Page 1 of Star-Crossed
ONE
Witch
A WOMAN THOUGHT TO HAVE MAGIC POWERS.
Why are you such a bitch?
Lyra chewed on the question just as furiously as her gum.
“WhyamIsuch a bitch?” She tapped on the small cleft in her chin as she pretended to give the question the credence lent it by the waxen-faced, weird-smelling customer on the other side of the cash register.
“Why am I such a bitch? Let’s see…Could be because a few months ago I was on my way to being a hotshot New England criminal defense attorney engaged to one of the most sought-after rising stars in the financial sector, who turned out to be a cheating, lying, malignant narcissist with disgusting mother issues.”
She leaned over the register, planting her elbows on the counter, and set her chin on her palm.
“Or it might just be due to the fact that very recently, some family member was in a fresh state of crisis, and so I let them talk me into moving my ass all the way back to the soggy tourist town I left for good effing reasons. Sonow, I have to use my overpriced Ivy League education to help gullible people pick out colorful rocks—most of which aren’t actual crystals, by the way—that these intellectual giants believe will alleviate their poverty, cure their illnesses, and/or help their dysfunctional relationships with ‘vibrations’ because some long-haired, vegan-leather-wearing, self-proclaimed witch who fancies herself a pedagogue,without a geology degree,by the way, insists that her friend’s sister’s aunt’s breast cancer shrank because she shoved a moss agate into her cleavage.”
Taking a much-needed breath, she lifted her head from her palm and began to tick bitchy reasons off on her fingers, because now she truly was wondering which component lent her the most aggravation and was balls-deep in helpful self-analysis.
“Combine that with the fact that the basement of this building is currently ankle deep in brackish ancient pipe and toilet water, the landlord is at an ashram in India and unreachable by modern means of communication, my left sock is too tight, the ceiling fan is squeaky, I’ve seen way too much of Guillermo’s plumber butt crack today, and instead of a good night’s sleep, I have a lumpy twin mattress in a second bedroom apartment where I listen to my twin sister pork her new fiancé every night through old-as-shit plaster walls. Oh, andthenyou come in here with your multiple nose rings, failing natural deodorant, and white-lady dreads with the audacity to suggest thatmy shop’s palo santo wood is subpar, and you want me to sell it at a discount? I can’t imagine why I’m being a bitch right now, can you?”
Lyra didn’t break eye contact with the customer, even as the substance-enlarged pupils misted over before the woman replied, “This isn’t your shop, it’s Liz’s, and she will hear about this when she gets back.” With that threat delivered, the woman hiked up her (unfortunately) braless tits and flounced out the door along with her long skirt, cowboy boots, a cloud of pachouli, and perpetual unemployment.
“Whatever, narc,” Lyra muttered to herself, returning to idly leafing through one of the magazines Liz Billings sold at the counter of Star-Crossed, Townsend Harbor’s premier (but by no means only) metaphysical shoppe.
Lyra had never been fired from a job before but wouldn’t mind explaining to future employers why she’d failed to help local spiritualists pick tarot cards with the right “vibe.”
Checking the time, she bit down on the inside of her lip, tearing a chunk away. How much longer would the plumbers take in the basement? The water pumps and hoses had been going forever. The fans were pushing a slightly moldy, sewer-y smell into the main floor, and she was pretty sure that old couple over there just slid a whole-ass “crystal ball” and pewter stand into a grocery tote.
Lyra narrowed her eyes, deciding what to do.
Shecouldcall the cops… But also, did she really want to bust a couple of shoplifting septuagenarians over a glass orb that sold for sixty bucks when it came in bulk from China at, like, seven dollars a pop?
There were eleventy more in the back, and look how in love these two blue-hairs were. He was even helping her carry the ill-gotten gains.
And here everyone thought chivalry was dead.
Lyra smoothed down her already perfectly controlled low ponytail and peeked around. The shop was a kaleidoscope of colors, with shelves filled to the brim with silks, wands, flowy clothing, tarot cards, jewelry, geodes, herbs, tonics, tinctures, spell jars, the odd unguent, and handmade candles. Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, casting a warm glow over the worn wooden floorboards.
And here she stood amidst a cacophony of crystals wondering how her life had taken such an unexpected turn.
A chime lent a whimsical sound to the moment, and the scent of sandalwood and lavender swirled through the disturbed air as Gemma, Lyra’s twin sister, stepped through their adjoining door. Though they were mirror twins, nothing about them matched. Where Lyra tended to dress like she was about to do a guest spot on CNN, Gemma’s vibe was thrift-store chic with homemade accessories that usually jangled way too much.
She made it work, however, as her brunette hair and verdant green eyes made just about every color, shape, and fashion crime look like it was on purpose.
The building on the Victorian waterfront street their stores occupied were charmingly eccentric, with its exposed brick, gingerbread trim, and original creaky floors. Star-Crossed was just the kitschy, new-age next-door neighbor that Bazaar Girls, Gemma’s yarn and craft boutique, needed.
Not a bad place to nurse a broken heart.
Well…a broken life.
Townsend Harbor was lovely and quiet, Water Street bustling with tourists and travelers. And the novelty of having two twin women running twin vintage shops was a nice promotional injection of cash for both businesses housed in the coveted old building.
Lyra tracked her sister’s progress toward her as Gemma stopped and offered to help the older couple bring their “shopping bag” to the front of the store so Lyra could check them out.
Though they’d been caught, the couple offered Gemma kind—if somewhat toothless—smiles and relinquished their bag as if that’d been their plan all along.
Lyra rolled her eyes. Since when had Gemma become the successful one?
