The Shoppe of Spells (2 page)

“I’d feel better if your parents knew you were doing this.”

“I know. That’s your over-developed sense of responsibility speaking. You worry about those women and children in your care and let me worry about me. I’ll be fine.” Morgan started stacking the plates, hoping Jenn didn’t sense Morgan’s nervousness about the impending trip. Something was setting off small alarms in her brain. She pushed back her chair.

“Maybe I should go with you.” Jenn seemed to read her mind.

“Don’t be silly. And just who would look after Mrs. T with my parents gone?” She tried to remember if they’d said where they were going.

“I guess. I just hate this. I’ll feel better if we do a little research of our own.” Jenn walked over and flipped open Morgan’s laptop.

Morgan watched Jenn’s fingers fly over the keys. Her friend brushed back an errant strand of blond hair and took a sip of wine, all the while leapfrogging through sites. “Wow, it’s an old firm,” Jenn commented.

“So, I gather it’s real?” Morgan scooted her chair in for a closer look. “Impressive. And large.” The website was the epitome of quiet elegance. Not some shyster taunting,
Let me sue your employer!

“Who’s the lawyer you talked to?” Jenn asked.

“Wait.” Morgan got the letter and opened it again. “Kristoff Bask.”

Jenn typed, stopped and turned to Morgan. “He’s head of the whole damn place. What
have
you done, girl?” she goaded, her eyes twinkling.

“Damned if I know.” Morgan tried not to look worried. “At least we know they’re legit.”

“And then some. This firm has been around since 1759, originally begun right here in Virginia. It is one of the oldest in the country.”

Jenn noticed the time. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to run. Want me to leave this on?” When Morgan shook her head, Jenn shut down the computer.

“Thanks for coming over. I feel better,” Morgan lied.

“Try not to stay gone too long; you know I’m not good with plants.”

“Just don’t over water them. Wait ‘til the dirt feels dry,” Morgan followed Jenn to the door, “not cracked, like last time.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Morgan laughed. “It’s all herbs this time. They’re pretty forgiving. Besides, I won’t be gone long. And Mrs. T will let you know when you’ve neglected her.” A soft mewl sounded from atop the hutch.

“She and I do fine.” Jenn glanced up at the cat. “At least until she decides to sneak out.”

“Actually, she’s never left this floor or the balcony. I think she just likes to prove to us she can, if she wants to.”

Jenn threw the cat a glance. Mrs. T flopped over and stretched out a delicate paw. Jenn stroked the pad.

“How’s Rob?” Jenn asked.

“We broke up.” Morgan walked over to a cabinet, pulled out a package. “Before I forget. Here’s your Patchouli soap.”

Jenn took the package, inhaled, and let a languid smile form. “I wish you had money to open your own shop. You are so good with scents and all things herbal. By the way, this isn’t distracting me from your Rob comment. What happened?”

“Nothing much.” Morgan shrugged. “I just realized we weren’t that compatible.”

“And I thought you guys were so cute together. He was very handsome, in a geeky, professorish sort of way.”

Morgan shrugged, not offering any details.

“Okay, I won’t push. I know you’ll tell me when you’re ready.”

The phone rang.

“Go get that. I’ll let myself out.” Jenn waved and pulled the door closed behind her.

Picking up the phone, Morgan saw her mom’s cell number. “Where’ve you been?” she asked without preamble.

The phone crackled and her mother’s broken voice squeaked back, “…went…tree Falls…”

“What?” she shouted into the phone. “You’re breaking up.”

“Crabtree Falls for anniversary…” It went dead.

Morgan stared at the phone. She’d forgotten their anniversary. How could she? Her parents usually started teasing one another three weeks in advance. It came from a long tradition of forgetting the actual date. Once she had slipped in and placed large sticky notes all over the house with nothing but the number “27” on them. Her mom still had one stuck to the
photo of her grandmother, sitting on the dresser. Good for them. They loved Crabtree Falls.

She smiled. What they loved was each other. Oh sure, they squabbled. Hell, they couldn’t paint a door together without arguing about how to do it and who was right. Nevertheless, no matter how much they teased, they still hugged and their eyes twinkled when they looked at one another—and at her. They considered her their late-life miracle. They said she was the best of both of them. With her mom’s red hair and her dad’s green eyes, she was a true compilation of the two.

Her parents were unsurpassed. Even her friends thought so. They gave her breathing room, yet let her know they were there for her. She could tell them anything. The only thing she hadn’t shared with them was the disaster that was Rob. She felt a little guilty about that. Her mom and dad hadn’t particularly liked him from the start—not that they’d said anything. It was more what they didn’t say; they were too nice, too formal.

As for the joblessness—okay, she hadn’t gone running to them when that happened. Working at the little book store/gift shop had been the closest thing to what she dreamed of owning one day. She hadn’t wanted to worry her parents. Besides, with a degree in Business and a minor in Accounting, Morgan had had her pick of opportunities straight out of college. Who would’ve thought getting a new job would prove to be so difficult. She’d tell her parents about the lay-off and the lawyer when they got back. No need to ruin their getaway.

She picked up the phone, dialed the house number, and waited for it to go to voicemail. “Mom. Dad. Happy Anniversary. Something’s come up. I have to go to Atlanta. I should be back about the same time you are. I’ll fill you in then. We’ll do an anniversary dinner celebration when you get back. Love you both. Have fun, you lovebirds. Bye.”

Morgan fixed herself chocolate peppermint tea and settled down on the sofa. Soon, Mrs. T snuggled into Morgan’s lap and they sat companionably while Morgan contemplated dreams of a simple shop, fragrant with her own special concoctions, and Mrs. T counted her names, as cats are wont to do—according to the musical.

****

Promptly at seven Monday morning, Morgan got a phone call confirming transportation to the airport. By seven-thirty, she found herself tucked into the back of a black town car, traveling the four miles to the airport. This wasn’t necessary, she mused. The lawyers were certainly thorough with their door-to-door service.

She found very little congestion and got through the security maze in record time. Settled in first class—a “first” for her, she glanced out the window. The engine revved, the plane vibrated, and the sound built. This was the only part she hated. This—and landing. However, once up in the air, she loved the sensation that she was flying, wingless, above the earth, above the clouds. Morgan looked out the window and watched houses grow smaller until they blurred and disappeared.

The flight attendant served her orange juice and a warm croissant. She twisted around in her seat and peered over the top, trying to see if economy was offered anything. A man sitting next to the aisle behind her looked up and smiled. She swung back around and glanced down, letting her long bangs hide her eyes. What the hell. She wriggled in her seat. Definitely roomier. She smiled and settled back to sip her juice.

The crush of people exiting the plane forced her into motion. Like a lemming, she trailed behind them as they wound around a bit until they left the restricted area. She stepped away from the crowd and stopped.

“Miss Briscoe?” A man in a black uniform stepped up to her. Without waiting for acknowledgment, the stuffy, unsmiling man continued, “Will there be any luggage, miss?”

“No.”

“Very good, miss. If you will follow me.” He turned and led the way. She was so busy watching his back, she had no sense of the airport, except that it was crowded. The driver stepped through the doors where a black sedan waited. He helped her into the rear of the car with all the aplomb befitting a dignitary.

She leaned forward. “Where are we headed?”

He glanced into the rearview mirror. “Downtown, miss.”

The vehicle moved further into the city. She craned her neck to look at the tall buildings. He pushed a button and the sunroof slid back. She looked up at the skyline and smiled at him in the rearview mirror. He turned onto a wide street shaded by heavily laden tree limbs overhanging each side. The concrete congestion disappeared. “Are we going to Bask & Morrisette?”

“Yes, miss.”

The sedan passed palatial homes on magnificently landscaped lawns. Small neighborhood shopping strips, as beautifully landscaped as their surroundings, sat nestled near the estates. The car slowed and turned into a gated drive. As they approached, tall iron gates slid back behind ivy-covered brick walls. She turned around and watched the gates slide firmly back into place. Even within the cool confines of the elegant automobile, she felt her palms dampen. She turned back and leaned forward to get a better view.

A long, stone drive curved in front of a Tudor-style mansion. Dark green ivy worked its way up deep red brick. She looked across the lawn. Perfectly orchestrated landscaping obscured the mansion and its ancillary buildings from the road. The chauffeur pulled in front of stone steps and stopped, tugged at his hat as he walked around the front of the car, opened her door, and extended his hand to help her out. He turned and preceded her up the steps to a tall set of ornately carved wooden doors. The chauffeur opened one of the doors and stepped back. She stepped into a foyer that smelled of wood and polish—the distinct smell of old money—and was glad she had opted to wear the dressier linen pantsuit.

A large reception desk, dwarfed by the mammoth foyer, sat in the middle. The receptionist looked up from what she was doing. “Miss Briscoe?”

“Yes.”

“Follow me, please.” The woman rose, took a step toward the stone staircase, and waited for Morgan to join her. She led her up the stairs. “Mr. Bask is expecting you.”

The tapping of their footfalls echoed on the steps. The 15-foot wide stairway rose a full story to a landing overlooking formal gardens before splitting and proceeding to the upper floor. Morgan paused at the window. Before her stretched grounds that had taken years, if not decades, to perfect. A maze, its age revealed by the grandeur of the hedgerow, adorned the farthest portion of the terraced grounds. In an instant, she was strolling along the paths of the maze, inhaling gardenia and lavender. She blinked. The receptionist waited patiently where the stairs split. Baffled, Morgan glanced back out the window before following her up the steps. They stopped outside of a mahogany door. The woman tapped lightly.

“Come in,” a muffled voice barely carried through the heavy wood. The receptionist quietly opened the door and moved back. A distinguished man, about sixty years of age, rose, the epitome of an accomplished barrister. A stern expression marked his otherwise smooth features.

Morgan stepped into the room. Light filtered through lead-glass panes, casting prisms of color onto the thick Aubusson rug and anointing the room with a sense of reverence.

“Miss Briscoe,” he acknowledged and waved her to the chair in front of the desk. He waited until she took a seat before sitting down in his ornate wood and leather chair. He rifled through the papers on his desk, its untidiness a contradiction to his austerity.

She stared at the front of the desk. When he looked at her, she ducked her head and glanced at him from under her bangs. “This is the most magnificent desk I’ve ever seen.”

A glimmer of a smile broke his countenance. “Yes, isn’t it? Early eighteenth century.”

She reached over and gently touched one of the carved heads abutting the front and top. It was smooth as satin. Warm. Almost alive. “And,” she added, “I think that’s the friendliest gargoyle I’ve ever seen.”

“D’Artagnan,” he said, shuffling papers again. Not looking up, he added, “Athos, Porthos, Aramis—”

“The Musketeers.”

“Yes.” Having found what he was looking for, he sat back and looked at her. His quick intake of breath was all that hinted at his distress before he recovered. She immediately looked down, avoiding his eyes.

“I’m Kristoff Bask. Thank you for coming.”