Page 37 of The Trouble With Spells
Callum interrupted our good-natured banter by answering Mom’s question. “It’s just my Gran, Mom, me and my sister.”
“And your father?”
“Mom!”
“What?” She seemed genuinely oblivious to her invasive questions.
Callum chuckled at us. “My dad died my senior year of high school. He was a police officer, and he was killed in the line of duty.”
Mom’s face softened, her eyes full of sympathy. “Oh, I’m so very sorry.”
“Thank you,” Callum looked down at his bowl, his salad half eaten, and I reached for his hand again. He shot me a wavering smile, his green eyes hazy behind his glasses.
“I’m sorry too.”
Shrugging, he brushed it off like it was nothing, but it was clear the subject was still painful. I also felt like a jackass, because Callum had never mentioned his dadbefore, and I should have asked. I at least should have known before coming to this dinner. But if my parents thought my response to him was odd, that I maybe should have known about his dad before tonight, they let it go.
Dad cleared his throat, quickly changing the subject. “And what is it you do, Callum? Job wise, I mean.”
From the frying pan straight into the fire.
“We own The Witch’s Brew,” he responded, his voice steadier. “Off of Witch Hill Road.”
“Oh!” Mom exclaimed excitedly, “I’ve been there!”
“You have?” Callum and I both asked at the same time.
“I went with your Aunt Marjory when she was visiting last Fall. We bought some wonderful candles there. I’ve been meaning to get back and get some more. There was a lovely young woman working that day. Come to think of it,” Mom gave Callum a long look, “she did resemble you.”
Callum wiped his mouth with his napkin, nodding. “That would be my sister, Daphne. She makes the candles, actually.”
“They’re quite lovely,” Mom gushed. “My sister bought one of the love spelled ones. Hasn’t helped her love life, though.”
“The person needs to have an open heart and be ready to accept love,” Callum offered, “At least that’s how Daphne markets them.”
“Well, regardless,” Mom said, as our empty bowls were cleared away, “they smell wonderful and burn very clean.Mike is always harping about the candle smoke clogging things up.”
“Burns my eyes,” Dad muttered, giving Mom one of his soft smiles that were saved just for her.
“I’ll make sure to come visit your shop soon, Callum,” Mom told him. “I remember seeing a sign for tarot card readings? I’ve always wanted to get my cards read. You would think living in Salem my entire life, I would have by now.” She shrugged.
“Callum does the card readings,” I piped in, my voice proud. “He’s really good at it.”
His green eyes searched mine, as he pushed his glasses up, and I gave him my own soft smile. “What? You are.”
Yesterday, I had set up a small card table close to the checkout counter downstairs and occupied myself with going through my emails while he had worked. When I’d grown bored, because there was only so much I could do, since I couldn’t really work on any of my cases, I had helped him fill some of the online orders. Tourists started coming into the shop in the afternoon and evening, and a few had asked for card readings. Sitting beside him, I had found myself fascinated with the different cards, their meanings, and the easy way he had read them.
I didn’t know how much of what he had read would end up coming true for people, but more than a few had gotten excited when he would tell them something andthey could relate it to something happening in their life at that moment.
“Oh wonderful!” Mom waited to continue her line of questioning until our plates had all been delivered to us. The fragrant aroma of turkey breast, green beans, and some kind of corn dressing tickled my taste buds. It was a perfect Fall dinner on this October night, and a nostalgic longing washed over me for home. Which was crazy, because I hadn’t lived at home since I had left for college. I should really make a point of stopping by and having dinner with my parents more often. It wasn’t like Boston was that far.
“This looks amazing,” Callum sniffed appreciatively.
“Michael loves turkey, so I asked the chef to prepare it special,” Mom gave me a pointed look, “especially since he hasn’t bothered to come home for Thanksgiving in years.”
“Hey!” I groused, taking a bite of the tender meat and nearly moaning out loud. “I come home for Christmas. And I’ve told you that Black Friday isn’t a real holiday and I have to be in court the next morning.”
“Mmm.” Clearly, my fly-by Christmas stops weren’t cutting it with my mom, who felt October through January first were dedicated to holidays and nothing else.
