended. Above all else, please
don't get yourself killed. That wouldn't be a PR nightmare. It'd be a PR catastrophe.”

Sheesh. I'd hate to inconvenience her with my
death
.

“Just be careful tomorrow,” she said. Then sharply added, “And be aware at all times that the future of the event is in your hands.”

With that, she marched down the front steps, looked both ways before she crossed the street, and rushed across the green, the parklike center of town.

Stunned, I watched her go and instantly regretted taking her on as a client. I should have said no to this job. However, there was nothing I could do about it now other than to tackle the work head-on . . . and hope and that there wouldn't be any deaths at all to contend with.

Especially mine.

I
was about to close the front door when someone called out, “Hold up, Darcy!”

A petite woman with long wavy black hair came hurrying toward the front walkway from the direction of my new house. “Sorry I'm a little early,” Vivienne Lucas said as she rushed up the steps. She was a third-generation Korean-American, a true beauty, and one of the best Spellcrafters in the village.

At the edge of the front walkway, Vivienne's husband, Baz, slowed to a stop. He gave me a friendly wave and kept a close eye on Audrey the Morkie, who strained her leash to sniff the corner of the white picket fence that enclosed the side yard. The bow fastened to the top of her head bobbled as she explored.

“Early?” I asked loudly in an awkward attempt to be heard over the hammering.

Large brown deep-set eyes widened. “I have an appointment with Ve. She didn't tell you?”

“Nope, she didn't.” The last I'd seen of Ve, she was parked at the writing desk in her bedroom reading what looked to be an encyclopedia of boredom but was actually the village officer's manual.

“No offense, Darcy,” Baz called out with a mischievous smile, “but we just walked by your new place on our way here and it looks worse than it did before.”

In his late thirties, mortal Baz Lucas was a hip local college history professor, and he looked every bit the role. Tall and thin, he had shoulder-length thick hair, rimmed black glasses, and intelligent eyes. He wore long gray plaid shorts, a crisp pink polo shirt, and what looked like Birkenstock sandals. A natural flirt, he was as charming as all get-out, but he also possessed just a smidge of pretentiousness that tended to grate on my nerves—though others seemed to find the trait endearing. I'd bet my last frozen peppermint patty that his classes always had a long wait list.

Returning the smile, I said, “That's saying something.” The house had been in sad shape for many years, left in a state of disrepair by its former owner. “The contractor did warn me that it would look worse before getting better.”

Caution crept into Vivienne's eyes. “How much worse?”

I craned my neck to try to see the house, but Terry Goodwin's place blocked my view. The Numbercrafter—and one of Ve's ex-husbands—could be seen peeking out an upstairs window. He was notoriously elusive . . . and nosy. “That bad?”

“The missing roof isn't helping my opinion,” she said.

Today the roofline was being adjusted to make way for a new addition on the back of the house. Rotted
shingles were also getting the old heave-ho. A new roof would be on by the end of the day.

Warily, I said, “It's probably best I can't see it.”

“Definitely.” She swept a thick lock of dark hair behind her ear.

When Audrey barked at a passing butterfly, Baz whistled, and the little dog trotted over to him, her tiny pink tongue lolling. Baz patted her head and said, “Good girl, protecting us from the fearsome winged beast.”

He pronounced winged with two syllables. Wing-ed.

It took all I had in me not to roll my eyes. Archie, a scarlet macaw familiar who lived next door with Terry, probably loved Baz. Unlike some other forms of witchcraft in the world, Craft familiars belonged to no one but themselves; however, they often lived with witches who took on a caretaking role. For Archie, that witch was Terry, and even though I'd lived next door to them for almost a year, I had no idea how they'd become paired up. It was something to ask my feathered friend sometime.

Archie had once been a London actor back in the 1800s, and still had a flair for the dramatic, using his deep, theatrical voice and British accent to his advantage. He and Baz were probably the only two in the village who could get away with such a pompous manner of speaking.

“Come on inside,” I said to Baz and Vivienne, waving them toward the door. “I'll grab Ve, and I'm sure Missy would love to play with Audrey for a while.”

“Alas, I'm not staying,” Baz said. “Simply seeing off my ladylove before embarking on some last-minute errands prior to tomorrow's Extravaganza.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I noted that Vivienne stiffened a bit when he'd said “ladylove.” She pressed her lips tightly together.

Tension suddenly plumed in the air along with the
scent of the climbing roses covering the arbor that arched over the side gate.

I was working on minding my own business these days, so I pretended not to notice. “Decorations for your booth?” I guessed, wondering what in the world I was going to do with my own booth on such short notice.

Vivienne nodded. “We're doing a
Breakfast at Tiffany's
theme to play off Audrey's name.”

I tipped my head. “Wasn't Audrey Hepburn a call girl in that movie?” Exactly what kind of booth did they have in mind?

Baz frowned, then said loudly to be heard over the hammering, “Them are fighting words within Audrey fan club circles, Darcy. I prefer to believe the character of Holly Golightly had what these days we would call”—he used air quotes—“‘sugar daddies.'”

I studied him. He was dead serious.

I glanced at Vivienne. She drew in a deep breath of the long-suffering.

She explained, “He's a movie and theater fanatic, and the biggest Audrey Hepburn fan around.”

“I prefer the term ‘aficionado,'” he said loftily.

As
My Fair Lady
was my favorite movie, I could relate to loving Audrey Hepburn's work, but he took his adoration to a whole new level.

“Yes, well,” Vivienne went on, not even looking his way, “the nature of the character truly doesn't matter for our purposes. We're focusing our attention on the scene that takes place in front of Tiffany's, where Holly is looking in, eating a pastry and sipping coffee.”

It was an iconic image, one I could conjure easily in my head.

“I'm headed to the Gingerbread Shack now to confirm a very large order of raspberry, lemon, and cheese Danish,” Baz supplied.

Vivienne said, “Don't forget to stop at the Witch's Brew to see about the coffee, too.”

I noticed his jaw jut to the left before he abruptly nodded.

“Danish
and
coffee?” I tried my best to ignore the tension between them. “Yours is going to be the most popular booth tomorrow morning.”

“That's the plan,” Vivienne said with a bright smile.

Baz bade us farewell—which included a deep bow—and I ushered Vivienne into the house. “Would you like something to drink?”

“No, thanks. I'm good.”

I closed the door, quieting the hammering noise somewhat. As a home-based business, when the house was done, part of the downstairs would house the new As You Wish office space, and the rest of the house . . . was mine.

Vivienne headed for the sofa. “When are you moving into your new place?”

It was a good question. But I didn't know whether I was going to actually move in there or in with Village Police Chief Nick Sawyer at his place—it was all still up in the air.

Nick and I had been dating for almost a year now, and I had fallen head over heels for him . . . and also for his teenage daughter, Mimi. Sure, Nick and I had gone through some growing pains, but with a little patience and understanding, we had overcome those obstacles.

It seemed that it was time to take the next step. I was just waiting for Nick to mention moving in together, or perhaps asking me to marry him. . . . We'd been talking in circles about the possibilities for months now.

I held in a sigh. I had four months until my house was done, so there was time enough to be patient. It was just that I was a planner, and would like to know soon where I was going to be laying my head at night.

“I'm sorry, Darcy,” Vivienne said. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No, no. Not at all.” I gave myself a good mental shake. “Just got lost in thought for a minute. Hank, my contractor, says four months or so. As you noticed, there's a lot of work to be done.”

“Truer words have never been spoken.” Her gaze landed on the pile o' stuff Ivy had given me a few minutes ago, and Vivienne leaned in for a closer look.

I pointed up the stairs. “Let me see if I can find V—”

“You're entering the Pawsitively Enchanted competition, Darcy?” she asked, cutting me off.

With one hand on the banister, I said, “Well, not me.
Missy
. Ve's up—”

“Of course, Missy.” Vivienne laughed and picked up Missy's clip-on tag. “Number two hundred and forty. You just squeaked in. Lucky you. The same thing happened with us last year—we were the last ones registered. This year we applied the first hour registration was open.”

Would she still think I was lucky if she knew Ivy was willing to put my life on the line for her competition's reputation? I dropped my hand and gave in to the conversation. “There was a last-minute cancellation. . . .”

“Easy on the Eyes, eh? At least you're not direct competition, or I might have to put on my game face. It's fierce, trust me.”

“Audrey's not entered in the eyes category again?” This was news.

“We switched Audrey over to Picture-Perfect this year.”

Picture-Perfect was the group vying for most photogenic. “You did? Why?”

“It was Baz's idea. To better Audrey's chances of winning. Going against Titania is tough. Missy has her work cut out for her.”

I bit back a laugh. “We're just entering the competition for the fun of it.”

“You're in the minority, then,” she said solemnly. “The rest of us are cutthroat as hell.”

So I was learning. “Audrey is utterly photogenic, so I think she has a good chance at winning her group.”

“That's nice of you to say.” Vivienne plopped onto the sofa. “Let's hope the judges agree.”

There were four judges in all. Godfrey Baleaux, a good friend and owner of the Bewitching Boutique; Regina “Reggie” Beeson, the soon-to-be-retiring owner of the Furry Toadstool, the village pet shop; Ivy Teasdale (who swore she was impartial); and Dorothy Hansel Dewitt, all-around royal pain in the patootie.

“I'm sure they will,” I assured her.

Vivienne was about as tall as my sister Harper, which was five feet nothing, and barely took up any room on the couch at all. Dressed in skinny jeans, a Bob Ross T-shirt, and scuffed loafers, she glanced out the window and sighed. “Darcy, have you—”

Baz, I noticed, was dillydallying on the village green. When she said nothing else, I said, “Have I what?”

Waving a hand, she said, “It's just that Baz . . . Never mind. Forget I said anything.”

There was little that incited my curiosity more than being told to “never mind.”

“Is everything okay with you two?” I was being blatantly nosy, but she'd opened the door for me to barge on through.

Ve had told me all about how Vivienne and Baz had gone through a rough patch a year and a half ago after Vivienne was hit by a car early one morning while she was on her way to her job as a pet-sitter. A hit-and-run. She'd nearly died from blood loss, and her recovery had been slow and painful, and Baz hadn't helped the
matter. Not long after the accident, Baz checked out of the relationship emotionally, distancing himself from his wife. He often left for work early, returned late, and left Vivienne to deal with her medical appointments on her own with little moral support. Depressed and lonely, Vivienne had wandered into the Furry Toadstool one afternoon, and it was Reggie Beeson who suggested a dog would help with her recovery. That was when Audrey came into the Lucases' lives.

It had been the turning point for Vivienne's health, but Baz's emotional distance had escalated to the point that they had considered divorcing. The news hadn't come as a big shock to the witches in the village. Marriages were hard enough between a Crafter and a mortal without the stress of a major illness, especially when the mortal didn't know about the Craft, which Baz didn't.

When a witch married a mortal, she was presented with two options. One was to tell the mortal of the Craft but lose all powers. The other was to keep silent and retain the powers. A marriage where the mortal was told of the Craft heritage was often a successful union, as the mortal became what we witches called a Halfcrafter—half mortal, half Crafter. That person was adopted fully by the spouse's Craft, essentially becoming a full-fledged witch, except for one little detail: no powers. It was important for that spouse to learn all the Crafts' ins and outs so children produced during the marriage could flourish, as the kids would have full powers. Case in point: Mimi was a full Wishcrafter, but Nick was a Wish-Halfcrafter. He had none of the powers his daughter possessed, couldn't have his wishes granted, and had to comply with all Wishcraft laws.

A marriage in which the witch didn't tell the spouse of the Craft was laced with deception and lies and often
ended quickly. But so far Vivienne and Baz had beaten the odds. After the accident, they'd sought marriage counseling and had slowly put the pieces of their lives back together.

Up until I felt that tension on the front porch minutes ago, I'd believed that their marriage was on solid ground, but it seemed as though there might still be a few fractures under the surface.

Picking at a loose thread on the velvet sofa, she said, “We're . . . okay.”

Uh-oh.

“It's just that . . .” She shrugged, then sighed. “Do you ever wish you could change the future?”

At the sound of the word “wish,” my skin tingled, but Vivienne hadn't actually wished for anything, so I didn't need to cast a spell.

I tipped my head to the side. “The future hasn't happened yet, so you
do
have the ability to change it.”

“You'd think so, wouldn't you?” She kept tugging at the loose threads. “It seems to me that every moment of the past dictates what becomes of the future. Every word. Every action. It can't be erased. Its imprint carries forward with you, almost like a shadow that darkens everything to come.”