Something to Witch About (Wicked Witches of the Midwest Book 5)

  Something to Witch About

  Wicked Witches of the Midwest

  Book Five

  Amanda M. Lee

  Text copyright © 2014 Amanda M. Lee

  All Rights Reserved

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Author’s Note

  Books by Amanda M. Lee

  Prologue

  1966

  It’s happening again.

  No matter how many times she’d told herself the previous time would be the last time, it never was. She never truly learned her lesson, and she hated herself for it.

  She hated herself for taking it. And, even more, she hated herself for the love she still felt for him despite the way he treated her. Yes, the flashes of love were rare now, but they still ignited. Love doesn’t disappear; it’s misplaced until it can be discovered again.

  The door of the house – more of a shack, really – flew open, causing the entire structure to shake.

  She didn’t see him, but she knew. She pictured his hateful glare even now. And his hands, those hands that had joined with hers five years before in front of a priest as they declared themselves to one another forever, would be clenched at his sides until he decided he was ready to hammer them into her body.

  “Where are you?”

  He was in the living room, leaving just one thin wall separating them as she worked on his dinner at the stove. She knew he was drunk, the telltale slur of his speech echoing through the house.

  He was always drunk nowadays. That was the problem. Alcohol turned her husband from the loving man she’d married into the monster she lived with today. That’s what she told herself, anyway.

  If he would just stop drinking … if he would just let go of the demon of alcohol … then things would be better. They would go back to the way things used to be. They would be happy again.

  She’d talked to him about it, of course, but he refused to listen. He accused her of nagging. When she wasn’t nagging, she was failing to perform the household duties to his expectations. There wasn’t a crumb on the floor, a speck of dust on the shelves, yet she was a failure.

  “Don’t make me come looking for you!”

  She sighed, wiping her hands with a nearby towel. She could flee out the back door, she told herself. She could run and hide in the woods behind the house. He would pass out eventually. He always did.

  She could run and hide at a friend’s home. They all knew. They’d tried to get her to leave him, offering her places to stay and support for the rough road ahead. She could spend the night elsewhere and return in the morning. It was the smartest thing to do, and yet she still wasn’t sure.

  He’d wake up with a hangover, sure, but he usually didn’t beat her because he was feeling poorly. He saved that for when he was drunk – and he was invariably quick with an apology the next day, promising it wouldn’t happen again.

  It always did, though.

  Her moment of indecision cost her. He was standing in the archway between the two rooms now, his icy blue eyes fixed on her drawn face. His face, which was no longer handsome or distinguished, was flushed from the whiskey she knew he’d been drinking down at Wayne’s Tavern.

  “What are you doing in here?”

  “Cooking dinner,” she said, being careful to keep the counter island between them. If she was quick, she’d be able to bolt out the back door. He wouldn’t have the coordination to follow her once she hit the woods.

  “Why didn’t you come when I called you?”

  “I didn’t hear you,” she lied, taking another step backward.

  His eyes narrowed as he regarded her. “You didn’t hear me? Bullshit!”

  She bit her lower lip. “Why don’t you have a seat at the table,” she suggested. “I’ll get you a cup of coffee and you can have some dinner. You’ll feel better after some dinner.”

  She knew reasoning with him was a mistake but she still tried.

  “I feel fine,” he said. “I feel fabulous.”

  She wrung her hands, letting her eyes dart from him to the back door only a few feet away. She could make it. “I’m glad.”

  “Well, I felt fabulous until I came home and found you cooking this slop again,” he said, striding to the island and flicking the handle of the pot so it tipped, spilling the soup into a puddle on stove top. There was a loud crackle as liquid met open flame.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “What would you like me to cook?”

  “I don’t want anything you’re going to cook,” he sneered. “You’re a terrible cook – and a terrible wife. Ma told me you would be, but I didn’t listen. I should’ve listened to her.”

  She wished she’d listened to her mother, too. Her mother had told her that marrying this man was a mistake – that he’d never amount to anything. She’d been blinded by love, though, and she’d thought that love would be enough to get them through.

  She’d been wrong.

  “If you don’t want dinner, why don’t you go and turn on a game or something,” she said, keeping her voice even. If she cried, that only made him angrier. If she yelled, that fired him up further. The only way to fight him was with surrender, and a tactic she’d mastered these past few years.

  “Don’t tell me what to do!”

  “I’m not telling you what to do,” she replied. “I just thought … .”

  “You don’t think,” he interrupted. “You never think. You’re stupid.”

  She was stupid. Why hadn’t she run when she’d first heard his voice? Why was she still here? She took another step toward the door. One more and she’d be able to escape.

  He knew what she was doing. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Just out to the woodpile,” she hedged. “I need to get some wood for the fireplace.”

  “That’s a man’s job,” he said. “A man should do it.”

  “Then why don’t you do it?” She practically exploded, knowing instantly that any chance of talking him out of the beating had evaporated.

  His brow furrowed. “What are you saying? Are you saying I don’t pull my weight around here? That I’m lazy?”

  She hadn’t said it, but she’d been thinking it. “No.”

  He staggered around the island, bumping into it twice as he closed the distance between them. “That’s exactly what you were saying,” he seethed. “You think you’d have anything if it weren’t for me? You think you’d be able to cook your disgusting slop if I didn’t put a roof over your head?”

  He’d been unemployed for two months. She’d been living off the kindness of her friends and their gardens. That’s why she’d been making soup so often
. She didn’t say that, though. “You’re a good provider.”

  “Damn right,” he agreed. “You’re an awful wife, though.”

  He was practically on her now. She knew there was no escape.

  “Please,” she gasped, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Please don’t hurt me.”

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he replied. “I’m just going to teach you a lesson. You obviously need one.”

  The realization came too late. This was going to be the last time he ever beat her after all.

  One

  “This was a terrible idea.”

  Sitting at the counter munching on a cookie, Thistle looked nonplussed as she rolled her eyes in my direction. “You’re being dramatic.”

  I was being dramatic. That didn’t mean this wasn’t a terrible idea. “They’re going to hate me.”

  “What’s not to hate?” Thistle teased, checking out her newly blued hair in the mirror on the back wall.

  “Why did you go back to the blue?” Clove asked from the other side of the counter, eyeing our cousin curiously

  “Because my mom told me that she didn’t care what color my hair was as long as it wasn’t blue again,” Thistle replied. “Of course I had to dye it blue again. She was practically begging for it.”

  Of course.

  “Twila is going to freak when she sees it,” Clove said. “I hope that’s the reaction you’re going for.”

  “It is.”

  “Then I guess you’ll be happy,” Clove said, shrugging.

  “I plan on it.”

  I love my cousins – I really do – but I might have to murder them both in their sleep if they don’t shut up. “Can we focus on me?”

  Thistle turned from her reflection and fixed me with a sympathetic smile. “It’s going to be okay, Bay.”

  “How is it going to be okay?”

  Thistle shrugged, smoothing down her crinkly, gray tank top. “It just is.”

  “You don’t know that,” I said.

  “No,” Thistle agreed. “I don’t think freaking out about it is going to do any good, though.”

  Clove sighed, moving to my side. “Why don’t you tell me what’s got you so worked up.”

  “Well, for starters, Landon’s family is going to be here any minute,” I said.

  “We know. We’ve been hearing about it for two weeks,” Thistle complained. “It’s getting tiresome.”

  I ignored her. “They’re going to be staying here for a week,” I said. “That’s seven whole days.”

  “This is an inn,” Thistle said. “Guests stay here all the time.”

  I shot her a withering look. “Yes, but these guests are … different.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they’re Landon’s family,” Clove answered. “She wants them to like her.”

  “That’s not it,” I scoffed. That’s totally it. Mothers don’t like me. They take one look at my wacky family and they run screaming in the other direction. There was no way this woman was going to like me. I just knew it.

  “Bay’s scared of Landon’s mom,” Thistle sang out. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

  I wanted to smack her – or drag her out into the back yard and make her eat dirt, at least – until she shut her mouth. I knew that wouldn’t be a good first impression, though.

  “I am not afraid of his mother,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “I’m afraid that his mother – or any member of his family, for that matter – is going to figure out what we are.”

  “You think they’re going to guess we’re witches?” Thistle asked. “I don’t see how. They know the town has been magically rebranded, and we can use that to explain away any accidents. As long as no one is casting any spells for the next seven days, you should be fine.”

  I scrunched up my nose. “And while I know that’s not a problem for the three of us – and even our mothers – there is someone else in this family who is going to have a problem with it.”

  Thistle chuckled. “Aunt Tillie wouldn’t risk exposure.”

  I tilted my head to the side. “Really?”

  Thistle thought about it again. “We’ll just have to keep a close eye on her.”

  “We always try to keep a close eye on her,” Clove said. “How well has that worked for us in the past?”

  “Well … .”

  “Remember when she poisoned everyone at the senior center because she thought they were cheating at euchre?” I reminded her.

  “Technically that just makes her a poor loser,” Thistle replied. “As far as anyone knows she didn’t use anything witchy to do that.”

  “What about when she cursed Eli Patton with a foot fungus that spread to his … um … private parts,” Clove said. “He swears they turned green and almost fell off.”

  “That could’ve been a coincidence.”

  “How about the time she didn’t like where the gazebo was downtown and she magically moved it so it was in the police station parking lot?” I asked.

  “Hey, we convinced people that was a tornado,” Thistle shot back. “Don’t bring that up again.”

  “What are we talking about?”

  I glanced up as Aunt Marnie entered the room. She seemed in a good mood, if her wide smile was any indication. She’d even touched up her roots the night before, so now her hair color more closely matched that of her daughter, Clove.

  “Bay is scared of Landon’s mother,” Thistle said.

  “I’m not afraid!”

  Marnie patted my arm. “It will be fine, dear. The boy is besotted with you. His family will love you, too.”

  “What about Aunt Tillie?” I pressed.

  “Well, they’ll learn to tolerate her,” Marnie said.

  “Great,” I grumbled.

  “We’ve already warned her,” Marnie said. “If she does anything … untoward … we’ve threatened to take her greenhouse away.”

  “They’re out there doing construction right now,” I argued, gesturing toward the back of the inn. “That’s not a very good threat. She knows you won’t stick to it.”

  “Besides,” Thistle interjected. “You gave her that greenhouse to stop her from terrorizing the neighborhood when you took away her wine closet. You won’t give in now and take it from her because that will just send her on another rampage – and no one wants that.”

  “We might take it away,” Marnie argued.

  “You won’t,” Clove said, reaching for a carrot stick from the hors d'oeuvres tray in front of her.

  Marnie smacked her hand. “Those are for Landon’s family.”

  “There’s a whole plate of them,” Clove protested. “I’m hungry.”

  “You’ll live.”

  “I think Aunt Tillie is going to surprise us,” Thistle said. “I think she’s going to be an angel.”

  Suspicion niggled the back of my brain. “Since when are you Aunt Tillie’s biggest fan? You’re usually the one plotting against her.”

  “And look where that’s gotten me,” Thistle replied. “I don’t want any more zits. I don’t want any more pants that don’t fit. I certainly don’t want to smell like bacon again. I would like to make it through an entire week without her cursing me.”

  “So, you’re going to be nice to her?” That didn’t sound like Thistle at all.

  “I’m going to kill her with kindness.”

  Yeah, that wouldn’t last. “Well, great. Maybe if we all kill her with kindness she’ll be on her best behavior.”

  “Or die.” Thistle looked hopeful.

  “She’d better be on her best behavior,” Marnie said. “We had a long talk with her last night. We explained how important this was to you. She seemed to understand.”

  “It’s not important to me,” I sniffed. “I’m not nervous.”

  “Of course you’re nervous,” Marnie countered. “You’re meeting your boyfriend’s family. That’s always nerve-wracking.”

  “I’m not nervous.” I said the words but they were hollow, even
to my own ears.

  Thistle gave me a knowing look. “You should take a page out of my book,” she said. “I wasn’t nervous when I met Marcus’ mother.”

  Marcus was Thistle’s boyfriend. They’d been together for the past year. While Marcus hadn’t always lived in Hemlock Cove, his mother had. “That’s not fair,” I said. “You’ve known Marcus’ mother your entire life. It’s not the same thing.”

  “It is, too.”

  “It is not.”

  “It is, too.”

  “It is not.”

  “What are you two arguing about?”

  Great. My mother had arrived to make my mortification complete. “Nothing.”

  “Bay is worried about meeting Landon’s family,” Clove said.

  “Of course she is,” Mom said. “It’s a big deal.”

  One look at her dreamy smile had my insides twisting. “I know what you’re thinking.”

  Mom’s face sobered. “No you don’t.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Fine. What was I thinking?”

  “You were thinking that meeting Landon’s family means we’re going to get married,” I said. “Don’t deny it. It’s written all over your face.”

  “So?”

  “So? So we’ve only been dating a couple of months,” I cautioned. “It’s too soon to think about anything like that.”

  “That’s not the way I see it,” Mom replied, her tone prim.

  “How do you see it?” Thistle asked, clearly enjoying my agony.

  “The way I see it, a man who is willing to introduce a woman he’s been dating for only a few months to his family is a man with other things on his mind,” she said.

  Kill me now.

  “As a mother, as her mother, I can’t help but hope that those things will eventually lead to marriage,” she said. “And grandchildren.”

  Did she just say grandchildren?

  “Get that out of your head right now,” I said. “That’s so far down the road you’re going to need Aunt Tillie’s plow to find it.”

  My mom placed her hands on her hips and shook her blonde head testily. “I want grandchildren.”

  “You have Aunt Tillie,” I said. “She’s more trouble than any grandchild could ever be. Plus, if I know her, she’s going to chase Landon’s family out of here in twenty-four hours flat – and they’ll probably take him with them when they go.”