What's a Witch to Do?: A Midnight Magic Mystery (21 page)

“I saw the condoms. You intend to play nurse with the doctor, you slut you.”

“I just—I—in case,” I stammer. “You know.”

“Hey, no judgments here,” she says with a chuckle. “I think it’s a damn fine idea.”

“It probably won’t get that far anyway.”

“The man sent you flowers twice this week. You damn well better give him something in return. It is the polite thing to do.”

I throw up my hands. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“I’ll bet all that prudery melts away when you’ve got your ankles over his shoulders.”

I smack her, and she chuckles. “Enough smut talk. Have you
found out anything on Cheyenne or Erica?”

“Erica, no. But Cheyenne has been in rare form the past few days. She won’t shut up about Adam. Keeps asking all the McGregor’s about him.”

“Crap. What have they been saying?”

“That they don’t know him.”

“Think she’s suspicious?” I ask.

“I think she wouldn’t give a damn if someone told her he was a serial killer.”

Nothing clouds judgment quite like lust, as this week has taught me. “What about when people talk about the demon or me?”

“Well, when Meg came in, I did hear Cheyenne say it was probably you who summoned it so you could play demon slayer. Oh, and she gave me a message to give to you. I’m paraphrasing, but the gist is, ‘Just because you’re not getting any, the people around you shouldn’t suffer. Next time call a plumber.’ What happened?”

I fill her in on my various crimes, and the rest comes spilling out. What Cheyenne said about me, the barn, police station, the whole shebang. “What the hell is the matter with me?”

“You’re horny,” she states plainly. “I’m sure the doctor can give you a prescription for it.”

I’m surprised to see Debbie’s car in the driveway. We walk up to the house and find the girls sitting in front of the TV. I was half expecting the smell of pot roast or something equally delectable, but not tonight. “Hey, girls.”

“Aunt Debbie’s here,” Sophie says. “She’s in the attic.”

“Where’s Adam?” I ask.

“He left when Aunt Debbie came,” Cora reports. “He wanted to run away.”

My stomach clenches and intense fear grips me. “He’s gone?”

“He went for a run,” Sophie clarifies. “He said he’d be back soon.”

I literally breathe a sigh of relief. “Oh. Okay.”

“This is all fascinating, but we need to get cracking,” Tamara says. “You girls behave while I doll up your aunt for her big date.” She pushes me up the stairs and into my bedroom. There are three dresses on my bed that Debbie must have pulled, all black and at least ten years out of style. I really do have nothing to wear. Tamara grimaces. “Ugh. Oh well, first things first. Let’s dye your hair.”

I change into my black ratty bra, then Tam gets to work. The goop reeks but such is the price of beauty. Just as she finishes covering my head, Debbie swans in, still dressed in her work suit with a bright smile on her face. “Hey,” she says.

“Hey. What are you doing here?” I ask. “I thought you and Collins were checking the wedding flowers tonight.”

“I called in reinforcements,” Tamara says.

“Good thing she did. Never would have found Granny’s dresses otherwise.”

“What?”

Debbie dashes back into the bedroom, then returns with two of the most beautiful gowns I’ve ever seen. They’re both from the fifties. Full skirts down to the knee with netting underneath. The one on the right is bright red velvet and sleeveless like a pin-up girl would wear. The other is off the shoulder and made of a light pink metallic material with crystal stars across the neckline. I love them both.

“Those were Granny’s?” I ask.

“Yeah. I remember finding them a few months ago when I was looking for Daddy’s law books for Greg. These are the only two not needing mending. Now, I think both will fit and look great, but my vote is for the red one. You’ll look sexy as hell.”

“Especially with your darker hair,” Tamara adds.

“I don’t know. It’s so … red. And my arms aren’t made for it.”

“That’s why you’ll have your black shawl and that way you can wear black shoes,” Debbie says.

“Two against one,” Tamara says. “You’re wearing the red one, and that’s that.”

Oh boy.

Debbie leaves in search of shoes, jewelry, and the shawl while Tam continues on my hair. I feel like I’m on one of those makeover shows. Always turns out well for them. Tam wraps my head in saran wrap to keep it in place, and as I don’t look ridiculous enough, smooshes avocado mask all over my face. Debbie returns and chuckles. “You look like dinner.”

“Funny,” I say as I stand from the toilet. “Speaking of. I should start on—”

“Stop,” Debbie says. “I’ll take care of it. You aren’t allowed to leave this room until the big reveal.”

Debbie walks out to feed the little monsters while Tam paints my nails and then toenails bright red. She leaves me to call her kids as I gingerly switch to shorts so I can shave my legs. I read somewhere this is a no-no for a first date because it means you intend to sleep with him. Since I sort of do—fifty-fifty at this point—I go for it. I manage to finish the first leg with only a tiny nick and no ruined nails when the sound of running water from the girls’ bathroom next door overshadows Carrie Underwood’s singing. “Oh crap.”

I grab a towel to cover my bra and rush out of the bedroom. The water continues to run as I step into the hallway and pound on the bathroom door. “Sophie, take a shower later! I—”

The door flies open and the entire English language is zapped from my brain. Instead of a cute ten-year-old, I’m greeted by a sweaty werewolf in nothing but a tiny towel wrapped around his waist. Hell’s bells. The animal part of my brain takes the wheel. I drink him in as if I was dehydrated. His legs are as muscular as the rest of him. I can’t take my eyes off them. Okay, I can’t unglue them from the gap where the slit of the towel reaches his hipbone. If he moves I might be able to … I suppress a whimper. I better sleep with Guy tonight or pretty soon I’ll be jumping the mailman. “Yeah?” he asks.

“Um … ” Say something! “You’re sweaty.”

“I went running.”

All I can manage is an, “Oh.”

“Do you … want something, Mona?”

Hell, yes.
I go to play with my hair like I do when I’m nervous but touch plastic. Reality, or really mortification, hits me. I’m in shorts, a ratty bra, my face is green, and I have goo in my hair. I am the bog monster from the planet Ick. “Shower! I’m dyeing my hair, and I need a shower in ten minutes.”

“I’ll be done by then. I’ll just take a quick one.”

“Okay, great, bye,” I say quickly as I scurry back to my bedroom and shut the door. And I just killed any chance of him ever having romantic feelings for me. Dead. Yeah. Ugh! I groan and shake my head before shuffling to the bathroom to beautify myself for a man I still have a chance with.

I shave, trim, shower, shave some more in a place I never thought to before—per Tamara and
Cosmo
’s
advice—moisturize, exfoliate, blow dry, straighten, and keep perfectly still as my sister and best friend apply makeup as if they were painting a Monet. What we women go through while men just shave, brush their hair, and walk out the door. So unfair.

Finally, after over two hours of torture, I pull on my Spanx and dress—which barely zips—and step out in my faux velvet heels. “Tada!” I say with little enthusiasm.

“Oh. My. God,” Tamara says, eyes bulging.

“Wow,” Debbie adds with a similar expression.

I go to the full length mirror and join the eye-bulging brigade. I look … amazing. The darker hair and red lipstick off-set my skin, making it almost glow. My brown eyes pop with the eyeliner and shadow even brings out the gold flecks. But that’s nothing to what this dress does to my figure. It’s almost a perfect hourglass with just enough cleavage to be sexy yet not trashy. I should wear heels more often because my hearty calves look muscular. Hell’s bells, I’m a babe.

“Sutcliffe won’t know what hit him,” Tamara says with a proud smile.

Per their instructions, I wait in the hallway as Tam and Debbie gather everyone for the big reveal. “Does she look pretty?” Cora asks downstairs.

“Very,” Debbie says. “Got the camera ready?”

“All set,” Tamara says. “Presenting the most eligible bachelorette in Gardenia County, though I guarantee not for long after tonight, the spectacular Mona McGregor!”

That’s my cue. They all applaud as I step onto the landing. I’m greeted by shock and awe below. Sophie smiles, Cora squeals, and Adam … his hands stop mid-clap and his jaw drops a little. Goodbye bog monster, hello gorgeous. “How do I look?” I ask the audience.

“Awesome,” Sophie says.

“You’re so pretty!” Cora squeals.

“Thank you,” I say to them before turning to the still shocked Adam. “Adam? Male perspective?”

“Um … ” He pauses. Seems he’s caught speechlessness from me. He looks at me as if there is nothing else in the world. “Beautiful. No other word for it. You’re simply beautiful.”

His words come close to bringing tears to my eyes. I want to stop in time and live in this moment. “Thank you,” I say, voice quaking with emotion.

But it’s not to be. “Picture time!” Tamara says, killing the mood.

I pose for about five pictures without my usual protest, as I’m sure I’ll never look this good again. When I descend the stairs, the girls insist on hugging me and petting my dress. Adam keeps glancing at my chest when he thinks no one is looking. I do have a great rack. “Guys, I gotta go. I’ll be late.”

Debbie turns to Adam. “You’re not going dressed like that, are you?” she asks the gray shirt and blue jeaned man.

“He’s staying here,” I say.

“But he’s your bodyguard,” Debbie says. “What if the demon—”

“He’s not going on my date with me,” I state. “End of story.”

“Yeah, she’s going to need privacy,” Tamara says with a wink.

“Why?” Cora asks.

“Duh,” Sophie says, “she’s going to have sex with Dr. Sutcliffe.”

“O-kay,” I chuckle before she can elaborate further, “it is definitely time for me to leave.” I kiss the girls’ heads. “Behave.” I look at Adam, who wears the remnants of a scowl. “I guess I’ll be home …
whenever.”

“Fine,” he says curtly.

I give a quick hug to my fairy godmothers, grab my car keys, and hustle out the door before I lose my nerve.

Here goes everything.

• Bachelorette auction
  

For a non-member of the Gardenia Country Club, I am here quite frequently. Just this year I’ve graced its halls seven times, mostly with Debbie and Greg to coordinate the wedding with the staff. On any normal year I come here about half a dozen times for various weddings, birthday parties, or when Clay is nice enough to bring me as a guest so he can whip my butt at golf. Tonight it is as elegant as always with the gas lamps flickering up the driveway, white globe string lights hung on the lawn amid the Spanish moss and willow trees, all leading to the entrance over perfect grassy hills. The cherubic fountain alternating colors spews its water in front of the cobblestone building and waiting valets. I drive past and down a hill, over a wooden bridge to the parking lot. It’s about half full with BMWs, Lexuses, and the odd Ferrari scattered around. My Acura sticks out like a model’s hipbones.

I started getting nervous when I left the town proper, the non-fun butterflies multiplying as the miles passed. Now as I re-apply my lipstick, my hands tremble. My confidence and determination have completely left the building. Or really, I just don’t want to do this. It’s a bad idea of epic proportions. I am well aware of this fact. Now. On the way over I realized this could all be a set-up to humiliate or kill me. If Erica is the one who wants me dead, she could have recruited Guy to lure me here. They could be lovers in cahoots. I don’t have a shred of evidence, but that doesn’t mean a damn thing. Oh this is such a bad idea. I wish Adam was here. I was an
idiot
to make him stay behind. He was probably right that day in the store. Why the hell would Guy all of a sudden be interested in
me
?

Okay, stop it. Just stop it. You’ll be surrounded by people, you have all your protection charms and amulets, and you made a damn commitment. You gave your word, and that is sacrosanct.
Get out of the frigging car
.

So I do. I walk over the wooden bridge above the creek and up the paved hill, my shawl wrapped around me, clutch bag in hand, and head back.
Fake it till you make it
. The valets nod as I pass and Jimmy, the doorman, smiles as I walk in. The décor is old money with white painted walls and burgundy carpet. Paintings of Confederate soldiers and huntsmen hang on each panel. The hallway opens onto the hexagonal reception area, where three middle-aged men dressed in business suits pace around and shout into their iPhones. I consider myself a feminist but damned if my self-image doesn’t skyrocket as each of the men eyes me up and down like I’m prime rib.

The party is in the Jefferson Hall where Debbie’s reception will be, but tonight it’s sparsely furnished for the cocktail party before the auction. I give my name at the door so I don’t have to pay the hundred-dollar cover charge. Lining the walls are vendors selling their jewelry and other items for the silent auction. More men in suits and women in ornate cocktail dresses chat and swill champagne that waiters cart around on trays. Damn, those lamb chops look good. I scan the crowd for familiar faces, spotting Clay off to the side interviewing homecoming queen Naomi Ferguson. She looks spectacular in a sparkly pink dress a little too high in the skirt for my taste. My self-image gets knocked down a peg or nine.

“ … all about charity,” Naomi says into Clay’s recorder as I join them. “It’s so important.”

Clay turns off his recorder. “Thank you,” he says to Naomi, who smiles and slinks off to mingle. He takes one look at me and his jaw almost drops. “Holy crap. Mona?”