Page 8 of The Rainbow Recipe
“Priscilla Broadhurst but call me Pris.” She grabbed the heavy bowl and carried it to the table.
He noticed she didn’t use her entire name, PriscillaMalcolmBroadhurst. He appreciated that. His mother would be off and swinging up and down the family tree.
Intrigued by her family tale of fleeing New England witch hunts in colonial America, he’d already ascertained that any connection to his mother’s family had to date back to the 1600s.
“Well, Pris, have a seat and tell me all about yourself. You obviously know how to cook.” Emma took the chair on Dante’s right.
Prissy Pris all but glowered and reluctantly settled at the far end of the table. “I own a catering business. I want to take it to the next level, so I enrolled in a cooking school near here. I asked Dante if I might rent a room rather than pay the exorbitant price the school is charging.”
Why did he find that hard to believe? Maybe because he’d never received the message to start with.
“Oh.” His mother looked vaguely puzzled as she dug into her salad. “I thought Dante said he was sending a nanny to help out. I’m sorry I left you on the doorstep.”
He grimaced and dug into his food rather than answer that. He had vaguely, and in quiet desperation, made that promise eons ago. But who had time to hunt for nannies? Affordable ones.
“My message must have gone astray,” demon lady said without blinking a lash. “I’m the one who should apologize. The school’s hours are limited, so I could help out in lieu of rent, if that would suit. I have to return home when the session ends in two weeks, but maybe that will give you time to find someone more suitable.”
Dante studied his salad bowl. What had she dressed it with? Liquid gold? Oil and vinegar had never tasted so good. His mother must have been experimenting with herbs again.
“I don’t even know where to begin,” Emma said with a sigh. “We’re too far out of town for anyone in the village to be interested. And the twins...”
As if they’d been listening, the little brats popped out of the cellar. He would have to buy a better lock for the outside door or they’d never be found again. Once used for wine and olive oil storage, the villa had cellars more confusing than Etruscan ones.
The she-devil motioned his mother to stay sitting. Without a word, she pushed salad bowls to the twins’ bench side of the table and got up to produce bread sticks. Why hadn’t he been offered a bread stick? Dante reached over and grabbed one. Damn, the thing was fresh. Andsweet?
“The children baked this afternoon. They must have their grandmother’s talent.” She munched a stick, apparently savoring it for the benefit of the twins.
Witch. He had to remember her family was known as witches for good reason.
The twins giggled and dug into their food. They were growing up fast. The last time he’d been here, they’d thrown food at each other and him. His mother had said that was how they communicated. They weren’t much into talking—like him.
Except he talked. That was half his job. He just didn’t talk at home because he had nothing to say.
Or he had so much to say, he didn’t know where to start. And no one wanted to hear what needed to be said. His mother filled in the silence quite well.
“If your thoughts get any louder, I’ll hear them,” the demon woman said, forking up her pasta without even looking at him. As if she’d actually heard him thinking.
His mother looked confused, rightfully so. The twins picked up lettuce in their fingers and shoved it into their mouths.
“My mother is an excellent cook. She could probably teach you more than the school.” There, he’d said something pleasant.
“It’s a class on appetizers. That’s what I serve most. I believe an acquaintance of yours accused me of poisoning his daughter with my crab and caviar crisps. I thought I’d up my game on his home ground.”
Emma gasped. Dante reached for the pasta bowl. “I assume no one else died and that’s why you’re not in jail. Does the acquaintance have a name?”
“Vincent Gladwell, owns a farm around here, ring any bells?”
Dante almost dropped the bowl.
Seven: Evie
KK’S GHOST
Afterthought,South Carolina
Roaming Larraine Fashions,surrounded by people in tailored suits and high heels—even the men in some cases—Evie felt like a rat catcher in her T-shirt, corduroys, and sneakers. Maybe she ought to buy more fashionable ghost-hunting duds. Maybe Larraine had a closet of spare clothes somewhere...Except Evie was only five-two and couldn’t come close to model thin.
Trying to imagine herself in a tailored suit, deciding she might rock heels, she wandered the echoing reception hall in search of a misplaced aura.
