4 Witching On A Star (7 page)

I felt Landon stiffen next to me. “You don’t believe in that stuff, do you?”

“Of course not,” Sam shook his head. “It’s still fascinating to think about. The people in this area did so well that the people in the outlying area thought they were using magic to grow their crops and thrive. That just makes a great story, doesn’t it?”

“I guess it depends on who you’re asking,” Landon replied carefully.

“Well, I think it makes a great story,” Sam said, his attention turning to the front door as the delivery boy arrived with our food. “I’d like to buy everyone lunch as a thank you for the warm welcome.” He got to his feet and moved towards the delivery boy – Clove right on his heels.

“That is so nice,” she cooed as she followed him.

Once he was out of earshot, Landon turned to me. “Well, he’s up to something.”

“See,” I shot my tongue out at Thistle. “I told you.”

“I’ll never doubt you again,” Thistle mumbled. “What do we do?”

“Let me run a background check on him,” Landon said. “I’ll know more tonight. Just be careful around him.”

The sound of Clove giggling filled the air. Landon scowled. “And pull Clove away from him somehow.”

“Any suggestions on that?” I asked.

Landon looked dubious. “Can’t you put a spell on her or something?”

“What? A He Stinks spell?” Thistle looked agitated.

“I don’t know,” Landon shrugged. “Like maybe make her think she’s smelling garbage whenever he’s near her or something. Or maybe make her want to throw up when he looks at her. Or, can’t you give her like a month-long period so she’s crabby and wants to stay in bed with a heating pad all day until he leaves?”

Thistle and I exchanged surprised glances.

“You’re more devious than I initially gave you credit for,” Thistle said finally. “I like it. We’ll talk to Aunt Tillie and see what she can do.”

“We’re going to go to Aunt Tillie and ask her to curse Clove?” I bit my lower lip. I didn’t like that idea.

“Do we have a lot of other options?”

“No,” I shook my head. “Fine. We’ll go to Aunt Tillie.”

“She’s going to hold this over our heads forever,” Thistle complained.

“There are worse things,” Landon interjected, never moving his eyes from Sam as he and Clove moved back towards us with the bags of food. “Trust me, there are worse things.”

After lunch, I made an excuse so I wouldn’t have to go back to The Whistler with Sam. Instead, I returned to the guesthouse and worked from home for the rest of the afternoon. Landon said he was going to check on a few things and then meet me up at the inn for family dinner. Once he’d decided that Sam was up to something, that idea was all he could focus on.

I had been working at home for a few hours when I heard Thistle and Clove return. It’s not like I could have missed them, they were squabbling like a couple of cats in a bathtub.

“You don’t even know him,” Clove complained bitterly. “You just don’t like him on general principle.”

“That’s not true,” Thistle shot back. “I don’t like him because I’ve met him and he’s shady.”

“How is he shady?”

“Were you even listening to the conversation? He practically asked us if we were witches.”

“He did not,” Clove looked horrified. “He’s a history lover. That’s not a bad thing. You’re just looking for a reason to dislike him.”

“He sees ghosts and he’s a history lover?” Thistle challenged her.

“We don’t know that he sees ghosts, Bay just suspects that,” Clove whined. “Bay, back me up here.”

I glanced between the two of them. “We don’t know that he sees ghosts,” I said finally. “Maybe I’m just projecting.”

Thistle opened her mouth to argue, but I silenced her with a wave of my hand. “We also don’t know that he’s not up to something. We’re just asking you to think about it and stay away – at least until we know more.”

Clove didn’t look happy with the suggestion. “Fine,” she said. “I just think you guys are suspicious of everyone, though.”

“With good reason,” Thistle grumbled.

“We’ll have to wait and see, won’t we?” Clove countered angrily. “And, when I’m right, I’m going to make you both do a little song and dance number telling me I’m right.”

“We’ll be happy to,” Thistle said boldly. I could tell she didn’t believe, even for a second, that she would ever have to make good on that promise.

TWO HOURS
later, the three of us let ourselves into the back door of the inn – the one that led into the family living quarters – and we were still fighting. For a change, none of us were fighting aloud, though. Instead, we were fighting with our silence. That was something that wasn’t lost on Aunt Tillie – who was parked in front of the television watching
Jeopardy
.

“What are you three fighting about?”

“Who says we’re fighting?” Thistle asked in surprise.

“Usually you’re all gossiping like a bunch of clucking hens when you come in here,” Aunt Tillie replied, her eyes never moving from the television. “I usually have to tell you to quiet down so I can watch my show. Not today, though.”

“That doesn’t mean we’re fighting,” I said wearily. “Maybe we’re just tired.”

“That never stopped you before,” Aunt Tillie pointed out. “Sometimes you even fight in your sleep.”

She had a point. Not about the fighting in our sleep thing – that was a gross exaggeration – but about the other stuff.

“I met a new man today and Bay and Thistle don’t like him,” Clove announced boldly, shooting daggers in our direction as she did.

“We didn’t say we don’t like him,” I protested weakly.

“We just said we’re suspicious of him,” Thistle added.

“Why don’t you like him?” Aunt Tillie was suddenly interested.

“He’s just a little off,” I replied.

“I am not going to sit here and listen to the two of you malign his character,” Clove sniffed angrily. “You don’t need me for that.” With those words, she flounced through the door that led to the kitchen, leaving Thistle and me to tell Aunt Tillie our problems.

Not surprisingly, Thistle was the one to launch the verbal offensive. When she was done, Aunt Tillie was flabbergasted. “Brian told him I have dementia?”

“That’s what you’re worried about?” Thistle asked dubiously. “Not that this guy just might see ghosts and that he’s questioning us about the witchy history of this area? The real witchy history?”

“I don’t have dementia,” Aunt Tillie replied angrily. “That Brian Kelly is going to wish I did have dementia by the time I’m done with him.”

I thought about trying to talk her out of whatever revenge was boiling in her brain at the moment, but I couldn’t muster the energy. Besides, I wasn’t thrilled with Brian myself, at this point. Maybe cursing him would make him see reason – and send Sam Cornell out of town. Hey, a girl can hope.

We left Aunt Tillie to plot her revenge. I realized we hadn’t asked her for a curse to thwart Clove’s romantic aspirations towards Sam. I was hoping it wouldn’t ultimately be necessary, I guess. Plus, teaming up with Aunt Tillie against Clove seemed like a step backwards. We had always been a three-pronged united front against her. Breaking up into a smaller faction and working with her just seemed wrong.

Once I stepped in the kitchen, I heard Clove complaining to her mother that Thistle and I were being mean to her.

“They treat me like I’m a child. I’m not even the youngest one. Thistle is the youngest one. She should be the one treated like a child.”

Marnie didn’t look impressed with Clove’s complaints. “Can’t you three just get along? You don’t see your aunts and I squabbling like this.”

Thistle rolled her eyes. “Not today. Give it time, though.”

“Thanks for your input, fresh mouth,” my mom smacked Thistle on the back of the head lightly as she moved behind her. “You guys just seem to enjoy fighting with one another.”

“I wonder where we learned that from,” I teased my mother.

“We don’t fight,” my mother disagreed.

“Really? Maybe I should invite Chief Terry for dinner so you guys can play musical chairs to see who gets to sit next to him?”

“That’s not a fight,” Twila chimed in from her place by the sink.

“Of course it’s not,” my mom agreed. “I’ve already won.”

“You have not, Winnie,” Marnie said snidely. “As long as I have these,” she grabbed her heaving – and yes, impressive – bosom with both hands. “You’re not even in the running.”

My mom glanced down at her much smaller chest ruefully. “Terry is a man of substance,” she said finally. “He’s not mesmerized by your boobs like everyone else in town.”

“I guess that’s why you spent an entire year doing exercises to grow yours when we were kids,” Marnie replied snottily. “I must, I must, I must increase my bust,” she sang.

Twila laughed heartily. “That was so absurd.”

“You did it for two years,” Marnie reminded her.

Since Twila had the smallest amount of cleavage to boast about, I was starting to think that chant had an adverse effect.

“What’s for dinner?” I decided to change the subject.

“Lasagna,” my mom said. “We wanted something simple tonight. When that travel group gets here, we’re going to have to go fancy. We wanted an easy night.”

That was fine with me. I loved lasagna.

Everyone grabbed dishes of food, including salad, two sides of vegetables and fresh-baked bread – hey, this was simple for our family – and headed into the kitchen. Marnie paused by my mom as she cracked the door open. “I must, I must, I must increase my bust,” she chanted again, just one further dig to infuriate my mother, before practically skipping into the dining room.

She didn’t respond, but I had a feeling Marnie was going to have some cold, hard comeuppance coming her way once we had all cleared out tonight.

When I made my way into the dining room, I saw Landon first. I shot him a welcoming smile, but the one he sent me back wasn’t as warm. I frowned until I got a better look at the two other people sitting at the table with him. One was Brian Kelly – and Aunt Tillie had zeroed in on him the minute she saw him. The other was Sam Cornell. No way.

“What are you doing here?” I blurted out.

“Eating dinner?” Sam raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Is that not allowed? I thought meals were for the guests.”

“You’re staying here?”

“Isn’t that a fun coincidence?” Landon grumbled from a few chairs away.

Not really.

“You know Sam?” My mom asked curiously, sliding the lasagna pan onto two trivets in the center of the table.

“He’s working with Brian and me at The Whistler,” I said carefully, moving to the other side of the table and taking the open seat next to Landon. We traded tight smiles.

“Oh, really,” my mom didn’t catch on to the sudden tension. “Doing what?”

“We’re hoping to expand the distribution of The Whistler and print three days a week,” Brian responded excitedly. “Sam is up from Detroit to run some numbers and see if it’s a good way to go or not.”

“Sounds like a stupid idea to me,” Aunt Tillie huffed, climbing on to her chair at the head of the table – which was conveniently located between Landon and my mother.

Brian frowned. “You don’t think Hemlock Cove deserves a real paper?”

“It already has a real paper,” Aunt Tillie fixed her angry eyes on him. “Unless I’m mistaken, that’s where Bay goes to work every day. Of course, I might be mistaken, what with my dementia and all.”

Sam, who had been watching Aunt Tillie with a mixture of awe and amusement, suddenly shifted his attention to the plate in front of him.

“Dementia?” Marnie asked, confusion written on her face. “Who said you have dementia?”

“I’ve been saying it for years,” Thistle offered cheerfully. Everyone ignored her, though.

“Brian told his little friend, Sam, that I had dementia and that you guys were taking care of me out of the goodness of your hearts – yeah, right -- so you didn’t have to put me in a home,” Aunt Tillie explained snottily.

“Oh, that’s not true,” Twila said dismissively. “Brian would never say anything like that. He loves our food. Why would he? Where do you even come up with this stuff, I swear?”

“Bay and Thistle told me.”

“Thanks,” Thistle chimed in from her spot in the middle of the table.

“Well, you did,” Aunt Tillie grumbled.

“Sam told us,” I exclaimed worriedly. “It’s not like we made it up.”

“I didn’t tell you to tell her, though,” Sam said through gritted teeth.

“We’re family, we don’t have any secrets,” Thistle said with faux earnestness.

“Really?” My mom raised her eyebrows doubtfully. “Did you ever tell your Aunt Tillie that you once wore one of her dresses to a high school costume contest?”

“What’s so bad about that?” Aunt Tillie asked suspiciously.

“She was dressed up as a clown,” my mom replied. “The one from
It
, if I remember right.”

Landon was shaking with silent laughter next to me. He couldn’t help himself.

“A clown?” Aunt Tillie glared at Thistle. “If you were dressing as a clown, why wouldn’t you raid your mother’s closet?”

“Hey,” Twila looked hurt. “I don’t dress like a clown.”

I glanced at her flame red hair – more Ronald McDonald than anything else – and grimaced. That was actually a good question.

“Mom dresses with a bohemian flair,” Thistle countered. “You wear those ugly big prints and those other dresses with the big color blocks.”

“They’re not ugly,” Aunt Tillie argued. “They’re age appropriate.”

“If you’re dressing age appropriate these days, maybe you should start wearing underwear,” my mom suggested blithely.

Brian and Sam looked like they wanted to be anywhere but at this particular dinner table. There was no gracious way for them to exit, though, so they started shoveling food into their mouths instead.

“This is delicious,” Sam finally said, trying to ease the tension.

No one acknowledged the compliment.

“I don’t like underwear,” Aunt Tillie said. “It’s too constricting. My parts like to breathe.”

“I didn’t need to know that,” Landon sighed.

“I wear a bra,” Aunt Tillie continued. “Isn’t that enough?”

“If you didn’t wear a bra, one of those things could break free and kill someone,” Marnie said. Since Marnie had the same build as Aunt Tillie, she would know. Plus, since my mother and aunts had a propensity for naked dancing under the moon in the summer – I’d seen the horrifying truth of that statement myself from time to time.

“I think we’re getting off point,” I started.

“The point is, I don’t have dementia,” Aunt Tillie announced, jumping to her feet. “And anyone that says that, well, I think they’re going to wish they never had.” Her eyes landed on Brian, who gulped hard when they made eye contact.

Aunt Tillie turned on her heel and stalked out of the room. Once she was gone, my mom blew out a frustrated sigh. “And why did you tell her?”

I couldn’t really admit that the dementia portion of the conversation had only come up because of a larger conversation regarding Sam Cornell’s possibly nefarious intentions – especially since Sam was sitting at the other end of the table. “We were just making small talk,” I said finally.

“And that’s your idea of small talk?” My mother looked incensed.