Gypsy Magic - J.R. Rain Page 0,9

over the rims. Ophelia Ponsobby’s bio on the Hallowed Realty website said she was around my mother’s age. If so, she hadn’t aged half as gracefully. My mother was sixty-eight and her wrinkles looked artful, her age spots few and far between, her hair settling into a fluffy, cotton white after she’d given up dyeing it.

Ophelia looked like time had hit her with a two-by-four. More than once. The lines were deep cracks in her face, carved by an eon of misery. Had this woman ever smiled a day in her life? I doubted it.

“Get off the lawn this instant, you charlatan!” Ophelia shrieked, turning around to face a man who stood just below her, on the stairs. There was a basket of what looked like spa products sitting next to her, and the man below her was holding another gift basket, almost twice the size of hers.

“I’m hardly a charlatan, Ophelia,” he muttered, the gift basket obscuring his face.

She flourished a menacing black-polished nail at the stranger. “You’ve been warned once already, Mr. Zach!”

“Don’t get your granny panties in a bunch, Ophelia, I’m just here to be a good neighbor.”

She threw her hands on her hips and scowled at him. “Well, how about you be a better neighbor by going home this instant!” She narrowed her already small eyes as she added, “And it’s Mrs. Ponsobby to you!”

“Okay, but before I go, I have one question for you.” His voice was deep and had a happy quality about it. Like he was used to laughing. I could just make out his profile behind the clear wrap of the basket.

“What is it?” she demanded.

Then he glanced up at the plop of velvet sitting atop her head. “What is up with that hat?”

It looked like steam was going to come out of her ears and her face took on a purplish-red hue. I couldn’t help my smile.

“This is a Victorian Chenille Hat!” she insisted as she stomped her foot on my porch and I half-worried she was going to go right through it. “Though I don’t expect you to have the mental capacity to reason that out, you philistine!”

“Okay, okay,” I said, feeling the need to play peacemaker, not that that was anything new. “What in the world is going on?” I asked, looking between them both. The man lowered the basket slightly so I could see his eyes, which were smiling.

Then they both looked at me and were quiet for two seconds before they opened their mouths and a litany of angry words emerged, each defending his or her reasons for being on my front porch.

And then there was the hat. My God, the hat.

Maybe I was the philistine, because it didn’t look like a hat. It looked like a flock of birds had built a nest on Ophelia’s head and an overstuffed crow had settled in to die on it. The beady black eyes of the crow almost matched its owner’s.

Ophelia brandished a cane, again topped with a raven. She was wielding the cane like a shotgun at the stranger. I half-expected the metal tip to roll back and reveal it was really a small-caliber handgun.

The man she was pointing it at, in comparison, appeared pretty… normal. I mean, handsome normal. He was tall—maybe six-two, six-three, and good-looking, even as he held up the gift basket to avoid the swipe of Ophelia’s cane.

He looked like he was in his early forties, his hair and the stubble on his face peppered with gray. He wasn’t just a tall guy, but he was also broad-shouldered with really long legs. He looked like he’d give good hugs…

As he shifted the gift basket, I was able to see his black T-shirt. What appeared to be a dust bunny (as in a bunny made of dust) was being swept up by a faux proton pack, and there was a vague knockoff of the Ghostbusters logo beneath that. In white lettering, it read: ‘Hallowed Cleaners: Exorcise Your Dust!’ The utility belt strapped to his waist didn’t make the t-shirt any less odd.

“Why are you shouting at each other?” I asked, frowning at them both.

They started speaking at the same time again, a jumble of defensive syllables and high-pitched accusations.

“This charlatan is attempting to…”

“I was just coming to be friendly and welcome you to our town, but she…”

“Stop, stop, stop,” I muttered, holding up my hands. I pointed at the less conspicuous of the pair. Mostly because he wasn’t so intimidating. “You first...”

“Marty Zach,” he mumbled