Page 98 of Hopelessly Teavoted
The day before they left for college, words had hung unspoken from her lips that it wasn’t right. For them to be apart.
Vickie wanted to dive into the memory of what it had been like to feel Azrael’s magic, and to watch him lose control in the shower, but she had a shop to open. And then a makeshift coven to assemble, and a soul to reap.
With a ding, the baking timer disrupted her fantasy, and shepulled the muffins out of the oven, checking her watch and silently thanking Azrael for the spell work that had made this a thousand times easier. Sultry Sunday started in twenty minutes, and she still had to make coffee. Hazel wouldn’t be here until nine, which meant Vickie would handle the first hour on her own.
She adjusted the belt on her jean shorts, re-tucking her skintight cantaloupe-colored tank top. She was aiming to look like Baby fromDirty Dancing, and she’d curled her hair carefully for this. The white tennis shoes would not make it through the day in pristine condition, but that was all right. She could talk Azrael into spelling them clean again. This week’s Sultry Sunday was iconic movie outfit themed, and she hoped her customers came out in style.
Worry made Vickie bake, and so there were more muffins than she needed, but at least the kitchen smelled like her blends: blueberry and lavender, festive October chocolate and pumpkin, and banana nut vanilla. She’d arranged them in mahogany wicker baskets lined with orange-and-black cloth and carried them through the swinging doors to the front.
From outside the glass window, Hank waved. Today, the retired postman was wearing the exact red outfit Chi-Chi wore inTo Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar, and Vickie had to admit that he made a striking, albeit slightly larger-scale, John Leguizamo.
She flicked open the locks, and the little skull bells jingled.
“Morning, Victoria, or should I say, Baby? Get out of the corner with those coffees,” Hank joked.
“Morning, Chi Chi!” Vickie fired a smile, quite possibly her first authentic one in days. It was impossible not to smile at this man, dressed as he was.
Hank did a little twirl and a sashay.
“I brought my camera,” he said. “If you want to document this.”
“Yes, those will make for good pictures. What can I get you?”
He slid into the high-back velvet booth with the coffin-shaped table.
“One of those heavenly-scented muffins and a cup of Earl Grey, please.”
“Coming right up. What kind of muffin?”
“Whichever one smells like pumpkin, darling.” Hank’s face fell for a moment. “It was always Edwyn’s favorite.”
She smiled softly. “That’s nice. The people we love live on in our memories, Hank.”
Hank fiddled with his wedding ring, and she wished for an easier world, where magic didn’t have to be hidden and she could offer to bring Edwyn back for a few minutes, to say goodbye.
But the world was as it was, and sometimes that meant the best people were gone and the worst still with us. Vickie had seen her mother slink by in the back seat of the chauffeured town car behind shaded windows last week, likely sniffing at the little shop Vickie held so dear. Probably looking to see if Vickie had failed, and then driving away, disgruntled at the obvious success, but trying not to show any emotion on her face at all to avoid wrinkles. Reality wasn’t fair, but it existed.
“Yeah, that makes sense. This place always makes me feel better. Persephone Hart was so kind to us. We used to come here every Sunday. When Edwyn died, that first Sunday, she stopped by our condo with muffins and tea. The neighbors were aghast; you know how some people felt about the Harts, but damn if it wasn’t the only thing that made me feel better. Like Persephone’s kindness was what Ed would do. Started coming back here since you reopened. You do her memory justice too.”
Spots of color rose to Vickie’s cheeks. She was going to do it, to do what Persephone would have wanted, to love Azrael and watch over him. She knew the Harts worried; she knew how Azrael struggled to be normal, that silly concept that doesn’t really exist, and that results so often in squashing down individuality in favor of empty conformity.
Vickie poured boiling water over a rose hip and hyacinth blend in a teapot with glittering skulls, serving Mrs. Weatherby, who was clad in fullBreakfast at Tiffany’sregalia, complete with sunglasses and what might have been authentic jewels.
As soon as the nonagenarian walked away, Hazel leaned onto the counter and turned to Vickie, smiling at her like a cat about to pounce.
“So, Vickie. Mr. Hart has been brooding a little more than usual. We have all noticed in class.”
Oh lord.If there was one thing Hazel loved, it was meddling.
“That’s nice, Hazel.”
“Don’t act like I don’t remember him coming in here all the time in the summer, and like I haven’t seen him lingering when we close on weekends. The tension between the two of you was epic.”
Vickie rolled her eyes. Hazel and her friends were all over the spicy romance novels on video social media platforms, which was funny, because she’d heard more than a few adults argue that teenagers shouldn’t read romance novels. That made her snort. Hazel, like all teenagers, was an actual human person who did, in fact, know that sex existed. Books were a safe and healthy way to explore that.
“It’s complicated, Hazel.”
“Omigosh. I cannot wait to see whatever drama the two of you have play out here, like my very own book. Maybe I’ll tell him in class that he should come by the shop more often.”
