Stirring the Plot Page 3

  I nodded. “We’re going on a date tomorrow night.”

  “He’s taking you on the haunted historic walk? Ooh, snuggle close, girlfriend. Be daring.”

  Daring. Right. Rhett and I had kissed. Briefly. I’d cut that short. Not because I wasn’t attracted to him. I was. Totally. The man created more heat in me than a steam engine. Whoo-whoo! But I wasn’t ready for a deeper relationship. Yet.

  I started for the window display and paused. “I almost forgot. Speaking of daring, I’m going to throw a Halloween party.”

  “Get real,” Bailey said.

  “And I’m cooking. By myself.”

  Bailey snorted.

  “That’s enough out of you.” Okay, so I wasn’t the world’s best cook, but a few weeks ago, I’d added learning to be a good cook to my bucket list. Sure, I needed lessons, and I needed practice. But I adored Halloween. Why not start there? The shop had some wonderful Halloween cookbooks. One, for kids, was called Our Favorite Halloween Recipes Cookbook: Jack-o’-Lanterns, Hayrides and a Big Harvest Moon . . . It Must Be Halloween! Find Tasty Treats That Aren’t Tricky. It had simple, easy recipes, perfect for the novice like me. One of the recipes was for spider pizza. How hard could that be?

  “Costumes required,” I said.

  “I’ll be there with eerie bells on.”

  Chapter 3

  ON TUESDAY EVENING, about fifty of us met in the parking lot of Fisherman’s Village to get on a bus for the haunted tour. Winsome Witches board members and their guests planned to visit a number of historic places around the area, including the first graveyard, the first garden, and the first mansion in Crystal Cove.

  Our initial stop was to the one and only lighthouse. The building was constructed to ensure that ships didn’t hit the prominence of land that jutted out at the northern tip of town. As a kid, I had learned about the shipwreck that occurred in 1890, but to hear my aunt—the leader of the tour—tell the lighthouse’s history of treasure and woe gave the place a whole new twist. By the end of the trek, I had to admit my legs were tired; I definitely needed to add some stair climbing to my exercise routine. Perhaps I should have worn tennis shoes on the tour instead of my fancy thong sandals. So much for fashion.

  Ten minutes after climbing back on the bus, we reached the cemetery. “This way, everyone,” Aunt Vera said as she led us inside.

  Silky, decorative ghosts hung from tree branches; black wreaths adorned headstones. Small candles lined each pathway. The entire scene, especially with the influx of cool fog, felt spooky.

  All of the tour attendees, each of whom carried battery-lit candles, were dressed as witches, including Rhett and me. Thankfully, although he possessed a wicked sense of humor, he didn’t go with the wizard-in-the-goofy-hat look. He wore a black shirt, black jeans, and boots. Vampire-like makeup finished the costume. With his shirt unbuttoned halfway and his manly chest partially exposed, he looked like a guy you’d see on the front of a romance novel—downright sexy.

  “This is the first graveyard ever established in the area,” Aunt Vera said.

  Crystal Cove was a lovely California seaside town, rich with history. Rolling hills bordered the town to the east; the ocean lay to the west. Settlers moved into the area in the 1850s, but the town was officially founded in 1883.

  “Rumor has it”—my aunt lowered her voice—“that every year Old Man Carlton, the first settler in Crystal Cove and a moral soul, rises from his grave and flies over the town to make sure no evil lurks within.”

  A teenaged girl at the front of the pack uttered an unnerving, albeit sarcastic, wail.

  “Don’t disparage rumors, young lady.” My aunt shook a finger as she neared a crypt. “Nor superstitions, for that matter. Some may consider them irrational or false conceptions, but I happen to know”—she raised her arms overhead—“that we believe what we will because of surprising occurrences.”

  Suddenly, a skeleton leaped from behind the crypt. It swooped toward the teenager, who shrieked. As fast as it appeared, the skeleton ducked out of sight. People erupted into giggles. The girl, who was accompanied by another teen, punched her friend. I wondered which Winsome Witch had dragged them along.

  “Scared?” Rhett said.

  “Not with you nearby,” I murmured. Following Bailey’s instruction, I snuggled into him. Delicious desire coursed from my head to my toes. “By the way, thank you for the flowers.”

  “What flowers?”

  “The gerbera daisies. In the black cat vase.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You left them on the shop’s doorstep. The card said they were from”—I gestured with quotation marks—“‘the one who adores you.’”

  “Sorry. I didn’t send them.” His mouth quirked up on the right. “Should I be jealous?”

  “No, of course not,” I sputtered. If Rhett hadn’t left the gift, then who had?

  “Just to be safe . . .” He brushed his lips against my forehead.

  As he did, I caught a couple of women in the group eyeing me with envy. Let them, I thought, though heat warmed my cheeks. My deceased husband hadn’t been one for public displays of affection. It appeared Rhett was, and I liked it.

  “Say, is that Dr. Thornton?” Rhett whispered.

  Ahead of us, Pearl walked with Bingo. They were deep in conversation.

  “I barely recognized her,” he said.

  As High Priestess of the Winsome Witches, Pearl had dressed accordingly. Her floor-length black gown and pointed hat were covered with sequins. She nearly glimmered in the moonlight.

  A few weeks ago, Rhett had confided that he’d met with Dr. Thornton to deal with his fear of fire. He left his job as chef of The Grotto when the restaurant burned down, due to arson. His takeaway from his sessions—takeaway was a term Dr. Thornton used—was that Rhett had to deconstruct the lies so he could get to the truth. “See the sunrise, not the sunset,” he whispered.

  That was another of Pearl’s, um, pearls of wisdom.

  “You know”—I bumped him with my hip—“in this quiet-as-a-tomb environment, we can invoke the cone of silence. Care to tell me more about you?” I wasn’t one for keeping secrets. I’d learned way too late that my husband had kept loads of them. He stole clients’ funds and he hid gold coins in a statue, to name a couple. In the few months since I’d met Rhett, I had gleaned a bit of data about him. He lived in a cabin, he owned his own business, and he had attended culinary school years ago. He loved to fish and whittle, and he liked to read many of the same books I did. But I wanted to know more. Heck, I wanted to know everything. Did that mean I was ready for a deeper relationship after all?

  “For instance?” he asked.

  “Parents?”

  “What about them?”

  “Do you have them? Are they—” I paused awkwardly.

  “Yes, they’re still alive.”

  “Where do they live?”

  He hesitated. “Napa Valley.”

  “What do they do?”

  “Dine on fine French food.”

  I poked his rib cage. “Don’t be cryptic.”

  “They’re in the business. They own a restaurant.”

  “Really, which one?”

  “Intime.”

  I gasped. “You’re not fooling?”

  “Nope.”

  Intime—in French it meant “intimate”—was a renowned restaurant in the wine country, second to the French Laundry; both were located in Yontville, north of Napa. I had eaten there twice. I remembered a lovely woman, the owner, who had reminded me of my mother, tall and slender with dark curls feathering her face. She had beautiful blue eyes. Now looking at Rhett, I could see the resemblance. Honestly, I would melt into his eyes if he’d let me.

  “Why didn’t you tell me that before?” I said.

  “My father . . .” He worked h
is tongue inside his cheek.

  “Strapping guy. Very tan.” He looked like the kind of man who could have run a huge vineyard or ranch. “Sort of stern.”

  “That’s him. He disinherited me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I eloped with the daughter of his best friend. Within the year, we were divorced. Her choice. Heartbroken, I entered culinary school, but when I didn’t pursue the art of French cooking, which further incensed my father, I became the black sheep.”

  “How did your mother feel about your father cutting you off?”

  Rhett had risked his life to run back through the fire in The Grotto to save his mother’s prized recipe box. Now I understood why he had taken the risk. Those recipes were not merely family keepsakes; they were the essence of a successful business.

  “She wasn’t pleased, but she wouldn’t buck him. We communicate via my sisters.”

  “You have sisters?” I had no idea I would get such a rich account. Maybe having a secret admirer was the impetus. Yay for me. “Do they have names?”

  “Scarlett and Ashley.”

  I grinned. “Your mother loved Gone with the Wind.”

  “She adored it. Doesn’t every young girl?” Rhett toed the ground. “My father wanted a partner in the family business. He didn’t expect my sisters to comply. I sorely disappointed him.”

  “Does he know what happened to you? Your career? The fire?”

  “He does.”

  “Hasn’t he tried to mend fences?”

  Rhett shook his head, then pressed a finger to my lips. “No more talk of him.”

  “My aunt intimated that you had some run-ins with the law.” She hadn’t revealed more. She believed all people should tell their stories in their own time.

  A moment passed before Rhett said, “About a year ago, when your aunt insisted on giving me a palm reading, I let slip that I’d stolen a car. That wasn’t entirely true. When I eloped with Alicia, I borrowed my father’s car. He reported it stolen. In the dead of night, I returned the car, and Alicia and I hitchhiked for a month. To look for America.”

  “Like the Simon and Garfunkel song.”

  “Pretty much. I don’t have a police record.”

  “Back to the buses, everyone,” Aunt Vera said. “Jenna, Rhett, don’t lag.”

  I squeezed Rhett’s arm and said, “At some point, you’re going to tell me about Alicia and any other ladies in your past.” My aunt had also warned me that Rhett was a bit of a rogue. What did that mean? Was I falling in love with a man who would one day break my heart?

  As we neared the bus, Rhett said, “Who’s that?” He pointed at a freckle-faced woman climbing out of a Corvette.

  Emma Wright jammed a witch hat on her short-cropped hair and blew a kiss to the driver, her husband, Edward. Whenever I saw the man, I winced. He was fairly attractive with his lean Nordic look, chiseled jaw, and rock-hard eyes. His blond hair was a little slicker than I liked on a man, but that had nothing to do with my reaction to him. No, I winced because he was a dentist. The sound of the drill. The masks. The smells. The phantom pain. Yes, I went to a dentist—not Edward—but only because I wanted good teeth and not dentures when I entered my golden years.

  Edward gunned the sports car and sped away. Emma watched him leave, her expression pinched, but she quickly put on a smile and joined Bingo and Pearl.

  “Don’t you know Emma?” I said. “She’ll be the newest inductee to the Winsome Witches. She owns Pet Taxi, the service that shuttles animals to the vet or the groomers.” Emma, like my pal Bailey, was blessed with boundless energy and enthusiasm. “She can talk a blue streak.” Maybe that was why she spent most of her daylight hours with non-human-talking pets. I wondered how her husband dealt with that. Dentists did all the talking in their profession. I’d heard Edward was a cave explorer in his spare time; maybe he communed with bats. “You’ve never used her service?” I went on.

  “I take Rook to all his appointments myself.” Rhett owned a Labrador retriever. He liked big dogs. “He won’t get into a car with a stranger. I’m not sure what happened to him before I found him at the pound, but I’m pretty sure it was something awful that involved cars.”

  “Poor pup. Do you happen to know Emma’s husband?”

  “Edward. Sure. He’s a weekend spelunker. He comes into Bait and Switch a lot. Long neck.”

  “Really? That’s all you remember? Edward has a long neck?”

  “I’m a guy. What more do you want?”

  Our next stop on the tour was The Enchanted Garden nursery, one of my favorite places to visit in Crystal Cove. I could spend hours browsing the plants and glazed pots. Recently I’d purchased herbs for my front porch: basil, parsley, mint, and thyme. Some weren’t doing so well, although the parsley was thriving. I supposed even I, who didn’t have a green thumb, couldn’t kill parsley.

  On the other hand, the owner of the shop, Maya Adaire, was skillful with a garden. Her shop, which was the first established in town, teemed with plants and beautiful ironwork sculpture. She offered many of her homegrown vegetables for sale: heirloom tomatoes, exotic mushrooms, zucchini, and pumpkins. A daily dose of mushrooms, she advised, could cure cancer. As if the rest of her accomplishments weren’t enough, Maya had also penned a cookbook of healthful vegetarian recipes.

  As we entered The Enchanted Garden’s main shop, I inhaled. The scent of fall flowers filled the air. The interior was aglow with tiny white lights. Strands of orange pumpkin cutouts hung from the coarse wooden beams overhead. A blessing broom, which was hand-wrapped with ribbon, leaned against the checkout counter. A sign posting the way to Salem and Sleepy Hollow stood in the center of the garden near a birdbath waterfall. Maya had cleverly placed decorative art and bird feeders throughout the shop. Bowls of wrapped Halloween candies sat on wrought-iron tables and potting étagères.

  Maya, a slender, almost ropy woman, her lean look the result of a vegetarian diet, greeted us as we entered. She wore a witch hat decorated with black satin and white bell-shaped flowers. She had woven the flowers into her curly tresses, as well. As we entered, she handed each of us a business card. I already had one, but I didn’t decline. I loved the lily of the valley logo. I remembered doing an advertising campaign for an online florist. Unlike my typical humorous ads, the LOV ad—that’s what we had called it—featured what I believed was every schoolgirl’s dream wedding: exquisite bouquets of lily of the valley with their pretty white bell-shaped flowers and streamers of white chiffon blowing in a gentle breeze. On a previous visit to The Enchanted Garden, I had asked Maya about the logo. I learned her mother had named her Maya Lily: Maya for May, and Lily for her mother’s favorite flower, which bloomed in May. How sweet was that?

  “This way, y’all,” Maya said with a subtle Southern accent. She was born in South Carolina but had migrated to California after college. As she led the way, she rubbed her hands like a witch beckoning Hansel and Gretel into her cottage, which made me giggle. All part of the act, I assumed. “On your right, you’ll see a number of unique plants that might benefit you, should you be so inclined. Jacob’s Ladder, otherwise known as Ladder to Heaven, can increase your mental abilities as well as your joie de vivre. Lavender, I’m sure you all know, attracts affection. It is especially good when used in love-type potions.”

  A few of the visitors giggled.

  “Think about adding some dried lavender whenever you’re writing a love note. Y’all still do that, don’t you? Write?”

  More laughter.

  “In addition, the aroma of lavender encourages long life. Some people carry lavender in order to see ghosts. Have any of you seen a ghost?”

  No hands shot up.

  Maya grinned. “Me, either, but I hope to someday. Now, sage”—she fingered a grayish-green plant—“is wonderful when added to a bath. It can purify you of all past evils and negative deeds. If you burn sagebrus
h, sort of like burning incense, you can drive away malevolent forces.” She moved on to a section of trailing plants. “Rosemary, when burned, is powerful, as well. Pay attention: if you place a sprig of rosemary beneath your pillow, you’ll get a good sleep. It also”—she beckoned us near, then whispered—“attracts elves.”

  “Jenna has seen elves,” Rhett joked. “The Keebler kind.”

  I knuckled his arm.

  Emma, who had been hanging back with Pearl and Bingo, sidled up to Maya. “Tell them about the history of this place.”

  “Didn’t you tell them, Vera?”

  My aunt shook her head.

  Maya offered a mock scowl. “Fine. Leave the heavy lifting to me. The main building of The Enchanted Garden was erected in 1901. The garden shop was passed down from generation to generation, until the last of the family died, with no survivors. Some believed the original owners were witches.”

  “No,” someone from the back of the pack said.

  Maya raised a finger. “Aha, I hear disbelievers among you. It’s true. Witches dwelled in Crystal Cove. The bay has mystical properties.”

  My aunt clucked her tongue and winked at me.

  “Really?” a teenage girl asked, not the same one who had yowled in the cemetery.

  Maya nodded and waved a hand dramatically. “I purchased the garden site specifically to draw on these properties. I have dedicated my life to finding just the right herbal potion for everyone who asks.” Maya was the herbalist I had scheduled to teach our customers how to make potions. “Now, follow me for more of the tour.” She crooked a finger. We trailed her until she came to an abrupt halt. “Can y’all hear me?” She motioned to a lush pot of herbs. “In this pot you will spy sweet basil. Sometimes it’s known as St. John’s wort. It’s often used in protection spells. In addition to basil, you might notice hyssop, peppermint, and sassafras.”

  Emma said, “Sassafras is used in root beer.”

  “That’s right,” Maya responded. “By the way, witches often decorate their herb pots with unrefined gemstones like bloodstone and tiger’s eye.” She held a finger to her mouth and said, “Shh. That’s insider information. As a side note—”