Chapter 3 #2
Like everything else that wasn’t H-Town-related, Luna took an erratic approach to cooking. Wren walked across to the stove where something bubbled in a pot, and warily lifted the lid. It could be pasta or eye of newt. You never knew with Luna.
Thankfully, it looked and smelled like a fairly decent stew.
Not Luna’s work, then, but probably Marsha’s, Luna’s best friend and personal assistant.
Behind every successful woman was another one standing in the shadows, and Marsha—quiet, studious, a little frumpy—was Luna’s right and left hand. Probably her spine, too.
Wren dug out a spoon and dipped it into the stew, sighing at the depth of its flavor. “Rice or potatoes, Luna?” she asked, knowing that if she didn’t make either, they’d be eating plain stew.
Luna waved her question away. “Anything, darling.”
Wren started to peel potatoes, half-listening to Luna telephonically haranguing a colleague about an upcoming council vote.
Wren had grown up half in awe, half in mild embarrassment of her godmother.
She was black lace, velvet shawls, and plum lipstick one day, and sharp suits, pulled back hair, and business the next.
Some weeks her hair was a riot of multi-colored streaks, the next month it was back to its bold white, shimmering like early morning mist on the lake.
Nobody knew what version of Luna you’d get on any given day—sorcerer or CEO—and Wren knew she liked putting people off-balance, to keep them guessing.
She smelled of both Chanel No 5 and sage, tinted by ambition, and her laugh—big, witchy, and very wicked—always hung around long after she’d left a room.
But more than anything else, Luna Merriweather was sharp.
The kind of sharp that sliced through resident objections and bureaucratic red tape.
She could charm birds out of trees and, more difficult, grant money out of state officials to fund another one of her “brilliantly spooky” ideas—her words, not theirs.
H-Town thrived because of her. Every pumpkin light, every haunted tour, every over-the-top festival had Luna’s fingerprints all over it.
She’d boldly and openly called herself a “part-time witch, full-time visionary” and nobody had a reason, or the guts, to disagree.
Only Luna could pull off being both a civic leader and an occasional witch who frequently threatened to hex people who didn’t fall into line.
It was Luna who’d made this strange little town hum with life, and she was universally adored.
And feared. These days, Wren simply thought of her as amazing.
“I’m so happy to have you home, darling child,” Luna said, banging the phone back into its cradle.
She rested her chin in the palm of her hand and grunted when Morrigan hopped up and landed in her lap.
To be fair, he did weigh as much as a chunky toddler.
A half-dozen thick silver bracelets fell down her arm.
Luna looked past Wren and shook her head. “Not now, Cedric darling, I’m busy.”
“Cedric darling” was, supposedly, the town’s self-appointed spectral historian, who kept the town, as Luna said, historically honest. From where Wren stood, Cedric looked suspiciously like … nothing. Just a draft, a shadow, a trick of the light.
“Yes, sweetie, of course I want to know why the mayor challenged the town’s barber to a waltz-off in front of the town hall in nineteen-twelve, but not now, okay? I’m catching up with Wren. No, don’t flounce away…” Luna sighed. “God, he’s so dramatic.”
Pot, kettle, pitch-black. Could she roll her eyes any harder? Wren didn’t think so.
“Let’s talk about you, Wren. Why on earth did you say no to that gorgeous creature? That hair! Those eyes! That six-pack.”
Luna rested her butt against the counter and crossed her ankles.
Wren presumed she was talking about Kyro.
What few people, including Luna, didn’t know, was that beneath the styled hair and cool clothes, Kyro was a moderately good-looking, slightly skinny guy—that six-pack had more to do with contouring than crunches.
When she compared him to Hot Doc… No, that wasn’t fair.
But damn, Dr. Dane Trafford, smart and sexy, left a hell of an impression. And she hadn’t figured out how to stop thinking about him yet.
Wren tightened her grip on her mug and shrugged. Not wanting to talk about Kyro, because there wasn’t much to say—fling, failed livestream proposal, universal trolling—she changed the subject.
“So, I met an interesting guy today,” she said, filling a pot with water. Great. Now she was talking about him. All hope for her was gone—and she’d placed him on Luna’s witchy radar. Poor guy.
“Mmm?”
“I met him in Spirited Grounds. He’s renting a cottage on Lake Drive for the summer. Earl and Marigold put on a show, and I explained the town’s dynamics to him. He’s a trauma surgeon… He said something about working in disaster zones.”
Luna lifted one thin eyebrow and sat up straight. “Now, that’s interesting. So what is he doing in H-Town?”
“Unlike you, I don’t interrogate people, Luna.”
“I failed in my training,” Luna replied, her eyes narrowing. “A trauma surgeon, you say? Maybe he’s here looking for a change of pace.”
Wren recognized that look; Luna’d grabbed on to an idea she liked. Possibly even loved. “Uh … what are you thinking?” she asked, a little scared.
“Dr. Morris wants to retire, but I won’t let him until we find someone to buy his practice. H-Town cannot be without a doctor.”
Morrigan yawned, supremely bored by the problems of this lesser, stupider, species.
Luna could go from zero to a hundred in a second flat. “Whoa! Firstly, the guy is taking a vacation, he didn’t say anything about a career change. Secondly, he could be a really bad doctor, or surgeon, or whatever. Thirdly, you are not God!”
“No, I’m a goddess, and they are far more powerful,” Luna replied, completely serious. “I’ll have to give this more thought.”
Wren sighed and mentally apologized to Dane for putting him in Luna’s crosshairs.
“Talking about your men”—good grief, Luna made it sound like she had a different one every night!—“when last did you talk to Alex?”
“It’s been about a year,” she replied, her heartbeat speeding up as she wondered where Luna was going with this line of questioning. Everyone knew Alex was not a topic she enjoyed discussing.
“That was a very careful response. And when last did Alex speak to you? I bet it was a lot more recently than that.”
Wren looked at her phone sitting on the counter next to Luna’s elbow, and suspicion bloomed.
Morrigan hopped from Luna’s lap to the counter and pawed her phone.
She’d left it there to go to the bathroom earlier…
Had a message popped up, and had Luna read it?
Alex checked in with her every couple of months or so.
She’d yet to reply to any of his many, many text messages.
Luna’s eyes darted to her phone, and Wren lunged for it, scooping it up. Luna glared at Morrigan. “Snitch,” she muttered. Morrigan gave her a low and slow blink, his version of the middle finger.
Wren swiped her screen, and there, above the picture of her and Poppy as teenagers, was a message.
Hey, Wren. I really need to talk to you. Personal, not business. Call me, okay?
She’d heard that he and Jess were getting married in a couple of months.
A little less than a year ago, back when she still believed in love, Wren had gathered her courage and told him how she felt about him, that she thought they could be amazing together, if he gave them a chance.
He’d told her he was in love with Jess and couldn’t see her as anything more than a friend, his very best friend.
Embarrassed, hurt, and a little heartbroken, she’d retreated. Stopped answering his calls and left his messages unread. It had been—still was—easier that way.
At this point, they hadn’t communicated for eight, no, nine months. Yet, here he was, reaching out. Wanting to talk to her about something that wasn’t dance related. Her internal fire alarm started blaring. That couldn’t be good.
Shit.