Page 12 of Wicching Hour

Grinning, she replied, “I did marry well. Robert is a wonderful man. Your mom and Bridget are and were the powerhouses in the family. My gifts are more quiet and unassuming and my children…” She rolled her eyes. “It would be better if they told you. So, will you allow us to help?”

“Yes, please.” I felt like such an idiot. “It’s all been so crazy, I completely forgot that we were supposed to get together and plan. I need all the help I can get. Does tomorrow night work?”

She thought a moment. “How about Tuesday? Robert works late at the hospital on Mondays and he’d like to be a part of this discussion.”

“Absolutely. Do you want to come here? If Bracken is feeling up to it, he can join us,” I said, walking her to the driver’s side of her SUV.

“Perfect. Six?”

I nodded.

“Good. And can I just say, I love that you’ve let Uncle Bracken live beside you.” She stared down at her shoes a moment and then said, “Mom is—well, she isn’t usually kind to her brother. He’s always been a gentle soul who was a little different. Mom respects strength, so I’m not sure she knew what to do with him. In her defense, though, my Gran—your Great-Gran—was a merciless woman who had no use for her youngest son.”

Shaking her head, she hit her key fob, making the SUV chirp. “None of that matters now. I just wanted you to know that Bracken’s life hasn’t been easy, and it means a lot to me—and him, I’m sure—that you’re giving him the space and understanding he needs, as well as the family he wants.” She took my hand and squeezed.

“I love having him here too.” With a shrug, I added, “I mean, it’s no secret that most of the family doesn’t like or trust me. Having my great-uncle living next door, visiting for tea and a muffin, helping me research where Calliope could be hiding, it’s lovely and helps me feel not so alone too.”

Elizabeth reached out her open window and held my gloved hand. “I’m sorry. I will say, though, that those who are standoffish with you are mostly afraid of your mother—and you, come to that. There can be insecurity and jealousy in any family, but it seems particularly bad in ours.”

“As evidenced by the number of Coreys choosing sorcery,” I said.

“Precisely.” She shook her head on a sigh. “I would offer to bring dessert to dinner on Tuesday, but given who I’m talking to, that seems silly.”

“How about an hors d’oeuvre?” I suggested.

She tapped the car door. “Perfect. I’ll do that and I’ll get out of your hair now. I know you have a lot to do.” She gazed up at the gallery. “It’s remarkable what you’ve accomplished here. We’re so proud of you.”

My throat tightened. It was such a simple statement. Why did it have me tearing up? Blinking, I looked down the road toward Declan’s place. “It’s clear. You should go before we get another long line of cars.”

“I will. See you soon.” And she pulled out onto the road and drove away.

I had to stand for a minute in the sunshine and breeze. It had been a pretty big twenty-four hours for me, which was probably why her approval hit so hard. As I struggled with my emotions, trying to force them back into the box that had served me well most of my life, I noticed a car parked along the side of the road. My sight wasn’t as strong as Declan’s, but it was still quite good. A man who seemed vaguely familiar sat in his car with his phone up like he was filming me.Great. I gave him a magical push to leave and then went back in to get ready for opening.

SEVEN

The Power of a Disapproving Look

Hester handed me a letter from Mary Beth, explaining in detail what the Winslows had purchased and how it all needed to be prepared for the shipping company tomorrow.

“Thank you for this,” I said, holding up the note. “I didn’t get to thank you last night. That was very kind of you to jump behind the counter and start brewing tea when you saw the wine was running low.”

She waved away my gratitude. “It gave me something to do,” she said, walking back behind the counter. She was wearing a blue-gray blouse and black slacks today, which was definitely better than the full black she’d been wearing since her daughter’s death.

“I like your blouse. It looks pretty with your eyes.” Hester was a Corey by marriage. Where most Coreys had black hair and green eyes, Hester, born a Goode, was pale: light blonde hair, light blue eyes. The black clothing had been so harsh on her, as was the mourning itself. Hopefully, the lighter top was a sign that the grief hadn’t pulled her under.

Embarrassed, she turned back to the counter, rearranging her brewing supplies. “I just ordered some new clothes so you wouldn’t have to see me showing up in the same three outfits all the time.”

“Well, you look fabulous. Doesn’t she, Faith?” My cousin was walking by with two vases from the back.

She paused, caught the context right away, and smiled. “You do, Aunt Hester. I like that color on you.” Faith then turned to me. “Frank and I weren’t sure. Should we bring it all out or do you want us to make the displays a little lighter, since it’s not opening night?”

“Excellent point,” I said, walking her across the gallery to the display tables and giving Hester a break from all the attention. “I think I do want the tables and shelves lighter. It should look like an art gallery, not a souvenir shop.”

“Told you,” Frank said. “I’ve been putting things into the back, not bringing more out. Faith was worried you’d want the opposite.”

I took a moment to study their work. “Which of you is the artistic one?” I asked.

Frank grinned, while Faith pointed at her brother. These two were over a decade younger than me and were by far my favorite cousins. How different my childhood would have been if I’d had these two to hang out with.

---