Spellcasters (102 page)

As we headed inside, Savannah was still razzing Maria about becoming a grandmother. It was a dubious connection, but Maria never pointed that out. Just emphatically declared that she was far too young to be the grandmother of a teenager.

“But I’ve never had a grandmother,” Savannah said, making puppy eyes at Maria as we cut through the kitchen. “You wouldn’t deprive me of that, would you?”

“Tell you what. If you call Benicio, Grandpa, we have a deal.”

“Okay.”

Maria laughed as we walked into the living room. “Now,
that
I have to see. Of course it means you also have to start calling our son Dad.”

“Certainly not,” Lucas said from the couch, not lifting his gaze from his notebook. “I intend to insist on Father, spoken with the proper degree of respect.”

Maria bent to kiss Lucas’s cheek, then glanced at his notes. “What are you working on?”

“A list,” Savannah and I said in unison.

Lucas lifted his gaze, fixing us with a baleful glare. “I’m making note of everything we still need to do for the wedding, organized by date, priority, and probability of enlisting help to complete it.”

“It’s a list,” I said, sliding onto the sofa beside him.

“Watch it or you’ll find your name beside every item.” He looked up at Maria. “How was your trip, Mamá?”

Maria sat down and regaled us with tales of late-summer construction horror, as crews worked feverishly to finish before winter blew in. She’d driven down from Seattle. When Lucas and I bought the house, deciding to settle in Portland, Maria had moved from Illinois to Washington State, declaring it was “close enough to pester her son, but not close enough to drive him crazy.”

It was a joke, of course—few mothers meddled less in their child’s life than Maria. She and Lucas were close, but she had her own life—her career as a high-school teacher, boyfriends, a wide social circle, and a string of causes that she championed.

Lucas was telling her about damage my car had sustained in a crater-deep pothole when the doorbell rang.

“Probably the neighborhood beautification council,” Savannah muttered. “Come to complain because we left gardening tools unattended on the lawn for ten minutes.”

“If so, they’re
your
tools,” I said, getting up. “Practice your hostess skills on Maria while I answer the door.”

While I doubted it was the beautification council at my door, it wasn’t impossible. When I’d first seen our house, I’d fallen in love with the neighborhood, which had reminded me of the one where I’d grown up in Boston—quiet streets of modest, immaculately tended older homes. As I’d learned, most of the residents were either retirees or urban professional couples, one with the spare time to landscape and the other with the cash to hire someone. We had neither.

When I swung open the door and saw a fortyish woman in a suit, designer clipboard at the ready, I thought my time had come.

“Miss Winterbourne?” She forced a smile. “You won’t be hearing that much longer, will you? By next week, it’ll be Mrs. Cortez. Or will that be Winterbourne-Cortez?”

“It will be Winterbourne,” Lucas said from behind me. “May I ask—?”

“Winterbourne-Cortez,” the woman murmured, marking it onto her pad. “Lovely.” She proffered her hand in a shake as brief and light as an air-kiss. “Margory Mills, wedding planner, at your service.”

“Wedding planner …?” I glanced over my shoulder at Lucas, who winced, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“My father hired you, I presume?”

“He did indeed. A very generous man.”

“Yes, well, while we appreciate the gesture, and apologize for any inconvenience the misunderstanding might cause—”

“You want to plan your own wedding,” she said, stepping inside and brushing past us. “I understand, as does your father. But you already
have
planned it. All that’s left is coordinating the affair so your special day is as perfect as you imagined it.”

“Yes, but—” Lucas began.

I caught his attention and cast a privacy spell, so we could speak without Ms. Mills overhearing. “If it makes your dad happy, it’s not such a bad idea. There
is
a lot of work still.”

We turned to accept Ms. Mills’s proposition, but she was already in the living room, introducing herself to Maria and Savannah.

“The troops are rallying, I see,” she said. “Splendid. Many hands make light work. Now let’s see these wedding plans.”

I retrieved the overstuffed file folder while Savannah—after two meaningful looks and a nudge—offered refreshments. Once the coffee and cookie
tray were delivered, Savannah retreated to her room while we went over the plans.

“Amazing,” Maria said when we finished. “I don’t know how you kids did it. All that work. Makes me glad I’d never—” She stopped with a sidelong glance at Ms. Mills. “
Planned
a wedding. This certainly will be lovely, though.”

“Of course it will,” Ms. Mills said. “First, though, you’ll need to complete the wedding party list. I don’t see a maid of honor or a best man.”

“We’re just having bridesmaids and ushers,” I said.

“Oh …” She looked ready to comment, then snapped her mouth shut. “Well, I presume you have a third usher, to even out the party.”

I shook my head. “Savannah’s more of a junior bridesmaid and flower girl combined. We wanted to keep the wedding party small.”

“I see. Well, on to the dinner then.” She perused the menu. “Red wine. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of that brand …”

“It’s a local winery. They also have a great nonalcoholic sparkling wine.”

“What about white?”

“Well, we’re serving beef, to support the beef farmers.”

“Some people will still prefer white, and you must cater to all your guests. I’ll add a case of that—at Mr. Cortez’s expense, of course.”

Lucas glanced my way, ready to argue, but I gave a small shake of my head.

“Now, about dinner.” She pored over the menu, frowning. “I only see beef …”

“That’s the primary option, but we also have vegetarian.”

“What about kosher? Lactose-free? Gluten-free? Nut-free?”

Lucas shook his head. “There is one lactose-intolerant guest, but he simply avoids dairy products. While we would love to offer meals for every conceivable personal choice and food allergy, it isn’t feasible with a guest list of only forty. We’ve hired a women’s shelter to cater and, while they will provide ingredient lists for concerned guests, the menu must understandably be limited.”

“Women’s shelter? Oh, dear.” A brisk note in her book. “No matter. I know an excellent four-star restaurant in Portland that will cater on short notice. We’ll have a choice of beef medallions, sea scallops—”

“We’ve already hired the shelter group,” I said.

“And Mr. Cortez will compensate them with a sizable donation, I’m sure. Now, about the DJ. Your father would prefer a live band, and he’s told me you both like jazz, so we’re flying a lovely quartet from—”

Lucas held up a finger, asking her to wait. Then he took out his phone and dialed.

“Papá? It’s Lucas. Your wedding planner is here.” Pause. “Yes, the gesture was—” Pause. “Yes, we
are
quite busy—” Pause. “Yes, it was very thoughtful of you. However …”

“Okay,” I said, rounding the bottom of the stairs, cordless phone still in hand. “I’ve straightened out the hotel. Seems the desk clerk was looking at next month’s reservations. The block we reserved for our guests
is
still booked. Crisis twenty-nine averted. Oh, and twenty-seven, too. I’ve spoken to Petulia’s Petunias and convinced them that having lived for three years without a website feedback form, they don’t absolutely need one done this week.”

Lucas nodded and put his cell phone into his satchel. “And I believe potential crisis twenty-eight is resolved as well. I’ve cleared up the misunderstanding with that necromancer, assuring him that while I’m happy to investigate his legal case, I cannot represent him, not being a member of the bar in Utah … and I cannot begin
any
investigation in the next ten days.”

“Good.” I collapsed against him. “All bullets dodged so far.”

Savannah walked around the corner, shaking her head. “You guys don’t need wedding planners; you need life planners.”

“Are you volunteering?”

She snorted and headed past us for the stairs.

“While you’re up there, get changed for dinner, assuming you’re joining us …” I backed away from Lucas. “Elena’s plane. It’s after five, and they said they’d phone when—”

“She called your cell,” Savannah yelled back. “The house line and Lucas’s line were busy. They’re on their way. Oh, and they invited Maria to dinner as well. And yes, I reminded them that means no supernatural talk at the table.”

“Thank y—”

“Hey, someone’s here,” Savannah called from upstairs. “It’s a big black SUV.”

I stiffened, and Lucas’s arm tightened around me, chin jerking up.

“Just kidding,” Savannah said, grinning as she hurried past us down the stairs. “It’s only Adam.”

“Ask him—”

Too late. She was already in the kitchen, making a beeline for the back door.

Lucas had asked Benicio to come no sooner than Thursday, which we’d figured was too close to the wedding for him to interfere, yet early enough that he didn’t feel like “just another guest.”

He was there right after breakfast.

Lucas had said that his parents got along fine, but I’d still been nervous, wondering if—like many estranged couples—they only put on a good show for their child. If that was the case, though, Benicio and Maria were both excellent actors. They exchanged hugs and “How’s teaching?” and “How are your grandsons?” chatter … and seemed genuinely interested in the answers.

While they were talking, I sent Savannah out to the SUV to offer refreshments to Troy and Griffin, Benicio’s bodyguards. Benicio hadn’t brought them inside—according to Lucas, that would be rude, suggesting Benicio thought he needed protection in our house. I wanted to invite them in, but wasn’t sure that was allowed. Emily Post doesn’t cover etiquette for dealing with a guest’s bodyguards.

“They’ll take coffee,” Savannah said as she came back in. “And muffins.”

“You’re becoming quite the little hostess,” Maria said as Savannah set about preparing the tray.

“I feel like I’m stuck in a Jane Austen novel,” Savannah grumbled.

“The lowly ward,” I said. “Consigned to servitude. When you’re done with that, you can report to Maria for your next orders. We’ll be showing Benicio the house.”

“And this bedroom we turned into an office,” I said, walking from the master bedroom into the adjoining area. “It’s too small for a second desk, so we’re thinking of finishing the basement for a large office, making this room a sitting area or library.”

“There’s only the three bedrooms?” Benicio said.

“Yes, Papá.” Lucas kept his voice soft but words emphatic. “We don’t need any more. Not for quite some time.”

Benicio smiled. “So you think now, but things may change once you’re married.” He stepped into the hall. “I noticed a lovely new subdivision
going up just outside the city. It has estate-sized lots, and the builder assured me their zoning would allow a second, smaller residence on the property for hired help.” He lifted his hands against our protests. “I know you don’t want a battalion of employees, but you’re both very busy. I’m sure a housekeeper—”

“We have a woman who comes in every week,” I said.

“Perhaps, but that must hardly make a dent in your workload, Paige. A housekeeper could do the laundry, cooking, day-to-day tidying.” He looked at Lucas. “I’m sure it isn’t easy for Paige, especially with you gone so much.”

“We do fine,” I said.

“Perhaps, but I have someone in mind. A young witch, recently emigrated and in a rather difficult position.”

“Father,” Lucas said sharply. “That is—”

“I—I’ll be downstairs,” I said quickly. “Helping Maria and Sav—”

Benicio caught my arm. “My apologies, Paige. That was underhanded of me. Yes, there is a witch, but I’ll find her other work. I simply want to make things easier for both of you. Your time is so much better spent on the work you love. We’ll speak no more of housekeepers, though.”

“Or new houses,” Lucas said.

Benicio nodded and let us lead him down the hall toward Savannah’s room.

“I did want to ask about your honeymoon, though. How are you getting there? The last thing you need is airport delays. I’m not using the jet this week—”

“No, Papá.”

“Have you decided how you’re getting to the reception? I hope it’s not a limousine. Weddings should be special. Romantic. Perhaps a horse-drawn coach—”

“Benicio?” Maria looked up as she climbed the stairs. “If you want to help, I have something you could do. I know Paige and Lucas wouldn’t want to impose by asking …”

“Anything,” Benicio said.

“It’s the reception favors. Savannah and I are making them—putting the candies into the little pillows and tying on the ribbons. Could you give us a hand?”

“Er, yes, I suppose—”

Maria put her hand on Benicio’s arm and led him away. “And could you ask the boys to come in and join us? Yes, hardly bodyguard duties, but I know they’ll be good sports. We can make a production line of it …”

“Black and white,” I said, staring down at the brandy snifters stuffed with matchbooks. “Black and white. Could it be any simpler?”

Savannah plucked out a fuchsia matchbook. “Maybe they thought they were doing you a favor. Livening up a seriously boring wedding color scheme.”

Elena took a book and turned it over. “Maybe we could bleach them. The matches won’t work, but it’s a nonsmoking reception anyway. Who’ll notice?”

“I’ll buy some flowers to match,” Jaime said. “Just a few scattered in with the white ones, so it’ll look like an intentional accent color.”

“It’s not that bad. At least everything else is—” Elena stopped and crammed the matchbook back into the snifter. “Savannah? Jaime? Grab a couple glasses and we’ll set them out for the rehearsal party.”