Spells and Scones (14 page)

Ben had been both right and wrong about the filet mignon on the menu. Declan had made beef Wellington—simple enough, but decadent as all get-out.

“I'm impressed,” I said, peering into the oven at the small tenderloin roast smothered in duxelles and wrapped neatly in puff pastry. “And hungry!”

He looked relieved. “Good. I was afraid that whole business with Margie's marriage falling apart might have affected your appetite.”

I looked at the ceiling and shook my head. “Not a chance, darlin'. And for the record, I don't think she and Redding are in any serious trouble. Just a little misunderstanding. It happens.”

He gave me a wry look. “Yes, I seem to recall that.”

“Now, is that any way to talk tonight?” I gave him a playful grin. “Since you're all buttoned-down this evening, and in honor of the magnificent meal you've made, I really think I'd better put on something a little better than my usual garb. Maybe cover up this knee, while I'm at it.”

Concern entered his eyes. “How are you feeling?”

“Bah. It's nothing. Be back with you in a jiff.”

“Don't cover up too much,” he called as I went into the bedroom.

At least I'd given a bit of thought to what to wear as I'd driven home. Twin armoires served as my closet, and one was entirely taken up with the clothes I liked to wear to work. The other offered a sparser selection, but there were a few surprises Declan hadn't seen. Mungo sat on the bed and watched as I donned a skirt inspired by a swirly chiffon number Bianca had worn to a spellbook club meeting. A short skirt was covered with a longer sheer handkerchief skirt in shades of purple and blue. The combination managed to subtly show off my legs at the same time the bandage on my knee was nearly hidden. I topped it with a silky spaghetti-strap tank in rich violet and turned to look in the mirror.

“Not bad with this crazy hair, huh?”

Mungo made an approving noise.

I ran my fingers through my short dark red locks and tucked them behind my ears. The small pearl earrings I had worn that day would do, but the chain with the amulet Steve had given me caught my attention. I'd worn it for most of the year without even thinking about it. Tonight, however, it somehow seemed wrong.

Slowly, I unclasped it and let the chain dribble through my fingers into my jewelry box.

Mungo made another noise of approval.

My neck felt naked, though, and more important, I felt suddenly unprotected. But thinking back, how much good had it really done me? I'd almost been killed more than once while wearing it. And really, what could possibly happen tonight?

Slipping my feet into open-toed sandals with higher heels than I usually wore, I spared a thought for the idea that I really ought to invest in a fancy pedicure one of
these days. In the bathroom, I applied a bit of plum eyeliner to accent the green in my eyes and added a quick swipe of pink lip gloss. I switched out the bulky gauze bandage on my knee for a small Band-Aid, gave myself a nominal nod of approval in the mirror over the sink, and went back out to see what Declan was up to.

I stopped dead in my tracks when I saw what he'd done in the short time I'd been getting dressed. The two wingback chairs had been moved to one side, and the Civil War–era trunk I used as a coffee table in the living room was pulled away from the couch and set for dinner. A rough woven tablecloth set off my simple old Fiestaware dishes. A small vase of red roses sat in the middle. And there were candles, a mixture of white and red, on the trunk, on the shelves, set on the floor around the periphery of the room, and on all the windowsills. I even saw a few flickering in the kitchen. Miles Davis' “All Blues” played low on the stereo.

“You look amazing.” Declan moved from where he'd been standing by the French doors to where I stood gaping.

“Th . . . thank you,” I stammered.

He slowly ran his fingertip along my throat and jaw, then tipped my chin up for a kiss.

A really long kiss.

Finally, he said, “Sit down, and I'll bring you a glass of wine to sip while I finish up.”

“Can't I do anything to help?” I protested.

“Shh. No, you can't. Sit.” He indicated a plush cushion on the floor.

Obediently, I sat.

He grabbed our supper plates off the table and went back into the kitchen. The rich scent of roasted meat became stronger. The oven door rattled, and I heard the
clink of the plates. Mungo sat in the doorway, watching with covetous eyes. Suddenly he took off for the corner where his place mat sat, and I knew Declan had served the little dog his own feast.

I love that man.

Which reminded me of the card. Quickly, I scrambled up to retrieve it from the tote, which I'd taken into the bedroom. I regained my seat just before he carried our plates in and set them on the table.

“Madam,” he said, trying for a British accent but unable to hide the smooth lilt of his Savannah upbringing. “Dinner is served.”

“Thank you, Jeeves,” I said, leaning forward and closing my eyes to inhale deeply. My stomach growled, and I cleared my throat to cover the sound.

He settled on a cushion across from me. “On the menu tonight is beef Wellington with béarnaise sauce, potato and celery puree, and roasted broccoli with pecans.”

“Ohmagod. That is stunning, Deck.”

“And for dessert . . . some kind of chocolate cake made by the woman of my dreams.”

I smiled and didn't correct him as to the provenance of the cake. Instead, I lifted my glass. The reflection of candle flames danced on the curved surface of the glass.

“To the chef.”

He lifted his own. “To
us
.”

I nodded and smiled. “To us.”

We each had a sip, and turned to the delectable goodness in front of us.

As I cut into the tenderloin and crunchy puff pastry, I marveled. “I had no idea you knew how to make béarnaise sauce.”

“Scott taught me on our last shift together.”

“Aha. That's why he looked at me so funny this morning. There's been a conspiracy behind my back.” I shook my finger at him. “Very sneaky.”

He'd obviously been planning this for a long time. Declan was a bit of a romantic, but this was over-the-top even for him. Then again, we'd never had an anniversary before, so maybe this was something I should expect every year.

“It's hard to keep a secret from a witch.”

“Apparently not that hard.” I took my first bite, closed my eyes, and couldn't keep from moaning. “Oh, Lord. That is
good
.”

When I opened my eyes, he was grinning at me. “I love it when you do that.”

Feeling my face redden, I turned my attention back to my plate.

“You're not wearing your necklace,” he said after a while.

My hand flew to my neck. “No, not tonight.” I'd never told him where it came from, or the purpose it served.

His lips curved. “Maybe you need a new piece of jewelry.”

I shrugged. “I'm not much of . . .” I trailed off, realizing it was a hint. “Yeah, maybe I do.”

Pushing aside thoughts of Dr. Dana and Angie and murder suspects, I immersed myself in the exquisite meal, the fairyland of flickering lights, and the small talk and long looks between us.

When we were finished, we donned jackets and went out to the patio to finish off the meal with coffee laced with Baileys Irish Cream. Mungo, who had discreetly stayed in the kitchen during supper, trotted out with us and curled up in his bed. Within seconds, he was snoring like the contented pup he was.

Declan reached over and took my hand. “Did you find out anything at the radio station this morning?”

“I . . . do you really want to talk about this right now?”

“Maybe later.”

“Yeah.”

“Ben said Steve Dawes is back in town.”

Thanks, Ben.
I shrugged and looked over at him. “I ran into him when I was, er, running an errand.”

Declan was silent, for which I was grateful. I definitely didn't want to talk about Steve tonight.

“I start my forty-eight tomorrow,” he said.

“Which is why we're celebrating our anniversary tonight.” I circled the back of his hand with my fingertip. “I figured that out.”

He opened his mouth, then shut it again, searching my eyes.

“What is it?” I asked, feeling like I could stay submersed in that blue gaze forever.

“I have something for you.” He dropped my hand and stood.

“Oh. Right—I have something—”

“Stay there,” he demanded, then took a breath. “Sorry. Please stay.”

I sank back from my half-standing position. “Okay.”

I'd thought he was going inside to get my gift, but instead he pushed his chair to the side and took something out of his pocket. Then he dropped to one knee in front of me.

“Katie, you are funny and fascinating, beautiful and smart, talented and just crazy enough. You're the woman I've been waiting for my whole life, and I want to be with you the rest of my life.”

“Declan,” I gasped in shock.

He opened the box he held in his hand and removed
a ring from it. The silvery metal filigree caught the moonshine, seeming to absorb it into its own glow, and the royal blue sapphire set deeply into the middle of it echoed celestial magic.

“Katie Lightfoot, will you marry me?” He held out the ring with a nervous smile.

“Oh. Oh, gosh. Deck, I . . . Oh.”

Mungo went crazy then, yipping and bouncing and running in circles. Then he did it again.

All the while Declan kneeled in front of me with the ring in his outstretched palm.

I wanted to offer my left hand, to let him slip it on my finger. I wanted to see him smile, and my heart ached with the thought of how much thought and love he'd put into his proposal.

I wanted to, but I couldn't. I just couldn't.

“Deck,” I whispered. “Can we talk about this?”

His smile had become more and more tentative, and now it dropped altogether. Awkwardly, he came to his feet and brushed off his jeans. “I guess I shouldn't have expected a tearful yes out of some romantic comedy.”

“Can't we just—”

“I jumped the gun.” He gently put the ring back into the velvet-lined box and placed it on the table. “You wanted to take it slow, and we have been. But I know this is what I want. You are what I want. Forever.”

“Deck, this is just such a surprise. I mean, we hadn't talked about getting married at all. I have to—”

“Think about it,” he finished for me. “Okay. I'm going to leave you alone to do just that.” He began walking into the house.

“You're
leaving
?”

He paused in front of the French doors and nodded. “The rest of the evening is going to be pretty weird after
this. Sorry. I knew there was a possibility you'd say no, but I didn't really think through what would happen after that.” He smiled, but it was tinged with sadness. “I had a
very
good idea about what would happen after you said yes, though.”

I leaped to my feet. “I'm not saying no,” I protested. “I need time, though. You know what happened with Andrew.”

“I'm not Andrew,” he said sharply. “I'm not going to back out on you.”

“Of course you're not.” I walked up and put my hands on his chest, snagging his gaze, trying to make him understand. “My life was much different then. I didn't know my true nature—as a witch, but also as a person. I got engaged thinking that being married would fix things in my life. It wasn't until I moved here that I realized it never would have. Never
could
have.”

His hands came up to my shoulders, and the look he gave me was full of so much tenderness it almost brought me to my knees. “You're right. You don't need to be fixed. I don't want to fix you, and I don't expect you to fix me. I want to build our lives together. And that's a different thing altogether. Don't you see?”

I stared at him, wide-eyed.

He turned and walked inside.

I hurried after him. “Wait. I got you a . . . card.”

Lame.
I felt tears welling. I swallowed them back and retrieved the envelope from where I'd slipped it under the cushion by the coffee table, ready to give to him over dinner. I handed it to him and looked away.

He opened it, then nodded. “Thank you. I'd like to take you to meet my family.” He kissed me, sweetly and yet with a trace of bitterness.

“Please don't go,” I whispered.

He laughed. “It's okay, Katie. Really. But if I stay, what are we going to talk about?”

I tried a sly smile. “Maybe we don't have to talk.”

He acknowledged my attempt to flirt with an appreciative look, but he turned to go anyway. “I know you think better when you're by yourself. And I really want you to think about saying yes.” He opened the front door and turned back. “I want to marry you. I know there are always complications, but that is the simple truth, and we can figure all the other stuff out. If you decide you want to marry me, that is.”

“Deck,” I tried one last time.

“I'll call you tomorrow.”

The door closed behind him and a few seconds later I heard the engine in his truck roar to life. I was left with a sink full of dishes, a roomful of half-burned candles, and a ring sitting in its box on the patio table. My feet hurt, my knee hurt, and my familiar was glaring at me from the corner.

I sat down on the edge of the couch, grabbed the bottle of wine still sitting amid the plates on the coffee table, and poured myself a dose of comfort. Mungo stopped glaring at me when I started to
cry.

It wasn't that I never wanted to get married. I wasn't afraid of commitment. Once before I'd been engaged, but I hadn't been the one who'd backed out at the last minute. Declan was right—he wasn't anything like Andrew. I knew I could trust him. That wasn't the problem.

The problem was that I loved my life so much. It was a nice problem to have. I loved my job, even if it meant long, sometimes crazy hours. I loved practicing hedgewitchery with Lucy at the Honeybee. I loved my friends, and the city, and the somewhat new knowledge of just who the heck I was. More important, the knowledge that I was doing what I was supposed to be doing. It felt like a gift I'd been given less than two years ago, and I honestly wanted to revel in it for a while longer.

I looked around the room, now lit only by the fringed floor lamp next to the couch. Declan had helped me pick up both of them from an ad on Craigslist. Brought them over in his pickup. Gave me the patio set and the little hibachi that was still my only grill. He'd helped me cut the garden beds out of the expanse of back lawn, rototilled, and helped me plant.

All that only made me love the tidy carriage house
more. But if I married Declan, I'd have to give it up. The thought brought tears to my eyes all over again. I reached for the wine bottle, then stopped.

Wine with dinner. Baileys with coffee, even if I only finished half of it. Wine again.

Not a good idea.

With a sigh, I wiped my eyes, gave Mungo a kiss on the forehead, and stood. I changed into yoga pants and a tank top and got to work storing leftovers, loading the dishwasher, moving the furniture back into place, and gathering the candles. The last I took up to the loft. After consolidating two bookshelves into one, I piled the candles into the empty space. The whole time I worked, my mind had gnawed on Declan's marriage proposal. Now I was feeling jittery and not a little afraid. What if I'd ruined everything? Was I going to lose the man I loved?

My altar stood nearby. It was housed inside a secretary's desk that Lucy had given me, closed against casual attention but easily accessible. Lowering the cover, I sat down and took a deep breath.

My nonna had knitted the lace shawl that served as my altar cloth. She'd been a witch, too, and since I'd learned of my heritage, her spirit had even stepped in a few times to help me from the other side of the veil. The items placed upon the cloth were variations on magical tools and reflections of the four elements. My chalice was a small swirly glass bowl I'd found at the flea market. A worn, antique kitchen knife was my idea of a ritual athame. There was a collection of smooth stones that I'd gathered over the years, and an Indian arrowhead my dad had given me. A small amethyst geode nestled beside a brilliant blue jay's feather that had drifted into the gazebo.

Of course. I need to calm myself.
Luckily, I had a way to do that.

I retrieved two of the white candles from the bookshelf and put them at the front of the altar. Between them I placed a small ceramic disc designed to diffuse scents, and placed a drop each of lavender and ylang-ylang oils from my small stock. Closing my eyes, I sat and breathed.

I am peaceful.

I am calm.

I am protected from all harm.

All will be well.

I picked up the amethyst and traced its contours with my fingers, allowing myself to absorb its inherent tranquility while I continued the calming incantation under my breath.

Soon a peace settled over me, and I came to know in my core that indeed, all would be well.

I don't know what it will look like, but things will work out.

Licking my finger and thumb, I carefully pinched out each candle, thanked the Goddess, and closed the altar.

As I came down the stairs from the loft, I heard the text tone on my phone in the bedroom. When I dug it out of my tote, I found a message from Declan.

Just realized I left you with a big mess. What a heel. I'm sorry. Hope that doesn't affect your decision.
The text ended with a smiley face.

I texted back.
No worries. It gave me something to do while I think. Going to sleep now. Love you.

A few seconds later he replied.
Love you, too.

But of course, I wouldn't be able to sleep for hours yet. Maybe a book would . . . my eyes fell on the list of suspects I'd made the night before, sitting where I'd left it on
the bedside table. I grabbed it and went into the kitchen. There I cut myself another piece of chocolate torte and sat down at the table with my laptop.

First, I searched for Earl King. There were three listed in Savannah. Pulling up images on the search engine solved that problem. The one I was looking for owned a bar that was only a few blocks away from the Honeybee. I'd been in King's Castle once or twice but didn't remember seeing the portly gentleman from Saturday night.

Maybe another visit was in order.

Next, I looked up Nate Dobbs. The first page of results showed him linked to his wife or referred to by his wife, or led to excerpts from the book his wife had written. Next were links to his presence on social media, but he hadn't posted any updates for at least six months. Not his cup of tea, I guessed. The only other link I found was an agenda from a conference in Atlanta. It was centered on food processing, and, at least last year, Nate Dobbs had worked for an agricultural fumigation company. It sounded pretty boring, and I had to wonder if he still worked there after his wife had achieved national stardom.

I shut the laptop, considering. Of all the suspects on my list, I knew the least about Nate Dobbs. Somehow, I didn't think he'd appreciate me showing up on his doorstep with a pile of personal questions. Detective Quinn could probably fill me in on a few details, but it was unlikely he would unless I could give him a good reason to. I needed someone else who knew details about Nate Dobbs.

Like someone who had been following his wife.

Angie.

I looked at my watch. Too late to call anyone with a normal sleep schedule. But I could at least text Bianca
and ask if she would go with me to talk with Angie, even if she wouldn't get back to me until morning.

Not only would I welcome Bianca's moral support, but I figured she and Angie might be able to connect because they'd had similar experiences with their husbands. Bianca had discovered an affinity for Wiccan beliefs and began studying on her own long before she'd joined the spellbook club. The more she'd learned, the more excited she'd become, until finally she'd shared that excitement with her husband.

He'd blown a gasket and left Bianca and their daughter, Colette. From what she'd said, he hadn't wanted to listen to any explanations, either. All else aside, she'd realized that she was better off without a man who would leave his family over something like that. However, Bianca had started practicing the Craft after she'd gotten married. According to Angie, she'd stopped practicing before her marriage.

At least Declan really knew who and what I was. I didn't have to keep secrets from him, and I was pretty sure he felt the same way.

To my surprise, Bianca texted back a little after midnight that she would be happy to go with me. Then I realized she might have been out on a date. Huh. Declan and I preferred to stay home most of the time, rather than hitting the town.

Just like an old married couple.

*   *   *

The Tuesday and Wednesday before Thanksgiving were considered “high pie” days at the Honeybee Bakery. We'd been taking orders for holiday pies for weeks, but of course we wanted them to be as fresh as possible. We already had racks of extra fruit and pecan pies in the big freezer for those who wanted to bake them up
on Thanksgiving Day, and today we'd prep for the slew of pies we'd bake the next day for afternoon pickup.

A part of me was grateful to be so unusually busy. Images of Declan's face the night before—when he'd asked me to marry him, and then when he'd realized I wasn't going to say yes to his proposal right away—had haunted my dreams and continued to rise in my mind as I worked. However, baking soothed me, distracted me, and allowed me to sink into a deep sense of self-assurance that I rarely felt, at least to such a degree, in most other parts of my life. Since I couldn't help second-guessing every thought I had about getting married, pro
and
con, the confidence and pure joy that came with measuring and mixing, scooping, and kneading was more than welcome this particular morning.

Suddenly, I remembered Nate Dobbs at the commercial building in Ardsley Park, trying to stay busy the day after his wife died. Maybe he'd been telling the awful truth.

As for the pies, there were the standard apple, cherry, and peach, as well as gooseberry, apple cranberry walnut, salted caramel apple, and a dark chocolate bourbon pecan pie that made my mouth water every time I thought of it. All the pumpkin pies would be baked the next day, as they didn't freeze well.

Ben took care of the everyday customer business of dispensing pastries and making coffee drinks. Lucy helped him between helping pie customers. Cookie, who had worked at the Honeybee for a few months before she decided the hours weren't for her, had come in to help after the regular day's baking was done.

She and Iris were standing at the main worktable, preparing fillings to bake up the next day. Across from them, I mixed up flaky piecrust and buttery pâte brisée.
I added a bit of rum to each bulk batch, then quickly measured out precise amounts for top and bottom crusts and put them in oversized zip-close bags before the alcohol could evaporate. The dough would then be rolled into circles inside the bags, saving mess and enabling us to stack them in the fridge for quick pie construction the next day. The alcohol would all burn out during baking, leaving behind extra pockets of flakiness, and the rum flavor lent a subtle piquancy to the sweet pies.

Since our production needed to be efficient, we couldn't take the time to practice a lot of kitchen magic. However, the rum that went into each crust inherently attracted good luck, and we gave that a boost for each and every person who took a bite of Honeybee holiday pie. When we could, we added intentions for gratitude, good luck, and love into the various fillings.

“Mr. Clovis is still being a pain,” Iris said as she chopped a pile of walnuts. “That teacher I told you about? He yelled at a friend of mine for coming in thirty seconds late. I mean, really
yelled
.”

“That's a bummer,” I said, distracted by the mental list of what would need to happen the next morning.

“Did you try giving him the cookie like I suggested?” Lucy asked, passing through to grab a frozen pie for a customer.

Iris shook her head. “Nah. It wouldn't work, anyway. I feel terrible for my friend, though. She was almost in tears. After we get back from Thanksgiving break, I'm thinking of casting a spell against him. Like a curse.”

Lucy stopped dead in her tracks. “Iris!”

Cookie waved my aunt's admonition away. “What did you have in mind?”

Lucy took the frozen pie out to the woman waiting
by the register, tossing a worried look over her shoulder as she went.

Iris grinned. “I was thinking a nasty rash.”

I started to protest, but Cookie spoke first. “How would that help?”

“Well, it would make me feel better.” She laughed.

Cookie snorted. “It might.”

I paused in my work and turned to them both. “What about karma?”

“There is that, of course.” Cookie shot me a glance, then looked back at Iris. “But I want to know how that would solve the problem.”

“Well . . .”

“It wouldn't, would it?” Cookie asked.

Iris stopped chopping. “Maybe not, but—”

“But nothing. It's revenge. And revenge, like guilt and regret, is useless. None solve any problems whatsoever.”

I stared at Cookie.

“You're training in the Craft, yes?” she went on.

Iris nodded, wide-eyed.

“And Katie and Lucy are your primary teachers.”

Another nod.

“I know neither of them would suggest anything like a curse. Therefore, you've been reading, investigating on your own. I understand.” Cookie whacked an apple in two, and Iris jumped. “I was raised in a tradition of magic that embraces curses. Voodoo.”

Iris blinked.

Cookie gave her a hard look. “Curses are part of that belief system's lifeblood. I turned my back on it for a long, long time. But recently I became, shall we say, reacquainted with my native religion. Thanks to Katie here.”

I smiled uncertainly, unsure of where she was going.

“I will tell you this—curses are not to be trifled with. Not for stupid revenge.”

“Uh, and there's the Rule of Three, too,” I said as I dropped cubes of cold butter into the big food processor. “You wouldn't want a curse to come back to you threefold, would you?”

Cookie looked at me. I knew she had a complicated relationship with the Rule of Three, but she didn't contradict me.

“Golly, no,” Iris said. Then she smiled. “I guess giving him a cookie isn't such a bad idea. Maybe it would come back to me as a good grade.”

“Good idea,” I said, and changed the subject. “So how are your other classes going?”

Iris scraped the walnuts into a bowl and started sorting through cranberries, looking for any that were soft or underripe. “I finished the short story. It's about a girl who's bitten by a vampire at a football game.”

“Sounds . . . interesting,” I said.

Cookie smiled.

“And yesterday a professional goldsmith spoke to our metalsmithing class. He did an electroplating demonstration. Did you know pennies aren't really copper? They're made out of zinc, and the copper coating is electroplated onto the outside.”

I paused. “Really?”

She nodded. “Uh-huh. They dissolve metal in a bath using cyanide, and then use an electrical current to get it to deposit back on whatever is being plated.” She frowned. “I think I got that right. There was a lot of chemistry stuff.”