Page 76 of Bewicched

“You have got to be kidding me,” I groused, pushing Declan back and straightening my clothes. “Come to the front door, Mom. You can’t come in that way.”

I turned back to Declan and ran my hand down his chest. “Sorry.”

He nodded, scrubbing his hands over his face.

I rested my hand on the bulge in his jeans. “Hold that thought.”

“Seeing as you’re coming back with your mom, that’s probably not the best idea,” he grumbled.

32

Jeez, Is This the Real Corey Curse?

When I came back into the studio with Mom, Declan was gone. Weird. I supposed he could have used the posts out the back door for a quick exit. I wouldn’t have blamed him. Men with hard-ons rarely want to chat up moms who didn’t trust them in the first place. Understandable. Still bummed me out, though.

“Did you have these windows open all night?” Her concern rightly focused on the fire, not the absent suitor. Paramour? Beau?

“The sprinkler system didn’t go off, which was good in the long run, but—”

“They were probably spelled not to,” she interrupted, placing her handbag and keys on my worktable.

“Right, but the smoke in here was horrible. It needed to be aired out.” I pulled out my mixing bowls and then butter and eggs from the refrigerator. Sometimes my mother was easier to deal with if I didn’t give her my full attention. “Have you had breakfast?”

“Yes. I had some yogurt and granola before I left home. Could you brew some tea, though, dear?” She paced the room, checking everything out before folding the blankets on the sofa. “Did you sleep down here?”

“If you can call it that,” I said. “I slept for maybe an hour before I had a horrible nightmare.” I set the kettle to boil and then added Mom’s favorite loose leaf tea to the infuser.

“Ergo, the baking.” She sat on the sofa and watched me collect the rest of the ingredients.

“How’s Gran doing?” I dropped four sticks of butter into a saucepan, lit the fire under it, set a timer on my phone, and then turned to Mom.

“Mourning, of course, as are we all.”

I just realized we were both dressed all in black.

“That’s the blanket Sylvia gave you, isn’t it?” Mom stared at the folded blanket she’d left on my chair.

“It is.”

She nodded. “We’re planning an informal get-together this afternoon. It will take time to plan the funeral. We need to be together now. Gather around your grandmother.”

“Of course,” I said. “What time?” I poured the boiling water over the tea infuser and let it steep in the pot. I then held my hand over the pot and pushed it along.

“Why are your gloves on the floor?”

Thankfully, I was looking away, checking on the butter browning, so she couldn’t see my face flush. “They must have fallen out of my pocket. I usually use thin rubber gloves for cooking. No one wants fuzz in their baked goods.”

“But then why aren’t you wearing them?”

I stared down at my hands, confused. Normally, if I touched a carton of eggs or a bag of flour without gloves, I’d tap into the person who stocked the shelves in the market or the cashier or someone. “Maybe my brain is just too frazzled.” But I worried about why it was different today.

I went to my worktable, snapped on the thin blue gloves, and set a tea tray for Mom, including the last lemon bar. “Here you go.”

“Thank you, darling, and four o’clock. Bring whatever you’re making this morning. I’ll have a simple buffet catered, but your desserts are always better than whatever they can come up with.”

“Sylvia loved key lime pie. I’ll make that for this afternoon. Individual tartlets with a shortbread crust.”

Mom nodded, but I could tell she wasn’t listening, her thoughts no doubt consumed by the two sisters she’d never see again.

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