A Solstice Celebration: A Wicked Witches of the Midwest Short

  A Solstice Celebration

  A Wicked Witches of the Midwest Short

  Amanda M. Lee

  WinchesterShaw Publications

  Contents

  Copyright

  1. One

  2. Two

  3. Three

  4. Four

  5. Five

  6. Six

  7. Seven

  8. Eight

  9. Nine

  10. Ten

  Mail List

  Acknowledgments

  Books by Amanda M. Lee

  Copyright © 2016 by Amanda M. Lee

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  One

  Summer 2005

  “Girls, I need you to go out to the clearing to help me clean up.”

  I cocked my head to the side, listening hard for the telltale sign of footsteps on the upstairs floor. I didn’t hear it.

  “Girls!”

  “Stop your screeching!” Aunt Tillie wandered into the room, her face screwed up into a petulant frown, and fixed me with a dark look. “Has anyone ever told you that your voice has a lot in common with screeching cats … or dying mice … or really horny dogs?”

  I narrowed my eyes. I love my aunt – I would never say otherwise – but there are times I want to … well, I can’t even think it because she’ll know and curse me. I have enough on my plate without that.

  I pressed my lips together and regarded the Winchester family matriarch with what I hoped would pass as a friendly expression. “Hello, Aunt Tillie,” I said. “Have you seen the girls?”

  “I think they’re wilding about in the front of the house,” Aunt Tillie replied, grabbing a cookie from the cooling rack. “There was some bold talk about boys and which girl could get which boy without flashing her boobs. I can’t remember what they said. It’s all noise to me – just like when you were their age.”

  “Yes, well … that was possibly very flattering.” Or probably insulting, I silently added. My aunt likes to get in digs whenever possible. “Do you think you could get them for me?”

  “Do I look like your servant?” Aunt Tillie challenged, reaching for another cookie.

  I slapped her hand away and earned a scorching glare for my efforts. “Those are for later,” I informed her. “You don’t need that many cookies anyway. Dinner is in a few hours. You can have another one after that.”

  “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a kvetch?” Aunt Tillie asked, grabbing a cookie anyway and practically daring me to rebuke her. “All you do is whine. All any of you do is whine.

  “Now, Marnie, a third of the time you’re one of my three favorite nieces,” she continued. “This is not one of those times. You’re beginning to wear on me.”

  What else was new? I was used to wearing on my aunt. I’d been doing it since I was a teenager when she took us in after our mother’s death. She raised us, she truly loved us, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t a pill. In fact, she was a horse pill, the ones that were impossible to swallow.

  “Aunt Tillie, I have a lot on my plate,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “Between the girls and their upkeep … and Twila and whatever she’s doing at random times of the day … and the upcoming solstice celebration, the one thing I need right now is help. Can you please help me?”

  “No,” Aunt Tillie said, filching a third cookie. “If you ask me, what those girls need is a good swift kick in the behind. All they do is giggle and prance around now. It’s … unseemly.”

  “They aren’t doing anything wrong,” I argued. “They’re acting like normal teenage girls.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” Aunt Tillie said. “I think they might be in heat. Have you seen the way they look at the construction workers when we pass them on the street? It’s like being in a porn movie … and not a good one!”

  “Whatever,” I muttered. “I guess I’ll get the girls. Can I trust you with the cookies?”

  Aunt Tillie had the audacity to look incensed. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that you’ve eaten three already, and I promised the girls cookies for dessert,” I answered. “It means you can’t eat all of them.”

  “I won’t eat all of them,” Aunt Tillie scoffed. “I’m watching my figure.”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell her that the only thing she was watching her figure do was expand. It didn’t really matter because she’d taken to wearing combat pants and boots. She was at war with the neighbors across the road – she’s always at war with someone, just for the record – and she said she had to dress the part if she wanted to win. At least, I think that’s what she said. I tune her out as much as she tunes out the girls.

  “Just … don’t eat all of them,” I said, tamping down my irritation and keeping my forced smile in place. “I don’t have time to make more, and the girls will screech if there aren’t cookies for dessert. Do you want to hear them screech?”

  Aunt Tillie shrugged, noncommittal. “If they screech I’ll just tie their tongues with a curse,” she said. “I don’t really care. That might be the better option, because that way they won’t be able to swap spit and touch tongues with those three ruffians who keep hiding in the bushes when they think no one is around.”

  “Who are you talking about?” I asked, irritated as I removed my apron.

  “Those three dark-haired boys,” Aunt Tillie said. “I think the one’s last name is Simpson.”

  I racked my brain and finally realized who she meant after a few moments. “Do you mean Eric Simpson and his friends Dylan Johnson and Chad Martin?”

  “I like to think of them as Frick, Frack and Dumb-as-a-tack.”

  “Whatever,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Don’t eat all of the cookies. I’m taking the girls to the clearing for a quick cleanup. If Winnie calls, tell her everything is under control and not to worry.”

  “So you want me to lie?” Aunt Tillie asked dryly, not bothering to blink as she reached for another cookie. “If you want me to lie to my favorite niece, it’s going to cost you.”

  “How can Winnie be your favorite niece?” I challenged. “She’s been gone for days.”

  “That’s why she’s my favorite niece,” Aunt Tillie replied, unruffled. “Out of sight equals tons of love.”

  “You drive me crazy,” I muttered. “Just … hold down the fort. I’ll be back in time to handle dinner.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Aunt Tillie clicked her heels together and offered me a saucy salute.

  “I’m pretty sure you’re worse than all of the girls combined,” I said, striding out of the kitchen and moving through the bed and breakfast. It would be full of guests – all witches – very soon. For now it was empty, though, and I couldn’t be happier, because that meant one less issue to deal with.

  My name is Marnie Winchester, and I’m a really cranky witch right now. My older sister Winnie is out of town at a conference because we plan to turn our bed and breakfast into a full inn to take advantage of the area’s tourist trade in the next few years. In addition to that, my daughter and her cousins are running roughshod over the male population of Walkerville, and my aunt is trying to give me an ulcer. That’s on top of my younger sister, Twila, who has it in her head that she’s going to become a singer in her off time and keeps belting out Broadway tunes to prove how tone deaf she isn’t. For
the record, it’s not working. She doesn’t hear that, though.

  Honestly, the only thing I’ve got going for me right now is an empty inn. I would be completely overwhelmed otherwise. Don’t tell Winnie. I’ll never live it down. She didn’t think leaving me in charge was a good idea because I “don’t do well with structure.” Those were her words, mind you. I do great with structure. I just find it boring most of the time.

  She didn’t have a lot of options when it came to designating a Winchester boss for the week she would be gone, though. Ceding the throne was more difficult than forcing Aunt Tillie to be nice to the mailman, who she is convinced is trying to get a peek under her combat pants whenever he stops by. She thinks he’s a pervert, and he very well may be, but he’s certainly not interested in looking inside her pants. She doesn’t have the right parts, if you know what I mean.

  Anyway, Winnie likes to be in control … of everything. She’s wound tighter than Nellie Oleson’s curls and is only half as pleasant when disappointed. That’s why leaving me in charge is such a big deal. She expects me to fail, and the only reason she left is because the conference is important for our plans – making contacts and meeting suppliers, you know the drill – so that meant she had to flee town before one of our biggest annual parties. Because Twila walks around with her head in the clouds, and Aunt Tillie would rather start fires than put them out, that left me. Trust me. No one is happy about it.

  I found my daughter, Clove, standing on the front lawn with her cousins Bay and Thistle when I stepped onto the front porch. They didn’t see me right away, so I took the opportunity to eavesdrop. The older they get, the more secrets they keep. It’s beyond annoying … and no, I’m not a busybody. I don’t care what the rest of the family says.

  “He likes me best,” Thistle said, running a hand over her short-cropped hair. It was naturally blond but she’d taken to dying it funky colors whenever the mood strikes. Today it’s black with white highlights.

  “He doesn’t like you best,” Bay argued, hopping on one foot as she jumped from paver stone to paver stone. We were having the driveway redone and it was kind of a mess. “He likes me better. Didn’t you see the way he smiled at me when we were in town the other day?”

  “He had gas,” Thistle said, waving off Bay’s statement. “That’s always the way he looks before he farts.”

  “Oh, gross,” Clove said, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. She’s the cutest of the three, with her upturned nose and tiny stature. What? I’m not biased at all. “I have a better shot than both of you. I have bigger boobs.”

  It was true. Clove inherited my figure, which means she’s essentially short and stacked. Like … really stacked. Like she’s going to have to rest them on the table when she hits forty, otherwise she’ll have back problems stacked.

  “Boys like big boobs,” Clove said.

  “Not all boys like big boobs,” Bay argued, glancing down at her flatter chest. She didn’t have a lot going on in that department, although she was much better off than Thistle. “Besides, I’m the witty one. Boys like funny girls.”

  Thistle snorted. “Who told you that?”

  “Mom.”

  “Of course your mother would say that,” Thistle said. “She thinks she’s the funny one. By the way, she’s not.”

  Good one, Thistle, I internally cheered her on. She’s usually a petulant little puss, but she’s hilarious when she wants to be.

  “My mom is the funny one,” Thistle continued. “Unfortunately, it’s not always on purpose. Okay, it’s rarely on purpose.”

  “My mom is funny,” Clove protested, causing me to puff out my chest.

  “Your mom isn’t funny,” Thistle scoffed. “She tells all those jokes, but none of them make sense. People only laugh because they feel sorry for her. They think she’s slow.”

  Well, I’d had about enough. I cleared my throat, causing all three teens to swivel, their faces whitening. I pasted a chilly smile on my face as I regarded them. “Girls, I need your help cleaning the clearing and making sure there’s no brush or anything around the ritual site.”

  Oh, you’re probably wondering what the ritual site is. I wasn’t lying when I said I was a witch. We’re all witches. We’ve owned our parcel of land for more than a century, each family member passing it down to the next. There’s a clearing about a quarter of a mile into the trees, and that’s where we hold all of our solstice and equinox parties. The summer solstice is a big one for us, and we usually travel around to celebrate with other area witches. This year we’re the hosts, and I have no intention of falling down on the job. It’s a big deal.

  “Do we have to?” Thistle whined, making a face.

  “I would love to help,” Clove said, skipping in my direction. I love her, but she’s a total suck up sometimes. “What can I do?”

  “Make your cousins come with us right now, because we don’t have a lot of time,” I informed her. “I still have to cook dinner.”

  “I don’t want to clean up the stupid clearing,” Bay said, although she clomped her exceedingly heavy feet in my direction. “Can’t Clove do it?”

  “It will go faster if we all do it,” I said, snapping my fingers for emphasis and moving down the porch steps and leading the girls around the side of the bed and breakfast. “If we all go out there now we can be done in half an hour.”

  “That sounds like a great way to spend a summer day,” Thistle drawled, sarcasm practically dripping from her tongue.

  “Well, what can I say? I’m a laugh a minute,” I said, locking gazes with Thistle.

  Unlike her cousins, Thistle is less prone to embarrassment. She knew I heard what she said, but she didn’t care. “I’m not laughing now,” Thistle said. “I feel like crying.”

  “Me, too,” Bay said, sighing. “If my mom was here she would do it. She says the only way things get done the right way is if she does them herself.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek to cut off a nasty retort. It only half worked. “That’s because Winnie is a martyr,” I supplied. “She says she’s tired of doing all the work herself, but that’s not true. She couldn’t complain about doing all the work herself if anyone helped.”

  “Are you mad at us?” Clove asked, her voice small as she fell into step with me for the walk to the clearing. “Did you hear what Thistle said?”

  “I heard.”

  “I think you’re very funny,” Clove said. “You make me laugh all the time.”

  “Hey, Clove? Your nose is turning brown,” Thistle snapped.

  I didn’t want to encourage Thistle, but I couldn’t help but chuckle. Despite their quirks and idiosyncrasies, the three of them get along as if they are sisters. In fact, they get along almost exactly as I did with my two sisters. Wow! That’s a sobering thought.

  “Do we have to fight?” I asked, hoping to steer the conversation to something more entertaining. “I don’t think there’s a reason to fight.”

  “There’s always a reason to fight,” Bay intoned. “That’s what Aunt Tillie says.”

  “Do you always listen to Aunt Tillie?” I challenged.

  Bay shrugged. “Sometimes she’s smart.”

  “Sometimes she is,” I conceded.

  “Sometimes she’s mean,” Clove added.

  “Sometimes she is,” I said, nodding.

  “She’s always evil and up to something,” Thistle said, her eyes dark when I locked gazes with her. Of all the younger girls, Thistle fought the most with Aunt Tillie. I think it’s because they are the most alike – which is enough to kill them both, so don’t tell them.

  “She’s not evil,” I clarified. “She’s … mischievous.”

  “Close enough,” Thistle said, exhaling heavily as we approached the clearing. “Are you making us do this because you want to prove Aunt Winnie wrong and throw a better solstice celebration than she could?”

  Thistle knows how to needle someone. It’s not a pleasant trait. “Of course not.”

  “I don’t belie
ve you,” Thistle said.

  “Me either,” Bay said. “I … .” She broke off, her blue eyes trained on a spot at the far side of the clearing.

  “What were you saying, Bay?” I asked, bending over to pick up a fallen branch. We can use the debris for our bonfire after the ritual.

  When Bay didn’t immediately answer, I lifted my eyes and found her moving away from the clearing and toward something only she could see. Uh-oh. This couldn’t be good. All Winchester witches have particular gifts. Unfortunately for Bay, her gift is one of the worst.

  “What do you see, Bay?” I asked, almost dreading the answer.

  “There’s a ghost here,” Bay announced.

  Of course there is. Can my day get any worse?

  Two

  “Holy crapsticks, Bay! Are you sure?”

  Deep down I knew she was certain. She’s no alarmist and she never embellishes ghost stories. She is uncomfortable with her gift. She doesn’t want to see ghosts. Sometimes when she converses with them, other people see her and assume she’s talking to herself. She’d been labeled “weird” in the process, something that galls her even though she won’t admit it. There’s no way she was making up this sighting. I held onto hope all the same.

  Bay pressed her lips together and nodded. “She’s right there.” Bay inclined her head in the direction of a small opening amongst four trees on the far side of the clearing.

  “Do you recognize her?” Thistle asked, intrigued. She loves the idea of ghosts and openly wishes she’d been blessed with Bay’s gift. Given her temperament, though, I can’t help but feel Bay is the right girl to get the gift – if any of them had to get it, that is. Aunt Tillie can see ghosts, too, so it was a foregone conclusion that someone in the family would inherit the ability.

  Bay shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Does she look normal?” Clove timidly asked. Unlike Thistle, she’s terrified by the idea of ghosts. “She doesn’t look mangled or anything, right?”