Chapter 17
Sailor did more than just pay Ingrid’s taxes.
The next day, she also sent a whole crew of workmen—roofers, plumbers, electricians, and HVAC techs—to Ingrid’s house to repair every system that was outdated or broken.
Ingrid chewed Miles out for telling Sailor about the money she owed, but it was a half-hearted performance at best. The truth was, she was relieved.
And she could see that with Sailor writing checks, Miles suddenly realized Ingrid might no longer require his services. He was scared, which made her feel bad.
Taking pity on him, she assured Miles that it was an old house, that things would continue to break and need upkeep, and of course, he’d always be needed.
Still, he refused to be cajoled out of his melancholy mood.
He and Litha lurked around with baleful eyes and petulant frowns while the workers swarmed the house.
Finally, that day around lunchtime, he stomped out of the house without telling her where he was going.
Ingrid didn’t have time to deal with it.
She was too busy showing the workers the special quirks of the house, hanging around to make sure nothing got stolen.
Not that she actually believed these guys would steal anything.
They worked in houses like the Loefflers’ and their friends’ all the time.
Still, she kept an eye on them. She’d been hanging out with Miles and Boney too long to trust anyone.
Later that afternoon, to give her ears a break from the noise of the work, Ingrid heated up some of the leftover Loeffler shrimp and grits, intending to take it down to one of the benches in the shady square.
On her way down the front steps, she noticed Gloria Ledieu fertilizing the pots of hideous, spiky plants in front of her house.
“Getting some work done, I see,” the woman said.
On the sidewalk, Ingrid turned and lifted her chin. “It’s a major overhaul, actually. Long overdue, as I’m sure you know.”
“Gracious, all those fellas scurrying in and out.” The woman was practically quivering with the need to know more. “Must be setting you back a pretty penny.” She let out a giggle to let Ingrid know she wasn’t prying, just commiserating.
Ingrid wasn’t fooled. “Not me. My new employer.”
Mrs. Ledieu’s small, sharp eyes glinted. “Employer? You have a new job? Did you close down your business—”
“Sorry, gotta run,” Ingrid said sunnily and headed toward the square where she felt the old woman’s eyes on her as she sat on a bench and started to eat.
When she was finished and heading back to the house, Mrs. Ledieu was gone, but Dean Remington’s young husband, Sheffield, happened to be coming out the door of their private courtyard.
He was shirtless as usual, tanned and waxed smooth, a pair of pink, rimless sunglasses holding back his cupcake swirl of honey-colored hair.
“Hey, Practical Magic,” he called to her. “You going to have us over for a drink when you finish your redecorating?”
Ingrid sighed wearily. “I’m not selling y’all the place, Sheffield.”
“I hear you’re Sailor Loeffler’s new pet.” He arched one perfectly plucked eyebrow. “Lucky duck. I wish I could tell fortunes.”
“I’m a witch, not a fortune teller.” Her voice dripped with disdain. Good Goddess, people drove her crazy sometimes.
“Then you know that the Loefflers are a dangerous bunch.” Now he was looking at her in a way she couldn’t decipher. Like he wanted to tell her something he shouldn’t. “They’ll use you up and throw you away. Ask Dean. He knows.”
Ingrid sent him a tight smile and headed up the steps.
It wasn’t her fault that she was actually good at her job, and someone had recognized it and wanted to reward her for it.
But it was the unfortunate reality of life—people weren’t happy for anyone’s good fortune but their own.
Well, that was fine. Add it to the list of all the new things she was learning and experiencing, thanks to Sailor.
That evening, when Miles came back for a quick bite to eat before his tour, he apologized for his behavior. “I shouldn’t be mad about anything, Ingrid. This is good news for you.”
“For us,” she reminded him and went to the kitchen to make him something from the leftovers of Sailor’s party. A roast beef sandwich on a gorgeous hoagie roll with horseradish and onions. Miles loved sandwiches.
When he had finished eating and left for work, she cleaned up the kitchen, then went up to her room and changed into pajamas.
She climbed into bed with her phone and opened her messages, deliberating for a long while.
At last, she typed out a message to the phone number that she still hadn’t labeled in her phone.
Have you been forgiven? Have you sinned again?
She settled back against the pillows, her entire body tingling with anticipation, and waited for a reply. While she waited, she typed in a contact name.
My Sinner.
The following week, in the midst of the chaos of the renovations, Sailor popped in to go through the house with Ingrid so they could decide a few things: where new wallpaper and fresh paint was needed, which light fixtures needed rewiring, and which ancient kitchen appliances needed replacing.
Sailor suggested they drop by Scoot’s interior design studio—located on the corner of Bull Street and West Jones—to make their selections.
They met one morning later in the week outside the shop. The shingle that hung above the door read LOEFFLER INTERIORS in gold lettering, and when Sailor opened the door for Ingrid, she was hit with the deliciously cool smell of expensive reed diffusers. Bitter orange and woodsmoke. Scoot’s aura.
Inside, bathed in soft lighting, vignettes of antique sofas and chairs mixed with modern tables were scattered about. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Rugs so old they were almost threadbare covered the floor. Gilt mirrors and huge paintings adorned the walls.
As Sailor inspected the abundant fringe on a pillow, Ingrid’s phone buzzed.
I am thinking of a saint today.
Ingrid bit her lip and typed quickly. I’m thinking of a sinner.
Tell me what you’re thinking. Give me details.
“Girls!” Scoot was dressed in another flowing outfit, a tunic and wide leg pants in a creamy ivory silk. Her blond hair was pulled back in a tight bun and her lineless skin shone peachy pink. Blushing furiously, Ingrid dropped the phone into her purse and zipped it closed.
Scoot gathered both of them into an embrace, kissing the air between their cheeks. Ingrid smelled the sharp, sweet scent of liquor.
Ingrid felt a sharp blade of warning cleave the space between her shoulder blades.
Backstabber …
The word floated into her head, black letters on a stark white background.
Scoot Loeffler gripped Ingrid’s arms, shaking her slightly. “What you’ve done for us, my darling girl! I don’t even know how to thank you! The flowers … the harpist? I just don’t know how you did it!”
Sailor smiled at Ingrid. “It’s called witchcraft, Mother.”
Scoot shivered exaggeratedly. “Ooh, witchcraft.”
“It’s nothing to be afraid of,” Ingrid said.
“Oh, don’t worry about me. I’m not afraid of anything,” Scoot said wryly, and Ingrid had no trouble believing her. “You have a gift, don’t you? A rare, special gift.” She was studying Ingrid, as if trying to solve a riddle.
Well, Scoot wasn’t far off. Witchcraft was a riddle.
The seeking to connect to the universe. The aligning of oneself with the Goddess.
There were rarely definitive answers. Mostly it was an intuitive game of hide-and-seek, a fumbling in the dark during a storm, with the occasional illumination during a flash of lightning.
She would’ve said all this if she thought Scoot Loeffler truly wanted an answer. But she saw that Scoot did not expect or even desire a response. Scoot Loeffler was accustomed to answering her own questions.
Now the woman’s expression was playful, impish. “We should keep you close, shouldn’t we, Ingrid? So this whole wedding goes off without a hitch.”
Sailor put her arm around Ingrid. “Mother, she’s not a circus monkey. Ingrid’s done us a huge favor. We can’t just keep asking her to drop everything and do spells for the right butter-cream icing.”
Scoot eyed her appraisingly. “I don’t know. I think she likes doing favors. I think she likes being needed.”
Ingrid swallowed.
“As long as we’re on the subject of things we need,” Sailor said. “Marcella’s sent word that she doesn’t have time to do the third dress.”
“For pity’s sake,” Scoot huffed.
Ingrid was incredulous. “The third dress?”
“The first is for the ceremony—” Sailor explained.
“Danielle Frankel,” Scoot interjected.
“—the second is for the dinner. That one’s either the Vera Wang or Loewe, we haven’t decided yet. The third is for the reception. For dancing.”
Ingrid had no words. She’d only been to a handful of weddings and those had taken place at courthouses or backyards or Starland Yard, the food truck lot. Only one of the brides had worn an actual wedding dress. Not a single one had included multiple costume changes.
Scoot winked at Ingrid. “You know Marcella.”
Ingrid shook her head gravely. She did not.
“Oh. Well, she’s a designer in New York,” Sailor said. “She was at J. Mendel then Carolina Herrera before she went out on her own.”
“Anyway.” Scoot reached out and playfully pinched Ingrid’s arm. “If you could just conjure up a window in Marcella’s schedule for us. Maybe her entire client list could get the chicken pox or something, I don’t know?”
Scoot tittered. Ingrid smiled grimly. It wasn’t really worth mentioning that she didn’t do that kind of black magic. The baneful kind. There were a lot of reasons for that, mainly that Edie had never allowed it.
“Shall we head back?” Scoot asked, indicating a cluster of offices in the back of the space.
Ingrid nodded and followed Sailor and Scoot, but she couldn’t help feeling she was being led into enemy territory. The lair of a deadly spider.
The word came again.
Backstabber …