Sorcery and the Single Girl (18 page)

The men’s conversation was easy and smooth, and I relaxed enough to create two perfect mochas. I topped Mr. Potter’s with extra whipped cream, just the way he liked it, and then I turned to Graeme. “Whipped cream? Er, chantilly?”

His smile was just sly enough to make my heart pound as he accepted a dollop.

I handed over both cups and was about to join the conversation about the Friar Lawrence scene, when I realized that disaster loomed.

Neko and Jacques must be close to finishing with the American Family mothers. They’d come over to the coffee bar when they were done. They’d get the drinks that had lured them here in the first place. They’d stand at the counter and ogle Graeme.

And Neko would ask me questions. Questions that I had promised Melissa I wouldn’t answer. Questions that I had no intention of sharing with David Montrose or anyone else involved in my witchy life. Worse yet, Neko would jump to the conclusion that Graeme was “Nate,” and I’d be left making excuses to everyone, excuses that sounded feeble even as I tested them in my own mind. I shivered, suddenly chilled to the bone.

“Here!” I said, my voice a shade too shrill. “Mr. Potter, you must be exhausted after your trip back from Pittsburgh! Why don’t you sit down at the reference table!”

Graeme looked at me curiously, but he obligingly helped our elderly library benefactor over to a seat. I managed to arrange things so that Graeme’s back was to the coffee bar, so that Neko would not see anything suspicious when he came upstairs.

Now, if I could just have Neko’s and Jacques’s drinks waiting, I could get them out the door that much faster. Neko was easy—steamed milk, with just the smallest drop of coffee. Ecru, he preferred, he’d told me often enough. Not beige. Not ivory.

And Jacques? He was getting a latte whether he wanted one or not.

I made the drinks in record time, digging into my own hidden colonial pocket to extract money for the cash register. It was worth it, just to hurry them on their way.

Sure enough, Neko and Jacques accompanied the American Family mothers up the stairs. “Yes,” Neko was saying. “A daily reading session does make sense to me. I’m certain that the children would get much more out of it.” He smiled winningly and waggled his fingers at Kayla’s mother as the entire troop of miscreants left the Peabridge.

Then, he pounced on the coffee bar.

“Here,” I said, thrusting one cup into his hand and another into Jacques’s. “Go ahead. Take them with you.”

“It was cold downstairs,” Neko complained. “We’ll just sit down at that table in the sun, to warm up for a moment.”

That table. Next to Graeme and Mr. Potter.

“No!” I shouted, and then I remembered that I worked in a library. “No,” I repeated in a stage whisper. “Why don’t you take your coffee outside and warm up there.”

“Eet’s too cold,” Jacques said, stirring four packets of sugar into his latte. “The weather, eet has turned to autumn.”

“Fine,” I said, knowing better than to push the matter. “Stay inside.” Before I could figure out some other way to speed up my familiar’s departure, I saw Graeme push his chair back. As he started to stand, I said to Neko, “Wait here! I have to help a patron!”

I sailed across the room, grabbing the first book that came to hand. “Here!” I said, setting it down on the reading table between Graeme and Mr. Potter. Graeme had turned toward me as I approached, but I maneuvered myself into an awkward position toward the foot of the table, forcing him to turn away from the coffee bar. Away from Neko’s curiosity. Safe from prying eyes. I took a seat, and Graeme sank back into his own chair.

“I thought you might be interested in this!” I said, glancing down to see which book I’d grabbed.

Ports and Harbors of Colonial America.

Mr. Potter looked up with a perplexed smile. “Why am I interested in ports, Jane?”

Why, indeed? I opened the book at random, hoping to find an intriguing map. “You were in the Merchant Marines, weren’t you?”

“Me? With these eyes?” Mr. Potter laughed and waved a hand toward eyeglasses that would make Coke bottles seem fragile.

“I could swear that Uncle George said you’d served with them.” Okay. So I was desperate. I could not let Graeme turn around, could not let him draw Neko’s attention in any way.

Involuntarily, I glanced toward my familiar, only to find that he was staring at me intently. If he were still in his cat form, his tail would have twitched back and forth. He took a single step toward me, and I forced a bright smile. “Whoops! Another patron. I’ll be back in a moment.” Graeme started to stand again as I left, and I resisted the urge to press my fingers onto his shoulder. Neko would certainly notice that level of attention. “No, no,” I said. “Don’t get up!”

And then I was back with my familiar. “What?” I asked.

“I was just wondering?” He scuffed his shoe along the floor, looking for all the world like a schoolboy caught red-handed with the answer form for a multiple-choice test.

“Yes?” I wanted to glance toward Graeme, wanted to make sure there wasn’t anything suspicious about him and Mr. Potter, anything that would make Neko question my personal dedication to that particular pair of patrons. No. I could not look. I could not turn.

“May I lick the pitcher?”

I glanced at the stainless steel container that I used for foaming milk. It had already been wiped spotless. “Neko!” I said in exasperation. “You shouldn’t have done that! This isn’t our own kitchen.”

And then, like a nervous twitch, I couldn’t help but look over my shoulder. Couldn’t help but see Mr. Potter yawn and stretch and climb to his feet. I lunged forward, throwing myself into the space so that Neko could not look across the room.

“Jane, are you all right?” Jacques asked with Gallic solicitousness.

“You’re acting strange,” Neko said, much more frankly.

“I’m acting busy,” I insisted. “I have library work to do.”

Another quick glance—Mr. Potter was coming our way. For some reason, though, Graeme, was paging through the ports book, keeping his head lowered over the pages. Yes. There was some luck left in the world.

“No,” Neko said. “I’ve seen busy. You’re not busy at all.”

I made myself look toward Evelyn’s office. “I know whether I’m busy or not. Come on, you two. Get going.”

“Jane,” Mr. Potter said, and I was forced to turn around. “I must be going. Time to walk Beijing and read the newspaper. It was a pleasure meeting your young—”

“Yes,” I interrupted loudly. “Yes, you
should
be getting home. Beijing needs you.”

“Your young wh—” Neko started to ask, but I was already rushing Mr. Potter across the room.

“Have a wonderful day, Mr. Potter. And thanks again for the theater tickets. I’m glad you had a wonderful time in Pittsburgh!” And I finally hustled him out the door.

By the time I got back to the coffee bar, Neko was eyeing another stainless steel pitcher. I slapped the back of his wrist. “Out!” It would take me ages to sterilize the one he’d already defiled.

“What was that man saying? A pleasure meeting your young what?”

“A pleasure meeting my boss. Evelyn. The woman who will fire me, if she sees me spending more time talking to you.”

Neko looked dubious, but Jacques chose that moment to reach out for my familiar’s arm. “Let us go,” he said. “Eet ees time to get to work.”

Work? What did Jacques do? He always seemed available to lounge around the cottage with Neko. I wasn’t about to look a gift Frenchman in the mouth, though.

“Goodbye,” I said firmly. “And good riddance,” I muttered under my breath as they finally left the Peabridge.

“Jane!” Evelyn stepped out of her office before I could cross the room and collapse on a chair next to Graeme. “Come in here for a moment. I think that the idea of expanding American Families is brilliant. Positively the best notion you’ve had all year.”

I looked wildly toward Graeme. He had finally stood up and turned to face me. He must have understood my pantomimed frustration. He made a great show of shooting his cuff, glancing at his watch. He smiled slowly—sexily—and then he shrugged.
Later,
he mouthed.

And then he headed out the Peabridge doors.

Defeated, I slumped into Evelyn’s office, determined to find an explanation for why I could not survive daily American Family sessions.

“I
don’t know how you do it,” I said to Melissa, watching her swirl the foam on top of a customer’s latte. With a few deft twists of her wrist, she created one of Cake Walk’s trademarks—a perfect heart of layered white foam against the darker coffee base.

She reminded me of the clowns who created balloon animals at children’s birthday parties. They could take one four-foot balloon and twist it into a Tyrannosaurus Rex. If I, on the other hand, attempted to do something as simple as a sword, I’d end up creating some phallic sculpture that would make a mother scream and demand that her child drop the so-called toy immediately.

Melissa handed off the latte and accepted a few dollars in exchange. As she rang up the sale, I took a delicate sip of my own tea—Earl Grey, in honor of the dank day outside. I stared out at the gloomy weather, grateful that I’d taken a mental health day from the office. Some Fridays were meant to be spent away from work.

September had slipped into October and today’s rain had been falling without a break, tugging leaves from the trees and melting them into a slippery mash on the sidewalks. The rain matched my mood.

I sighed and said, “Melissa, we need to talk.”

Almost two weeks had passed since I had juggled patrons at the Peabridge. I’d invested a dozen more training sessions with David and Neko. I felt like I had memorized every book in my basement and worked the spells in at least half of them.

I’d only managed to see Graeme on one night, and then I’d practically fallen asleep over a late dinner and a single glass of burgundy at “our” restaurant, Bistro Francais. I probably would have embarrassed myself a few more times, but Graeme had announced that he had another business trip to London. He’d been gone for seven days, and I thought I might be going crazy. Our nightly phone conversations left me eager for his return, slated for next Wednesday night.

The spell-work was exhausting me. But I was equally worn down by the double life I was leading, the secrets that I was keeping—from Neko and David about Graeme. And from Graeme about the Coven. It was long past time to relieve some of that pressure. Long past time to be released from my Friendship Test. Hence, my mental health day and my presence in Cake Walk on a Friday afternoon.

“Sounds serious,” Melissa said, unsuspecting. She frowned with a best friend’s sympathy and leaned against the counter. Before I could dig up the words I needed, the front door opened.

Three women jostled into the store. Their cheeks were flushed, and their dripping hair was pulled back. Water pooled onto the floor from their running shoes. Melissa smiled automatically, as if to say that she could imagine nothing more fun than a Friday afternoon spent mopping up after her customers. With a rueful glance putting my intended conversation on hold, Melissa called out to the customers, “Nothing like an afternoon run to justify something from Cake Walk! What can I get you, ladies?”

Their orders bubbled up, and I watched Melissa handle both food and drink with an easy efficiency. She was
good
at what she did. Her coffee grinder never broke at crucial moments. It wouldn’t dare, given the smooth control of her hands on the levers. The runners took their snacks and conquered a table, falling into over-oxygenated chatter about their workout.

“You were saying?” Melissa finally settled down, once again leaning against the counter.

I was saying. I sighed. I didn’t want to confront my best friend, didn’t want to seem as if I was valuing the man in my life more than her. I grimaced and looked over her shoulder at the calendar on the wall. There were lines of X’s crossing off the days, the weeks, since I had last hung out at the shop. A twinge of guilt crinkled the skin around my eyes, especially when I saw two red X’s in the mix.

Two more first dates. First dates that a best friend should have known about.

I nodded toward the wall. “What did I miss in the first-date department?”

Melissa shrugged. “Are you sure you want to know?” “That doesn’t sound good.” Didn’t sound good on a couple of levels, I thought. Melissa would already have gushed about complete romantic fulfillment, about pledging the rest of her life to some man of her dreams. More important, though, Melissa shouldn’t worry about censoring herself, about telling me
anything
related to her dating life. After all, we were best friends.

So-called best friends. I guessed I’d been falling down in that department for a while.

“Come on,” I said, suddenly afraid of the distance that was spreading between us. “What happened?”

I saw the precise instant that she decided to share with me, decided to overlook the evenings I’d spent with Graeme, the nights I’d spent under David’s tutelage. Her smile was as warm as the ovens at the back of the shop. “Sequin?” she asked, nodding toward a large pottery plate of Ginger Sequin cookies.

She knew how much I loved them—they were as thin and crisp as sugar cookies, but the crystallized ginger on top gave them an added bite. Melissa didn’t make them often: the dough was tender, and the finished cookies had an unfortunate tendency to break across the middle. Unfortunate, that was, for Cake Walk’s bottom line. It was a downright boon to those of us who helped take care of the so-called culinary disasters.

I nodded, and Melissa produced a plate of “rejects” from beneath the counter. I smiled as crunchy ginger goodness melted over my tongue. “Thanks,” I said. “Now come on. Spill. Who was the first guy?”

She sighed. “A Dedicated.”

That would be Dedicated Metropolitan Singles. A group of unattached men and women who got together to do good deeds on a regular basis. The organizers of each project accepted volunteers, then distributed an e-mail list of names and numbers afterward, so that the workers could get in touch if they’d hit it off during the event.

Usually, Melissa’s Dedicateds were earnest young men. Too earnest. Melissa had been lectured by a vegan for conducting the abattoir of her bakery, sacrificing all those eggs and pounds of butter that kept innocent chickens and cows in servitude. She had been bullied into writing large checks to several Dedicateds’ favorite charities. She had been shamed into spending weekends patrolling local waterways, cleaning up other people’s messes.

I wasn’t a big fan of the Dedicateds, but I mustered a best-friend smile and asked, “So? Where did you go?”

“Dinner at Luna Grill, and a movie.”

I smiled cautiously. “So far, so good.”

“Oh, the dinner was fine. He ordered the pasta—with three toppings, so I knew he wasn’t a tightwad. I had the veggie panini.”

“Melissa,” I said, using a mock-warning tone. She knew I wasn’t interested in the menu.

“And then we went to the theater across the street. You know, the ones with screens as small as my television upstairs?”

“They’re not that bad. What did you see?”

“We were there for that new documentary, the one about the crazy old man who built the Taj Mahal out in the Nevada desert?”

“The one who saved tin foil since he was a boy?”

“Yep.” She nodded grimly, as if a mock Indian monument were the greatest threat to mankind’s safety and peace of mind.

“I take it that the documentary was not well-done?”

“I wouldn’t know. I couldn’t see it. I spent the entire evening wrestling with the octopus sitting next to me. I mean, it’s not like we’re in junior high anymore. Sometimes a movie is just a movie, you know?”

I knew what she meant. And I also knew that the date hadn’t been a complete disaster. It wasn’t like the Dedicated had broken her heart. He had merely wasted her night. She clearly hadn’t liked the guy from the get-go; I could tell from her halfhearted description of the date. When Melissa really liked a guy, her disaster stories were much more elaborate.

Once again, a pang of conscience tweaked the skin around my eyes. What sort of friend was I? I should be indignant on my best friend’s behalf, even if her bad night out had not been the disaster of a dating lifetime.

Melissa spread her hands flat on the counter. “I’m about ready to do it,” she said.

“Do what?”

“Become a nun.”

“Weren’t you raised Jewish?”

She snorted. “Jewish. Catholic. Whatever. I’ve got enough guilt for either. For both.”

“What do you mean?”

She wouldn’t meet my eyes. “I feel guilty about Cake Walk.”

I was shocked. Melissa had never expressed the slightest hint of doubt about her bakery before. “What do you mean?”

She picked up a clean rag from the stainless steel sink and ran it over the already spotless countertop. “I’m worried about it. About me. I’m afraid that I’m just indulging a hobby, when I should be working toward a career.”

“A hobby? What are you talking about? Cake Walk is
amazing!
”

“I need to grow my business.” She managed a tremulous smile, and I began to realize how much that admission had cost her. “I mean, I love what I’m doing here. I love running the shop and testing new recipes and stocking whatever
I
want to stock.”

“But?”

“But it’s not going to be enough in the long run. I need to expand.”

“Open up another bakery?”

She shrugged. “Like I’m going to find the time to do that? The only reason I can make ends meet on the rent here is that I staff the place myself.”

“So what’s changed?”

This time, she
did
meet my eyes. “What if I don’t find someone, Jane? What if I never meet the man of my so-called dreams?”

“What if you don’t? What difference does a man make? You’re running your own business, living your own life.”

She sniffed. “That’s easy for you to say. You’ve got Graeme. And even if things don’t work out with him, you’ll always have David and Neko.”

There it was. The perfect window for me to address the Friendship Test. But I could hardly ignore the source of my best friend’s distress. “Melissa! You’re being ridiculous. You’ll always have
me!
”

“You know that’s not the same. And you’re definitely not going to support me in my old age.” She shook her head and tossed the rag back into the sink. She scored a perfect two points, but I don’t think she really cared. “I need to save more, if I’m ever going to retire.”

“Retire? Melissa you aren’t even thirty yet!”

“If I’d gone to law school, I’d be a partner by now.”

“Maybe. But you’d also be exhausted and miserable and you’d hate every moment of your life.” I did some quick mental math. “And you’d most likely still be fighting to
make
partner. Working fifteen hours a day.”

She looked around, taking in every corner of the funky little bakery. “Like I’m not doing that now?”

“Melissa, you’re scaring me. I’ve never heard you talk like this before.”

“I guess I’ve never been quite as tired of the dating scene before. Quite as ready to stop and admit that I probably will be on my own forever.” She took a deep breath, and I watched her exhale slowly, like a yoga master. “Enough,” she said. “We’re not going to settle all my problems this afternoon. Why did you stop by? What did you want to talk about?”

Ach. This was so not a good time to bring up my successful dating life. I took a Sequin and crunched it methodically. Only after I had swallowed ginger-scented crumbs did I say, “Look, it’s nothing. We can talk some other time.”

“Ja-ane.” She drew my name into two syllables, the familiar wheedling of a best friend.

I took a deep breath and braved her gaze. “I-need-your-permission-to-tell-Neko-about-Graeme.”

“What?”

I forced myself to speak more slowly, to enunciate the words so that something other than a hummingbird could actually understand me. The effort made me shiver, a bone-deep trembling as if I’d been caught outside in a storm. “I need to tell Neko about Graeme. I’ve been going nuts, trying to keep them from finding out about each other, and it’s just going to be worse when Graeme gets back from London on Wednesday.”

“It was a Friendship Test!”

“It was. And I’ve kept it so far. But I think that this is something real, Melissa. I think Graeme’s going to be around for a while. I’ve spoken to him every night that he’s been away, but I can’t keep hiding what’s going on. Neko does live in my basement, you know.”

Oh. Bad choice. Mentioning my basement had to conjure up a picture of the couch that my familiar slept on. My familiar and, often enough, his boyfriend du jour. Most recently, the Frenchman who had spurned Melissa for the tender mercies of a cat-man.

Before I could figure out a way to make my argument stronger, the door opened and Siamese twins walked in.

Oh. Wait. They weren’t actually joined at the hip: they only looked like it. While Melissa waited to take their order, the pair of young Goths took a long minute to kiss, intent on raking each other’s tattooed shoulders with their black-painted fingernails. The girl finally came up for air, and Melissa took advantage of the break in the action to say, “Can I get you anything?”

“Um, yeah,” the guy said. “Two plain coffees.”

“Sumatran Samba or Colombian Caramel Cream?”

The customers had a whispered conference, requiring much nuzzling and—I tried not to look—a quick dart of his tongue stud against her teeth. “One of each,” came the guy’s final answer.

“With lots of room for cream,” the girl added helpfully.

Melissa nodded and poured two cups. The tough Goths proceeded to take them to the fixings bar at the end of the counter, adding enough milk and sugar to simulate coffee ice cream. Steaming coffee ice cream.

The rain chose that minute to pick up. Rather than risk their eye makeup running down their faces, the Goths huddled at a corner table, slurping their coffee like five-year-olds with glasses of chocolate milk.

Before I could resume my argument in favor of telling Neko about Graeme, the door opened again. I bit back an exasperated sigh and quenched another shiver. This was the bakery that Melissa worried wasn’t busy enough? The newcomer was a regular; Melissa grabbed for a carryout cup before the guy had even reached the counter.