Winds of Salem: A Witches of East End Novel Page 15

  She walked to the closet, then glimpsed over a shoulder, grinning. “I can’t! I’m running late.” She took a dress off its hanger and threw it on. It clung nicely to her frame, not too tightly, just right.

  Freddie rubbed his eyes, sitting up. “What time is it?” He grabbed his phone by the bed to answer his own question just as Kristy’s cell gave a little catcall whistle. It was six A.M.

  “Well, that’s a monkey wrench!” Kristy said, glancing at her cell’s screen.

  “What do you mean, you’ve got to get out of here?”

  She tilted her head, appearing distracted. “You know, my daytime job. The place I usually go most days. But listen, I need a favor.”

  Freddie lifted his eyebrows and scooted over on the bed, glancing down at the empty spot. He wasn’t giving up.

  Kristy ignored the signal. “The babysitter called in sick last night, and now their dad, who had promised to take them for the day, just texted that he can’t. I need you to take care of them. You know, just for the day. Max has Little League practice and Hannah ballet.” She threw his clothes at him and smiled sweetly. “Come on, babe? They’re good kids, right? And you have nothing to do all day until you have to work tonight.”

  Freddie sighed. They were good kids.

  She kissed him. “Thanks, love!”

  He rose and began to dress.

  “Don’t worry, it’s easy. I’ll write down instructions, and you can use my car. I’ll take the Vespa. You just have to drop them off and pick them up on time. Make sure they eat. Good food, not junk.” She stopped talking and smiled, then came over and leaned in to give him another appreciative kiss. “They really like you, Freddie. Oh, and Max is a vegetarian. But Hannah isn’t. Try to remember.”

  “Okay,” said Freddie.

  Just then, on cue, Kristy’s seven-year-old, Hannah, began wailing in the house.

  “Quick!” said Kristy, motioning to the sliding glass doors. “Go! Come back and say you’re their babysitter for today. You are officially the new manny.”

  “Manny?” Freddie echoed, grabbing his Chuck Taylors and slipping out. Outside in the cold, he put on his shoes, shivering. The kids normally knew him as “Mommy’s friend.” He would pretend to leave when he came over, only to sneak back in through the sliding glass doors.

  He heard Kristy’s little girl come into the bedroom. “Mommy, Mommy, Max hid Floppy. I can’t find him! He says Floppy is stinky and that I’m too old for him.”

  Freddie knocked on the glass.

  “Oh, look at that!” said Kristy. “Freddie is already here! He’s your new babysitter. He must have come up from the beach. He’ll help you find Floppy.” She slid the door open, and Freddie entered, smiling sheepishly.

  Hannah clung to her mother’s leg, looking up at Freddie with huge, wet pleading eyes.

  Kristy ran a hand over the little girl’s fine, scraggly light brown hair. She was a tiny slip of a thing. “Floppy,” she echoed. The little girl stared at Freddie as she cried and hiccupped, and her little chin trembled before she let out another whimper and hiccupped again.

  Kristy’s son, Max, tore into the room, canonballing onto the bed. “Hey, tiger,” Freddie said. Wasn’t that what you were supposed to call little boys? Either that or “champ.” “Tiger” suited him better—Max was a terror.

  “What’s he doing here already?” Max was kneeling, fists on the mattress, his shiny brown hair, like his mother’s, going every which way. His face was tan, cheeks rosy, and his button of a nose sunburned at the tip. He wore round blue-framed glasses that made his brown eyes look even larger.

  Freddie mussed his hair. “You’re stuck with me for the day, tiger.”

  “Don’t call him that, his name is Max,” said Hannah, still clinging to her mother’s leg as she walked about the room, both of her feet balanced on one of her mom’s. Kristy gathered her purse and keys. “Kids, please be nice to Freddie today, okay?”

  They made faces at him before they ran out of the room.

  Just when Freddie had gotten rid of the pixies, he found himself saddled with two new wards. He wondered which were better—delinquent pixies or little mortals who cried and hiccupped and asked prying questions? Ah well. He had wanted to be a dad, hadn’t he? You get what you wish for.

  When he walked into the living room, Hannah was waiting, and together they went to find Floppy.

  chapter twenty-nine

  My Boyfriend’s Back

  A wheel on the book cart wobbled. I need to fix that, thought Ingrid as she pushed it along an aisle in the library. She could ask Hudson, but he was even less mechanically inclined than she was. Tabitha, her belly resembling a dirigible, could barely bend over. The squeaky wheel echoed throughout the empty, quiet library.

  Troy Overbrook had called the very same day Ingrid and Hudson had run into him. Then he had called the next, and the next, until she finally acquiesced, agreeing to meet for that one cup of coffee. Troy had even insisted on picking her up at the library today.

  She came around a bend, rolling the broken cart into the nook by the window that faced the sea. It was past five o’clock and the sun would be setting soon. She was glad to be inside the quiet library, with the constant, soothing whir of the heater.

  She placed The Great Gatsby in its rightful spot in the F section and felt a hand gently scoop around her waist. She jumped from the sudden unexpected touch.

  Matt stood there in his civilian attire, a collared shirt and dark trousers, giving her a slow, sexy grin.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, immediately regretting her words.

  He stared at her silently, cocking his head. “What do you mean? I dropped by. I do that sometimes, don’t I? Is something wrong?”

  She adjusted her glasses, pushing them up farther on her nose with an index finger. “No, no, nothing’s wrong.” She shook her head in an exaggerated way. “It’s good to see you!” She smiled and moved forward, tripping over her own feet, giving him a hug.

  Matt stood there a bit stiffly, holding out his arms, as if not knowing what to do with his hands for a moment before he hugged her back. “Are you sure nothing’s wrong?”

  She felt immediately guilty, thinking about Troy, even if it was just a casual coffee thing. To make up for it she lifted up onto her toes and kissed him on the lips.

  “Get a room, you two!” Hudson teased from the front desk, where he and Tabitha were sitting. Tabitha yawned hello and Hudson yawned, too. The lack of work, along with the hum of the heater, seemed to be making everyone drowsy.

  Matt nuzzled her neck. “Mmm, that’s better,” he said.

  Hudson coughed. “Um, Ingrid, Troy’s here.”

  Matt released her from his embrace and gave Ingrid a puzzled look. Who’s Troy? he mouthed, just as Troy strolled into view. The strapping redhead seemed to suck all the air in the room—even Tabitha looked enamored.

  Ingrid looked between the two men standing in front of her. “Hey, Troy, this is Matt, Matthew Noble. He’s a detective for the NHPD. The detective, that is, of our little town,” she said, fumbling with her words a little. “And Matt, this is Troy Overbrook, an old friend from way back. We knew each other when we were, uh… kids… Troy and I ran into each other—”

  Matt nodded. “Hey, Troy, how’s it going, man?” he said, offering a hand to shake.

  “Hey, Matt,” Troy said.

  They released hands, and Matt swung an arm over Ingrid’s shoulders. “So you’re visiting? You in town for a while?” he asked, seeming genuinely curious, friendly even.

  Troy hesitated. “Um, yeah… I guess you could say that.” He nodded.

  “We should all go out for drinks sometime. North Inn’s always a blast,” said Matt.

  Ingrid put a hand on his shoulder, her heart pounding hard. “Actually, honey, Troy and I had plans to go out for coffee now… to catch up on old times.”

  Matt’s grin looked painful. “Fantastic!” he said. “You have fun, babe.” He gave Ingrid a smack on th
e butt, which made her stand to attention.

  Babe? Matt had never called her that before.

  “Cool,” said Troy, bobbing his head.

  Matt kissed her good-bye, a kiss that seemed to go on forever and left her a little dizzy. When he let her go, he gave her a salacious once-over, and Ingrid worried he would slap her behind once more. “Later,” he said.

  Matt left, and Ingrid and Troy were alone with the wobbly cart. She pushed it toward the nearest bookshelf.

  “You need help with that?” Troy asked, kneeling down to fix the wheel. He looked up at her. “So that’s the new boyfriend.” He whistled.

  “Shut it,” Ingrid warned. “Not a word!”

  Troy twirled the wheel expertly into its rightful place. “Just one. Mortal?”

  “Uh-huh,” said Ingrid, sighing. “Look, he knows about me, okay?”

  “I’m not worried about him, I’m worried about you. You know what mortal means…”

  It meant she would outlive Matt, it meant she would get her heart broken. Yes, she knew exactly what it meant. Perhaps Troy was right to question her choice of mate.

  Outside the coffee shop window, the sky tinted pink and orange as the sun sank into the waves. Out on the beach, a lone couple watched the sunset, while a few people strolled along the shore, walking their dogs.

  She told Troy what had happened to Freya, her voice shaking. Across from her, Troy peered at her from behind his cappuccino and torn sugar packets. His eyes shone, as if he were tearing up, too. The muscle at his jaw twitched, and he reached out a hand, enfolding hers.

  She’d forgotten what a steadying presence Thor possessed. She didn’t have to explain or make excuses for any of the details. He understood because he was like her.

  “It seems the passages have closed,” she continued. “We can’t get through. Our powers…”

  “Are ineffective,” he completed the sentence.

  “More like gone,” she said wistfully.

  “It has crossed my mind that I might be turning into a mortal,” he said with a grin.

  “Oh dear!” Ingrid said, and they both laughed.

  She talked about what she had discovered in her research on Salem, the similarities between the accusers’ actions to those in the pamphlet she had found. “You don’t think I’m crazy, do you? To think that maybe the girls did this… to get out of their chores? I mean their lives were rough—and here was a chance for them to be treated like… well, like celebrities.”

  Troy nodded. “People have done a lot more for a lot less,” he said. “It’s not implausible that their hard lot was a factor. Why not?”

  Ingrid nodded, glad he agreed. “And there’s the Putnams, too. Thomas Putnam filed most of the complaints for witchcraft during the trials. He hated his half brother so much, according to Putnam family lore, that Joseph Putnam kept his horse continually saddled during the witch hunts so he could be ready to skip town once the finger pointed at him. Joseph was actually one of the few townspeople to speak out against the trials.”

  “What are you saying?”

  She frowned. “That maybe once the girls started having fits and calling people witches, Thomas Putnam saw it as a convenient opportunity to knock off some of his enemies. He probably would have gotten to Joseph except it sort of got out of hand before he could get to him.”

  chapter thirty

  The Price of Admission

  Tyler Alvarez sat on a stool at Joanna’s kitchen counter, concentrating on the pastry before him. He stared at the little fruit tart: one strawberry, a slice of kiwi, an apricot half, and a scattering of blueberries in a clear glaze inside a perfect round crust.

  “You made this, Jo?” The six-year-old son of Joanna’s housekeeper, Gracella, stared at her with his big, curious brown eyes, his face tan and cheeks pink.

  Joanna glanced at him from the kitchen table. “Actually, I bought that at the new bakery.” She’d been out to the market and was now putting a bouquet of roses together, cutting the stems and removing the leaves and thorns before placing them in a cylindrical vase. She loved when Gracella and Tyler were there. It made the house feel especially homey and tranquil.

  Gracella was at the kitchen sink, doing the dishes. “You stopped baking, Jo! We really miss that.”

  “I know,” Joanna said wistfully. “I just haven’t had the time.” It was a lie. Well, not entirely, but really she had stopped baking because she had lost her touch. How sad to discover that with her magic gone, she had no real natural talent at baking, only the ability to fix burned crusts and sweeten tasteless cakes.

  Tyler’s fork hovered. “This looks yummy!” he said.

  Joanna laughed, snipping at stems.

  Gracella turned around and leaned against the sink, her forehead beaded with sweat. She lifted a rubber-gloved hand to wipe at her brow with her wrist. “There is something I need to talk to you about, Jo.”

  “You know you can talk to me about anything, Gracella,” she said.

  “It’s about you know who.” Gracella gave a little nod in Tyler’s direction as he dug into the tart, which made him wince, then lick his lips.

  “It’s about me,” said Tyler, jamming another forkful into his mouth.

  Gracella rolled her eyes.

  Joanna laughed lightheartedly, but then she saw that Gracella was suddenly on the verge of tears. “Oh, Gracella!” She rushed over. “Let’s you and I have a little chat while Tyler eats that. Can you give us a moment, sweetie?”

  He dropped his fork onto the plate with a clank. “Can I play with Oscar when I’m done?”

  “Of course,” said Joanna. “He’s upstairs in Ingrid’s room. Don’t let him out.”

  “Promise,” said Tyler. He was a smart child. He had never told a soul about Ingrid’s griffin, nor anything about Joanna being able to bring his toy soldiers to life. Well, she couldn’t do anything like that now, but she could console Gracella.

  Gracella removed her rubber gloves and apron, and Joanna took her by the hand, guiding her to the living room, where they sat on the couch.

  “You see, Miss Joanna, you have been so kind to me and my family. I really don’t want to seem like I am asking for anything. It’s j-just…” she stammered.

  “Come, come, Gracella, let it all out,” encouraged Joanna, patting her on the knee.

  Gracella nodded and forged on. She reiterated that Joanna had been so generous putting Tyler in preschool. “But now he is kindergarten age, and the public school is terrible. My friend Cecilia said that there is a lot of bullying going on there—and as you know, Tyler is not like most kids. He’s too smart, for one, and takes everything too literally. I am very worried the children will pick on him…”

  “Ugh!” said Joanna. “When is all that bullying going to end? You read about it in the papers all the time.” She realized that in all this distress over Freya she had forgotten that she had meant to do something about Tyler’s schooling in September. There was no way she would let him be subjected to bullying. He needed to be with children who were as special as he was and teachers who would nurture such uncanny intelligence.

  “Of course we are going to do something about it. Tyler will not enroll there in the fall, don’t worry.”

  Gracella wiped at her nose and cheeks, sniffling a little as they hugged.

  Joanna wasn’t rich, but she had some money socked away for emergencies such as this. She was going to go upstairs and give Norm a ring, tell him to hold off on looking for that new car today—did they really need a second one?—and ask if he had any pull at some of those fancy private schools in the Hamptons.

  The next day Joanna and Tyler were on their way to their first appointment at one of the most prestigious elementary schools in the area. It had been recommended by a certain Hamptons creative set. Norman had a painter friend who was on the board, a successful artist whose shows often got rave reviews in the New York Times and was written about in the New Yorker. Norman had pulled some strings to secure the appointment for Joan
na and Tyler.

  She parked the car in the lot, which was surrounded by a neatly trimmed boxwood hedge. “This looks nice,” she remarked to Tyler as she squeezed into a spot.

  She took Tyler’s hand, and they made their way across what appeared to be a large soccer field. It was cold out, but in the field sat a circle of little girls and boys wearing wings over their heavy coats. At the center of the circle, a woman with long pink hair, wearing much larger wings over a long violet coat, held a book in one hand. She was gesticulating as the children attentively watched her.

  “This looks fun!” she said to Tyler, somewhat skeptically.

  The pink-haired woman and little children waved as they strode past them toward the schoolhouse. A man with a shag and scraggly beard, dressed in white, waited out front. Joanna wondered if she had stepped into the seventies, if the passages of time had in fact reopened.

  “Mr. Rainbow?” she asked.

  “Just Rainbow.” He smiled. “There are no such formalities around here,” he said as they shook hands.

  “Well, I’m Joanna Beauchamp, and this is Tyler, the boy in question.”

  Rainbow kneeled down to be at Tyler’s eye level. “Hello there, Tyler.” He winked, tousling the boy’s curls.

  “Hey,” responded Tyler, then he looked down at his feet and kicked at the cement, intimidated by the man’s overfriendliness.

  “Come on inside and see one of the classes in session.”

  Joanna and Tyler followed Rainbow into the school. Children’s paintings decorated the walls. The school was bright with sunlight, airy, and smelled of Elmer’s Glue. They pushed through doors into a hallway and made their way down it. She could hear fun, happy Spanish-sounding music.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “The class is in ‘movement’ right now.” Rainbow swung a door open onto a huge room with blond wood floors, where boys and girls shifted desultorily about, some spinning in circles, some wandering off into far corners, all appearing to have no real sense of direction.