Girl's Guide To Witchcraft Page 12

  "There wasn't any 'aside from that.' Our conversation was all-McDonald's, all-the-time. Oh, except for one thing. The thirty-eight was a typo."

  "A typo?"

  "He meant to say forty-eight. At least, that's what I'd imagine, given his appearance. Or maybe he's a youthful fifty-eight."

  "So, there you were, having drinks with a fifty-eight-year-old McDonald's franchisee...."

  "At least I had the good sense to plan this one for drinks only. He begged me to join him for dinner, but I told him I already had a commitment. If anyone ever asks, I was helping you bake a tres leche cake last night. You needed it for a work colleague's birthday."

  "Tres leche. Birthday. Got it." I shook my head and started to consider the value of yet another this-isn't-worth-it-why-are-you-pushing-so-hard-to-find-the-man-of- your-dreams speech. Before I could work out a new angle, though, the door to Cake Walk opened.

  And a woman walked in.

  I recognized her from the photographs that Gran kept around the house. The old ones, of course, since my grand­mother had not seen fit to update the collection, intent as she was on keeping me in the dark about Clara's continued existence. Not that I'm bitter, or anything like that.

  She had red hair. She clearly had exploited the skills of Lady Clairol, but if the shade was even close to natural, I could see where I got the russet highlights in my own hair. Her eyes were hidden behind giant sunglasses, as if she thought she was a movie star tragically misplaced along the C & O Canal in Georgetown. Her skin was pale, a shade or two lighter than my own, and she seemed to have covered up suspected freckles with a heavy coat of makeup. Her neck was starting to sag, and her chin was softened by hints of age.

  Hints of age, and the wages of hard living, I thought uncharitably.

  I wondered what her eyes looked like behind those absurd sunglasses. Were they the same as mine? Did she have the flecks of gold that made the hazel seem deeper than it actually was?

  "Mrs. Madison?" Melissa asked, finally breaking the spell.

  "Smythe," she said, drawing out they into a long vowel, just like Gran did. Of course. She wouldn't use my father's last name. She'd left him behind, like she'd left me. Like she'd left Gran. “Clara," she corrected herself before she extended her hand to Melissa.

  My best friend smiled as if she always hosted my long-lost, drug-fiend relatives on a slow Saturday morning in the bakery. "I'm Melissa White," she said, shaking hands firmly. "And I'm sure you've realized that this is Jane."

  I stood there, trying to remember what to say. Had Miss Manners ever written a column about reuniting with parents who had abandoned you? With parents who lied to you for a quarter century, and then decided to come back into your life? I'm sure there was some specific etiquette; I just didn't know what it was.

  Once again, Melissa came to my rescue. "Why don't you two take a seat, and I'll bring some coffee." She flashed Clara the smile of a professional hostess. "Cream? Sugar?"

  "Thank you. I appreciate the offer, really I do, but I don't drink coffee."

  Melissa sent me a sideways glance that was meant to carry an entire conversation, like smoke signals across the high plains. "Tea, then? We've got a variety of flavors."

  "Oolong?"

  Melissa's smile grew broader. She knew my favorite when she heard it. "With just a bit of cream?"

  "Exactly!" Clara looked as if she might clap her hands together in joy. Or relief. I couldn't help but steal a glance at those hands, and I was strangely relieved to see that they were completely different from my own. Her fingers were thick. Short. Stubby. But the nails were the same—bitten to the quick.

  I silently promised to take care of my own nails once and for all. Neko would certainly help me with a manicure. Roger, Neko's newfound Adonis, had to offer them at his salon. Roger. The man owed me, after getting me into this.

  Melissa waved us over to the two-top in the corner, the table that provided the most privacy in the small shop. Clara waited until I sat down; then she took her seat. At first, she put her hands on the table, entwining her fingers, but then she shifted them to her lap. I imagined them clenching and unclenching as our silence stretched out. As if she'd only just remembered that she was wearing Hollywood glasses, she peeled them off, folding them carefully before return­ing her hands to her lap.

  Bingo. Hazel. Gold flecks. More bloodshot than I hoped my own were.

  "Jeanette," she said.

  "What!" I couldn't help myself. She didn't even re­member my name.

  "Jane!" She blushed crimson—the same telltale flush that I suffered through every time I was embarrassed. "I'm sorry, Jane."

  "Why did you call me that?"

  "It's your name. The name I gave you. Well, your father and I."

  Her voice was deeper than I'd expected, as if it had been sanded down by too much whiskey and too many cigarettes. She spoke in short, sharp sentences, reinforcing that she was every bit as nervous as I was.

  I supposed that should have made it easier for me. I should have realized just how much we had in common, how much we both were suffering. After all, I'd read my Shakespeare. I knew how grateful mothers were when they found their lost children. In Winter's Tale, Hermione's reunion with Perdita was joyous; it finally awakened the entire mourning kingdom. But I didn't feel joyful. I didn't feel grateful. I felt more as if I'd like to exit, pursued by a bear. Anything but continue to sit here and make small talk.

  "Gran always called me Jane."

  Clara pursed her lips. "She would. She never liked the name Jeanette. She thought it was fussy. She even made me put 'Jane' on your birth certificate, but I've always thought of you as Jeanette."

  Gran was right! I wanted to shout. Melissa spared me the need to reply when she carried our tea over to the table. She used one of her cork-backed trays, and she shifted mugs, hot water, tea strainers, loose tea and cream with the ease of familiarity. The coup de grace, though, was the platter of Sugar Suns, iced lemon cookies that always made me smile. "Thanks," I said, but she disappeared behind the counter before I could beg her to sit down and join us.

  Clara and I busied ourselves with our tea. She liked it much weaker than I did; I almost asked her why she didn't just wave her tea strainer over the steam that rose from her mug. But I heard the words before I said them, and knew that they would sound too snarky. I settled for passing her the cream and taking odd satisfaction that she took more than a "bit." She added a downright dollop. "So. Jane."

  I wanted to click my tongue and roll my eyes and toss my hair in a perfect approximation of teenaged frustration. After all, Clara had been exempted from dealing with me when I was stuck in those terrible years. Thrusting down my annoy­ance, I settled for stating her name in the exact tone that she had used. "Clara," I said, and I watched her shift back on her chair.

  "I'm not surprised that you're angry with me," she said. "My counselor said that you probably would be."

  "Your counselor?" I did not like the idea that Clara had been talking about me with strangers. I mean, I'd gone out of my way not to talk about her. Even Melissa hadn't heard the constant monologue inside my head, my ceaseless ques­tions about what Clara wanted, why she was returning to my life now, what she would be like, what all this would mean?

  "She's my...I guess you'd say that she's my spiritual advisor." Clara smiled for the first time since entering the bakery.

  I bit off a Sun ray and let the sugary frosting mingle with the tart cookie on my tongue. I chewed a few times, re­membering Gran's constant admonitions not to wolf my food, and then I said, "What religion?"

  Clara lifted her chin as if I'd challenged her. "The Uni­versal Family of Light."

  Uh-huh.

  So, she belonged to a cult. I immediately pictured her in a white robe, offering up all her worldly belongings to some wrinkled old man in a loincloth. Clara was waiting for a response, and I dug deep into the civility well. "I don't think they mentioned that one in catechism."

  She smiled ruefully. "And I'm
sure your grandmother didn't bring it up."

  "Leave Gran out of this! She wasn't responsible for teaching me about your church!" I was surprised by the strength of my reaction, by my need to protect Gran.

  Especially, a voice whispered at the back of my mind, when Gran had not protected me. She hadn't given me the facts that I needed to know; she hadn't told me about Clara in the first place. It was as if she'd sent me out on a first date without any prior discussion of birds, bees or the wayward hands of teenaged boys. She'd left me vulnerable, and I hated the feeling.

  "I didn't mean to criticize your grandmother," Clara said. "It's just that she's never approved of the Family."

  "What sort of things do you believe?" I asked, because I needed to say something, and I didn't want to dwell any more on Gran and her role in this whole strange reunion.

  "We believe in the harmonic balance of the world. We believe that there are some places that are holy, sacred wells where the powers of the ancients can still be felt. We believe that there are certain perfect structures that can bring us en­lightenment and power, by bringing our own warped bodies and minds into proper alignment."

  "Structures?" I asked, because that seemed like the only concrete word in everything she had said.

  She nodded and fished for a gold chain that had slipped inside her blouse. When she pulled it out, I could see a perfect quartz crystal. "Structures," she repeated. "Crystals to guide our meditation. To show us the ways of balance. To heal."

  Crystals.

  My biological mother believed in crystals. Had I just stepped back into the 1970s without any warning? I looked around wildly, hoping that Melissa would bail me out, but she was helping a customer at the counter.

  But there was something about Clara's words, something that reminded me of dinner with David. Power. She was interested in the hidden power of the world around her.

  "Are you a witch?" I asked, before I'd even thought about the question.

  "A witch?" She blinked, confused.

  "You know. The powers that you're talking about. Do you work spells? Do you channel power that way?"

  Clara's face shut down just a little bit, and she let her crystal slip back beneath her blouse. "I'm not kidding about this, um, Jane. It's very important to me. I'm not just making it up to be strange."

  "No!" I heard how loud my voice was, and I swallowed before continuing. "No, I didn't mean to say that. It's just that..."

  "Just that what?"

  "I've become interested in witchcraft lately. I thought that maybe I'd gotten that interest from you." Okay, so it sounded lame. But it was practically the truth. Even if it did sound like I'd been spending my time browsing the stacks in a library. Not working spells. Not summoning familiars. Whatever.

  Clara shook her head. "No. No witchcraft that I know of in my past. Although I think that there are times that I've been more than a little possessed."

  I wondered if I should ask her for details, but the question seemed too intrusive. Instead, I stared out the window, watching a handful of sycamore leaves drift to the sidewalk. The silence stretched out between us until it was something palpable. Something uncomfortable.

  "Did you—"

  "Your grandmother—"

  We both started at the same time, then we both insisted that the other speak. I finally gave in to her and completed my question: "Did you ever come to see me? Did you ever watch me when I didn't know you were there?"

  She shook her head. "At first I didn't want to. I was too busy worrying about where I was going to get my next fix."

  There. She'd said it. In plain English. She'd wanted her drugs more than she wanted me. More than she even wanted to see me. I felt myself shut down. My shoulders hunched up around my shoulders, and I started to chew on my thumb­nail.

  "Don't do that," she said, reaching out to pull away my hand.

  "Don't tell me what to do!" I was surprised by the inten­sity of my anger. I jerked my hand back as if she had burned me.

  "You've got such beautiful hands," she said, folding her own in her lap. "They're from your father's side of the family. Mine were never much to look at."

  I folded my fingers into fists. Childish, I know, but I didn't want her to look at them anymore. I didn't want her to see the chewed fingernails.

  "Jane," she said. "I know that I've hurt you. I know that this all must be a huge surprise."

  "Do you? Do you know that?" I dared to meet her eyes—mirrors of my own. "Do you know how many times I wanted you to come back? How I hid your picture beneath my pillow? How I talked to you late at night when I knew no one else could hear?"

  "I did what I thought was best," she said. "I knew that I wasn't strong enough to help you. To give you everything you needed."

  "Maybe that was true when you left, but it's been twenty-five years! You must have found the strength at some point."

  "I did. Or I thought I did. I stopped using sixteen years ago, after I woke up in a city hospital without any memory of who I was or how I'd gotten there. It took me a few years to get my own life back. When I first contacted your grand­mother, though, she said that you weren't prepared to see me, that it would be too disorienting. You were starting high school. It was a difficult time."

  I flashed back to an image of me at fifteen—gawky, ungainly, absolutely unsure of myself. From day to day, I'd change from a loving, immature child to a haughty, tantrum-throwing teen. I wanted to go on dates, but I was afraid to. I wanted independence, but I was terrified of being on my own. I couldn't have handled my biological mother's dis­closure. Not then.

  "I always asked about you, though," Clara said. "I always wanted to know how you were doing. Your grandmother should have—"

  "Don't you dare tell me what Gran should have done!" Again, my flash of anger overwhelmed me, confused me, too. After all, I was angry with Gran. Why should I protect her? She was the one who had kept this secret from me. This was her fault, hers and Clara's together. They had ganged up on me from the moment I was born.

  "Jeanette—"

  "My name is Jane!"

  "Jane, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

  "I'm sure you didn't." I scrambled for my purse. "Look, I just remembered that I have a meeting to get to. At work."

  "On Saturday?"

  I nodded, trying to think of something, anything, that would get me out of Cake Walk. "Big cataloging meeting. We're going over acquisitions for the next year. All the staff. All day." I stood up and pushed my chair up to the table. "I'm sorry that we couldn't spend more time together. I'm sorry."

  I saw Melissa's concerned glance, but I faked a smile and a wave, and mimed that I would pay her later for the tea and cookies. I grabbed my shawl and flung it around my shoulders with a panache that beat Claras glasses, hands down. She stood, but I was already halfway to the door.

  "Jean—Jane! I'd like to see you again."

  "Oh yes," I said. "We'll do that. I don't have my calendar, though. Call me, and we'll get together. Very soon."

  My fingers fumbled with the doorknob, and it took three tries to get the door open. I heard Melissa call my name as I finally wrenched it free. I half turned and waved again. "Staff meeting!" I called before I fled onto the cobble-stoned street.

  I did not let myself think about Clara's eyes, those eyes that were the same shade as mine, those eyes that were welling up with tears as I fled home to my cottage, to my books of witchcraft, to the life that I had carved out without any mother to call me by someone else's name.

  Melissa set her right fist against her left palm. "One, two, three," she said.

  Scissors.

  I tried to fold the "paper" of my flattened hand into a rock, but she closed her fingers around mine, sawing hers in a time-honored motion. "Scissors cut paper."

  "Yeah, yeah," I said, none too happy. "I know. I will see Clara again. I promise. It was just too much—the cult thing, and the crystal, and the way her eyes were exactly like mine."

  "That was a little cr
eepy, wasn't it?" And that's when I knew that Melissa would let this thing rest. She'd let me figure out how to meet Clara again, on my own timetable.

  For now, though, we had bigger fish to fry. So to speak. As it were.

  Jason Templeton was arriving for dinner in four short hours.

  I'd taken the afternoon off work, and Melissa had stepped up to the plate with the unprecedented act of closing the bakery to come to my aid. We'd spent the better part of the past week—when we weren't dissect­ing every second of the disaster that had been my reunion with Clara—planning a menu.

  Against Melissa's advice, I'd decided to go with a colonial theme. Eighteenth-century delicacies. Things that would show that I was an intellectual woman, not just an infatu­ated librarian.

  The problem was, tastes had changed a bit in the past 200-odd years.

  I hadn't had any trouble finding sample menus. The Peabridge had a huge collection that covered kitchens, gardens and foodstuffs, along with countless diaries from housewives, butlers and more than a few men of the house.

  I'd spent the better part of Monday plowing through them, reaching up to run my fingers through my unruly hair, consistently forgetting that I wore a satin-ribboned mobcap. I'd spent Tuesday selecting the best candidates, winnowing the possibilities down to a meager half dozen possibilities. I'd spent Wednesday writing lists of ingredients, organizing the recipes so that I could cook them most efficiently and creating detailed flowcharts of what needed to be accomplished when.

  And I'd spent Thursday freaking out and wondering if this wasn't the biggest mistake of my entire romantic life.

  We were talking about Jason Templeton, after all. The man who was supposed to sit at my table, eat my cooking, stare into my eyes and realize that we were destined to be together forever.

  The man I was meant to spend the rest of my life with. The man who was going to make me forget Scott Randall and his controlling, manipulative, debasing, two-timing ways forever.

  I took a deep breath and looked down at my menu one more time. I wasn't an idiot. I wasn't about to serve the twelve courses that would have been standard in colonial times. I wasn't going to offer a half dozen meats, as if this were the Hardy Lumberjack Buffet. I'd keep things simple.