Time Spell (3 page)

“Hi, Mama.”

She winked as she let me out of her tight embrace and pulled back to look at me. “Come on in and tell us every little detail! But wait, before you say anything, honey, let’s get some coffee.”

I followed her through the front door toward the kitchen. We passed the halls, wallpapered with family photos of all of Ian’s and my accomplishments. Mama loved to capture our life moments and frame them.

“Just between you and me, your father was more than a little worried about you going on this trip,” she whispered with one eyebrow arched higher than the other.

Her dark hair was pulled back in a loose bun to showcase her pearl necklace and pearl earrings. My mother always touted the importance of Southern ladies and their pearls. I couldn’t think of a single wedding, funeral, or luncheon we had attended that those pearls weren’t draped around her neck.

“I know, Mama, but it was such a huge opportunity. How could I turn down my first movie premiere? It might be my only one. Who knows if the next book will be movie material?”

Clearly, she couldn’t tell I knew she was hiding behind my father’s concern, as if she was completely okay with my decision about
Vegas Star
. I took a deep inner sigh.

The current parental divide drifting between my parents reminded me of when I was a little girl and wanted to go away to summer camp. My father adamantly maintained I wouldn’t be able to spend two weeks away with normal girls without giving up my magical secrets. Mama knew all of the girls in my class were attending Camp Riverside and, for me, it was a chance to fit in. I wanted to float in the river in a canoe, stay up all night telling ghost stories and braiding hair, and make fun of the bad camp food. I promised I would write letters to them every day, and I wouldn’t use one teeny, tiny ounce of magic. On the last day the deposit was due, I heard my father pick up the phone in his office and call the Camp Riverside director. Mama and I had worn him down—I was going to camp.

As soon as we entered the kitchen, the allure of coffee, cinnamon rolls, and bacon wafted through the air.

“Do I hear Hollywood walking through our halls?” my father bellowed from over the frying pan.

His frame filled the kitchen. He was a large man with a gentle spirit and inner calmness that I gravitated toward whenever something went wrong in my life. He had big, strong hands and kind eyes that had always made me feel safe and secure since I was a little girl.

Daddy owned and operated Bon Appétit Y’all in the downtown restaurant district, and once was even featured in the editor’s choice pages of
Southern Living
. Until now, he was the closest thing our family had to a celebrity. I’ll never forget how proud my mother was when his “Shrimp and Grits” recipe was featured. She had the article framed, and it hung among the family timeline of milestones in the foyer hallway.

It took years to perfect the right mixture of ingredients that gave his dishes his signature flare. He studied at the best culinary schools and even offered an internship program for aspiring Southern chefs at his restaurant. Daddy loved to share his love of food with others, although we knew the young apprentices would never quite master his level of cooking. Because if you want to know the real secret to the fabulous meals and the long-term success of his restaurant, it really was magic.

“Yes, Daddy, I made it back from New York early this morning.” I grabbed a piece of bacon from the platter and started nibbling on small breakaway pieces.

“Well, how was it? We saw you on the news last night. You got a whole segment of local coverage. You’re quite the celebrity in town.” I could see the furrow in his brow start to deepen. It was obvious he didn’t equate his small stint in
Southern Living
to my overnight, national-fame status.

“Oh, it was amazing! You should have seen the dress they sent me, and the shoes. Oh, Mama, they were the best shoes. Everyone was so welcoming and couldn’t be nicer. My hotel was beautiful, and the food was to die for. I hardly felt like I was working, I had so much fun. And you know, it really is a hit. It’s going to be a big summer movie.” I stopped to take a breath and realized they were both staring at me.

My mother poured two cups of coffee and handed a mug to me. “Honey, we’re just so proud of you. You wanted to do this your way and you have somehow managed to do it. What’s next?”

We both took sips of our coffee, and I gazed through the oversized bay window. I thought about how many times I had sat in this kitchen, just like this, with my parents, trying to figure out the next step in my life—whether it was a high school heartbreak or a debate on which college to attend. My life was full of memories like this one. I could only hope they knew how happy I was to share this moment with them, even if they were worried sick about my choices.

I smiled. “I’m going to keep doing it. I’m going to find another story that needs to be told and I’m going to tell it. Just think, if I hadn’t done all of the research for
Vegas Star,
no one would know about what happened to Holden Chadsworth or all of those diamonds. I’m going to keep looking for more stories like that one that need to be shared.”

“You’re right, you’re right. That story had to be told.” My mother glanced at my father as if to say,
Pitch in with a compliment,
Richard
. Instead, I could see him tense up as he hesitated, probably with a well-rehearsed speech.

He gripped the pancake spatula. “Ivy, this is getting too dangerous. Have you really thought about what could happen to you, what could happen to all of us if your magic gets discovered? This thing”—he waved his spatula in the air—“is getting bigger by the minute, and we’re all in jeopardy if anyone finds out. The stakes are just too high. Why didn’t you just go with a pen name if you felt so strongly about the stories, or give them to someone else to write? I don’t see how this can turn into anything but a problem.” He tossed a few more pieces of bacon on the platter and refocused on the stove. “Everyone else in the family has found a way to use our magic without telling the world what we do and who we are. Can’t you do the same? At least consider it?”

I thought about Ian and his work as a detective, or my Aunt Susan and her financial advising business. They were successful because of their magical skills. Why couldn’t my father see what I was doing was the same thing? The only difference was my work garnered a few headlines.

I sighed and crossed the kitchen to give my father a hug. “Daddy, we’ve talked about this. I’m careful and no one would even think that what I can do is possible. I have the best security. I’ve got you, Mama, and Ian looking out for me. I can write and be a witch, you’ll see. Besides, I would make a terrible florist or cook or teacher—that’s just not me.”

I hoped I had convinced him, but the doubt was still in his eyes, and I knew the only way to prove what I had said was true was to show him I was capable of handling the fame and the magic. “Grits? Are we having any of your grits? You know those are my favorite.” I smiled.

My father arched an eyebrow in my direction, and pointed to a pot of creamy grits steaming on the stove. A long wooden spoon stirred in swift circles, even though my father shuffled more bacon onto the platter. This seemed like a bad time to point out the magic he was using to make us breakfast. I stopped the spoon in mid-stir and tasted the grits.

My mother cleared her throat. “All right, you two, for now we have a famous screenwriter joining us for breakfast, so let’s eat.” Mama pointed at the table. “Voila!”

A bright bouquet of white hydrangeas and yellow roses appeared in the center of the table circled by three bone china plates and coffee service with silver place settings and crystal juice glasses. Flecks of sparkly dust evaporated in the air around each petal, as if to show off her work. She gave me a quick wink before straightening her skirt and placing her napkin in her lap under the table.

Long ago, my mother, Violet, had opted to abandon her talents and skills in potions to work alongside my father at Bon Appétit Y’all. Potions were a dying art in our world, because it took so much time, a commitment to studying, and an innate ability to identify the ingredients to blend with the perfect amount of magic. It still made me sad for her when I thought of what she had given up to gain time with us.

Whenever I mentioned potions to her, she always laughed and smiled at me. “You, Ian, and your father are my life. I helped a lot of people with potions, but that part of my magical work is in the past. One day you’ll have a family and you’ll know what I’m talking about. It wasn’t a choice for me.”

Now, she mainly organizes all of the special events at the restaurant, and there isn’t a more beloved coordinator in Sullen’s Grove. Brides gush about how wonderful she is to work with, and they go on and on about the flowers. I eyed a set of perfectly starched napkins lined up in the dining room for an upcoming event and smiled, knowing she had never ironed a day in her life. Even though she may have given up potions, my mother hadn’t given up magic. Flowers and linens don’t look like that on their own.

“Mama, this is beautiful! Thank you.” With the table set only for three, I assumed Ian wouldn’t be joining us. “No Ian today I guess.”

“No, he called this morning and said he is still working on a case from last night. He works way too much.” My mother shuffled her silverware around. She was always worried about Ian’s line of work, and his late night cases left her unsettled and nervous. My brother could take care of himself, he was a witch after all, but that didn’t ease Mama’s fears.

We managed to push
pause
on the magic controversy for the rest of brunch, and I filled Mama and Daddy in on all of the journalists I met, the celebrities I spotted, and a few of the touristy sites I was able to squeeze in during my trip.

After brunch, I kissed them both good-bye and gave my father an extra hug.

“Daddy, please don’t worry. I’ll be extra careful. Ok?” I smiled sweetly, knowing his defenses were down.

He kissed my cheek. “I’m glad New York went well. We can revisit all this other stuff later.” He pointed to the breakfast table and sent the assortment of dirty dishes straight to the dishwasher. No need for anyone to bother with plates and bubbles this morning.

I giggled at him. Some things would never change. “Ok. We’ll talk later.”

I grabbed my bag and darted out the door.

Ian was headed through the back gate. His shirt was unbuttoned, and his jacket was slung over his arm. He had dark circles under his otherwise bright eyes, and he looked slightly rumpled. “Hey, movie star!” Ian gave me a high five and flashed a toothy grin.

“Someone hasn’t changed from work.” I gave him a mini-punch in the arm. “Or taken a shower,” I teased.

“I know. I know. These cases are killing me. But I thought I’d try to get over here and at least eat something before I crash for the rest of the day.” It was hard keeping up with Ian’s hours when he started working the night schedule. “Did you leave me any bacon?”

“Hey, I don’t eat
all
the bacon.” I didn’t want to admit I had considered it. “Mama saved some for you; she always does. I’ve got to run—miles to go before I sleep tonight.” I giggled as I held up a to-go bag in my other hand and waved it at him. We never left our parents’ house without leftovers.

Ian and I were close, as close as adult siblings can be and especially witch siblings. He had the same sandy-blond hair and green eyes and was half a foot taller than I was. Tall genes definitely ran in our family.

It was nice growing up with an older brother, and particularly in high school when his friends started hanging out at our house. What girl wouldn’t love that? I’d come home from school, and our living room would be loaded with guys playing video games or outside shooting hoops. However, Ian was not so happy when his friend, Derek, asked me to their senior prom. I was a sophomore, and Ian wasn’t interested in his little sister tagging along for the night.

During the high school years, we learned to find more balance with magic. When we were children, it wasn’t as easy living with a secret that we had to keep from everyone. There was a time in both of our lives when it just seemed easier not to have friends than to try to navigate friendships with hidden magic. No one else had toys that could actually talk, planes that would fly through the sky, or soldiers that would play real war. We knew we were different, and that’s probably what kept us so close.

Unlike Daddy, Ian didn’t give me a hard time about my books or the screenplay. He seemed to understand why I needed to write. After all, he walked a fine line everyday being a detective and a witch. Magic helped him solve cases, but it wasn’t his sole resource for finding answers or linking clues together. He knew I wanted a normal life, and he respected my choice to be a writer, even now as a newly famous writer.

I breezed past him on my way to the car and hollered back, “Call me when you wake up, and I’ll tell you all about Julie Monaco.” I laughed as I saw his eyes widen and his jaw drop. Perfect timing for my devilishly quick exit.

Ian was still standing with a hand on the fence post when I pulled away from the house. I lowered my sunglasses and smiled. I loved my family, and I loved days like today when I could share my world with them—even when they thought that world was a dangerous one.