Gypsy Magic - J.R. Rain Page 0,26

Point is, I could alert you if somethin’ bad was goin’ on here. Like a fire, a break in, a visit from that cranky, old broad who did a number on your apple tree…”

“Ophelia.”

“Right.”

I let out a sigh, holding up the perfume bottle within pouring distance.

“Which ones that?” Darla asked.

“Memory Drops Oil,” I answered, being careful not to spill any of it.

Memory Drops Oil had always been one of my more popular potions. It was used to improve mental acuity, especially for those who had trouble remembering names, faces, or locations. Equal parts rosemary, vanilla, cinnamon, and clove wafted up to tease my nose as I poured the lot of it into the bottle.

Mixing days with GG had always been my favorite of the month. Even now, the cavernous kitchen smelled like GG’s pantry and the scent took me back so many years—to when I was newly learning the history of my ancestors and the ways of the gypsies.

Maybe that was why I said what I did—because I was suddenly in a nostalgic mood which made my defenses less than what they ordinarily were. “Alright, Darla. You can be my eyes and ears around here, but only until I install a security system. And if you just pop in for no reason, I swear I will exorcise you! Or you’ll get the vacuum.”

Darla squealed and slapped her palms together in what appeared to be ghostly glee. “Oh, this is just berries! I promise you won’t regret this, doll.”

“No showing up unless it’s an emergency!” I said, already regretting it.

“No poofin’ in to spy on you, cross my heart an’ hope to die.” Then she started giggling in a falsetto that made my ears hurt. “Get it? Hope to die?”

“I get it,” I grumbled. Then I looked at her. “I’m serious, Darla, no just showing up because you’re bored or you’re wondering what I’m doing or when I’m going to be home.”

She made the sign of crossing her heart and then grinned at me even more broadly. “If I’m lyin’, I’m dyin’.”

She was so excited, she vibrated right out of the visible spectrum. I stared at the place she’d disappeared, wondering what the hell I’d just agreed to.

Not coming up with an answer, I sighed and surveyed my handiwork on the table. Dozens of glass bottles winked back at me, refracting the light of the noonday sun like prisms all over the antique kitchen. Dusty green bottles, stoppered with corks. Crystal lachrymatory bottles, crystal vases with teardrop stoppers, a jug that Great Grandpa had used to bootleg whiskey in the 1920s. There was history in each glass, and now each of them contained a little bit of my history too. GG’s wisdom and just a wisp of my magic.

Darla’s voice drifted down the stairs, singsong and off-key. “Oh, by the way… I picked out an outfit for your date,” she enthused.

“It’s not a date!” I called back. No, it was just a meeting between Marty and me to talk business—marketing my store business. I still needed a logo, business cards, flyers…

I focused on the task at hand again. Cardamom, wisteria, bergamot, and patchouli swirled in aromatic waves up to the ceiling, encircling an ancient looking chandelier. Some of the bulbs weren’t working and would need to be replaced. I still wasn’t sure if the stove worked, and there was definitely something desiccated and stinking behind the Westinghouse Refrigerator. But for just a moment, none of that mattered.

For the first time, starting fresh in a new town didn’t sound like such a crazy gamble, after all.

“We’re gonna make sure you’re a choice bit of calico and get a handcuff around that finger!” Darla sang out.

Sigh. Maybe I’d spoken too soon.

I was fairly certain Darla had to have necromantic powers, because she’d managed to raise the Ghost of Wardrobe Past. When I went upstairs to see the outfit she’d flung onto the bed, I found a wrinkled black mini skirt, my best heels, and a sleeveless violet blouse. And here I’d thought I hadn’t owned a mini skirt since high school.

Hmm, guess I was wrong.

Regardless, I’d tried to pick out my own outfit—something a bit less… revealing, but Darla wouldn’t hear of it and protested in that high-pitched, winy voice of hers for twenty minutes straight, until I gave in. She was lucky the vacuum was downstairs.

“Positive thoughts,” I reminded myself as I eased the Jeep around the bend from Orchard Street onto Main Street that would lead into town. I took a