Page 2 of Ghosts, Ghouls, and Growls
“I wish.” I blow out a sigh. “Apparently, first babies are notoriously fashionably late.”
“Not this one,” Georgie says with a certainty I wish I could rely on as she plops down beside my mother. “Mercury is inretroshade.”
“Retrograde,” Mom corrects.
“That, too.” Georgie nods sagely before opening a basket and pulling out what I can only describe as a baby bonnet designed by someone having one serious LSD flashback. Think lots of color, lots of charms, and yet not enough charm to suffice. “I made this special for the kiddo. The protection charms are knitted right into the pattern.”
Jasper coughs to cover a laugh or perhaps it was horror. My husband, the tough-as-nails homicide detective, has learned to take my mother and her best friend’s eccentricities in stride, which is one of the many reasons I love him.
“It’s... colorful,” I manage as I wince at the thing.
“It’s hideous,” Emmie whispers, low enough that only I can hear, or so she thinks.
“I heard that,” Georgie says, despite it being physically impossible for her to have done so. I’m guessing she was expecting it on some level. She lifts a finger. “Just wait until your baby catches a cold because her head wasn’t properly protected from evil spirits.”
I exchange a look with Emmie, who smothers a giggle behind her hand as if we’re teenagers trying not to laugh during a serious lecture.
“How is the passion potion business going?” I ask, desperate to change the subject. Mom and Georgie’s latest entrepreneurial venture involves selling what they insist on callinggun oilorlove potionbut is actually just scented massage oil that they peddle to unsuspecting tourists.
Mom and Georgie own a shop down on Main Street called Two Old Broads where they sell mostly wonky quilts—quilts with all sorts of crazy shapes and colors that look like they were designed by someone who’s never seen a traditional quilt pattern and decided to wing it. And they not only sell those as traditional quilts but as quilted jackets, pet beds, pet clothes, and just about anything else you can turn a quilt into, because apparently, there’s no limit to what can be improved with the addition of random fabric scraps. Everything in their shop is adorable, and I’m on a mission to one day own it all. I’m doing pretty good at the effort, too, thus the storage unit I’m looking to rent.
“Business is booming, kid.” Georgie’s eyes light up as if Christmas came early at the mention of one of her zaniest ventures. “We’ve got a new flavor—cinnamon apple spice. Very seasonal.”
“Seasonal massage oil. How festive,” Jasper says with a wink.I’m not opposed to trying it out, you know.He shoots the thought my way with a waggle of his brows.
I waggle my brows right back because, let’s face it, every last part of me could use a massage.
“I’m just glad they’re not calling it flash o’ fun anymore,” Leo adds under his breath, probably remembering the unfortunate marketing campaign that shall not be spoken of again.
The truth of the matter is those potions of theirs were made for closed door activities that involve delicate parts. And well, there might be a lawsuit or two pending for minor burns and some light blistering.
Mom ignores them both. “We’re thinking of branching out into scented candles—as in making our own. Macy’s not the only one who can sell things that smell good, you know. I’m making up a batch now that smells just as heavenly as chocolate chip cookies.”
“Speaking of cookies,” I say, struggling to stand up, “I should refresh the snickerdoodle platter. I’ve basically been fueled by Emmie’s cookies these last few weeks. Oh, who are we kidding? I’ve been fueled by those cookies these entire last nine months.” And probably as far back as preschool, but no need to demonize a lifetime of sugar-laden carbohydrates now, or further highlight the fact my caloric intake has been on one serious uptick for almost a solid year now.
Jasper starts to rise. “Bizzy, let me get them.”
“No, no.” I wave him off. “If I don’t move every ten minutes, I’ll fossilize on this log. Archaeologists will find me in a thousand years and put me on display and call mePregnant Woman on Driftwood, circa the cruel maternity fashion era.”
I waddle over to the picnic table where we’ve set up our modest feast, feeling like a penguin with some serious bladder and balance issues. I no sooner reach for the plate of snickerdoodles than a warm sensation rushes down my legs.
For one mortifying second, I think I’ve finally done it. I’ve lost allbladder control—and who could blame me? I’ve been trotting to the restroom every ten minutes on a loop since the minute that stick revealed two lines. Then reality hits me like a ton of chocolate bricks. And boy, does chocolate sound good right about now. Have I mentioned my newfound addiction to all things created with cocoa butter? But I digress.
“Oh no, oh no, oh no,” I mutter like some kind of panicked mantra. “Either I just peed myself in a truly spectacular fashion or my water just broke.”
Five heads whip around to stare at me. Then chaos erupts faster than Georgie can utter the wordretroshadeagain.
Jasper leaps up so fast he nearly falls face-first into the fire. “What? Now? HERE?”
Emmie thrusts baby Elliot at Leo and rushes to my side. “Are you sure?”
“Either that or I just accidentally piddled enough to fill a kiddie pool,” I say rather calmly even though my heart is suddenly doing the cha-cha-cha against my ribs.
Mom and Georgie start gathering belongings all while moving with the precision of a SWAT team.
“I TOLD you Mercury was in retroshade!” Georgie shouts to the sky as if the planetary alignment was personally responsible for my water breaking.
And honestly? Stranger things have happened.
