into a ruthless ponytail. “Not on my account.”
Sinclair inhaled deeply. “It still smells like summer.”
I poked him in the back of the head. His short dreads were tight yet supple, stirring in the wind. Once a week, he treated them with an organic product containing essential oils, and I always knew because it smelled a lot like fresh rosemary. “I think that’s your salon treatment you’re smelling.”
Reaching behind him, he swatted at my hand. “Natty Dread got to look fine for his ladies, darling.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Emmeline give us both an indulgent smile in the mirror before downshifting. Something about her and her presence here in Pemkowet put me on edge. But since I couldn’t put my finger on it, I resolved to keep my promise and do my best to make a good first impression.
The Bide-a-Wee Tavern is located out in the sticks, a couple miles southeast of town along the rural highway. Frankly, it’s not the venue I would have chosen if I were trying to make a good impression on a first-time visitor to Pemkowet, or at least not a poised visitor oozing style and sophistication. It’s not a dive, but it’s pretty rustic: basic American bar food on the menu, well-worn carpeting and dented wood paneling that were probably installed in the 1970s.
Don’t get me wrong—I love the place. I love the sameness of it, and the fact that it hasn’t changed since I was a kid drinking Shirley Temples with my mom while her boyfriend Trey played bass guitar in the house band, eyes half closed and a beatific smile on his face. Just the memory filled me with tenderness.
That was what I’d wanted to share with Sinclair. But with Emmeline there, I couldn’t help but see it through her eyes, too.
It looked dingy and a little sad. As I’d promised, the place was full, but the clientele was older and overwhelmingly white. The latter’s sort of unavoidable since Pemkowet’s mundane population is fairly racially homogenous, but . . . let’s just say that there were a lot of frumpy middle-aged Midwestern ladies in their finest appliquéd sweatshirts.
“It’s early,” I murmured to Sinclair. “We could probably still get into Lumière.”
Sinclair glanced uncertainly at his sister.
“I think it’s brilliant,” Emmeline said in a firm voice, her British accent emerging in a clipped and authoritative manner. “Very authentic.” She turned to the hostess. “Table for three?”
So we stayed.
At first it was awkward, but eventually, music and food and beer greased the conversational skids. In between numbers, I asked Emmeline questions about herself, about her education at boarding schools and at Oxford. She responded with engaging tales laced with self-deprecating humor, asking me about myself in turn—about growing up in Pemkowet, about how I’d helped Sinclair secure the regularly scheduled appearances by pretty, sparkly fairies that helped popularize his tours.
Here’s what we didn’t talk about: Jamaica, obeah, Sinclair and Emmeline’s mother, and the fact that I was a hell-spawn.
That was okay with me. If she wanted to avoid talking about the various elephants in the room, I wasn’t going to bring them up. Sinclair definitely didn’t seem inclined to do so, and I was taking my cue from him.
“Fascinating,” Emmeline murmured when I’d finished telling the story of our bargain with the Oak King. “I must say, I thoroughly enjoyed riding along on Sinny’s tours today. Well done.”
“Oh, the tour is entirely Sinclair’s doing,” I said honestly. “It was all his idea. I just helped facilitate it.”
She gave me an open, friendly smile. “Well, you’re obviously very good at your job.”
“Thanks.” I smiled back at her and found myself relaxing. “I appreciate it. Half the time, I’m making it up as I go along.”
Emmeline laughed. “I’m sure that’s not true.”
The band wrapped up a Louis Armstrong number and paused to confer among themselves and talk to the staff. From what I could gather, they were trying to convince the woman tending bar to sing a number. Sinclair rapped his knuckles on the table. “Excuse me, ladies, but I’ve got to use the restroom. Back in a minute.”
As he left the table, the bartender acceded to demand and left her station to take the microphone. Her face was lined and weathered before its time, she was a hard-worn fiftysomething in faded jeans, a shapeless T-shirt, and a service apron, but I’d heard her sing before. Reaching for his mute, the trumpet player launched into the unmistakable opening bars of “Stormy Weather.”
“She’s good,” I