"No. Thanks."
"Is that gin you're drinking?" I checked what shoes I had on—cheap flip flops—and let out a breath of relief.
"It's a Manhattan. Perry made it for me."
I gave Perry the Ceceri Evil Eye, but he was oblivious as he chatted with Maria. "He's a bad influence."
"Nah. He's okay."
I wasn't sure what to say to cheer him up. There was no denying the obvious—that Brickhouse hadn't come back when she heard Mr. Cabrera had been in the hospital. And she had heard—her daughter Claudia confirmed it.
"I asked her, you know," he said.
"To marry you?"
He nodded. "The morning after she left. She was so mad she wouldn't even open the door. I had to slide the ring through the mail slot."
I bit my cheek to keep from smiling. This wasn't a humorous situation, but that visual...I wanted to laugh. "Did she slide it back out?"
With a sudden jerk, he faced me full-on. "Are you laughing?"
Pressing my lips together, I shook my head.
"No, she did not. She kept it. Said she'd think about what I said while she was away and give me an answer when she came back."
"So she didn't say no."
"But she didn't come back when I was in the hospital, either."
Yeah, that was pretty bad. "Well," I said, trying to spin it, "she was really upset with you, rightfully so. You've been taking her for granted."
"You're quite the cheer squad," he muttered.
"And by the time she heard you were in the hospital, you were already home and doing fine."
He shrugged and grumbled.
"Look, do you have email?"
"Like on the computer?"
"Yes, that's usually how it's done."
"No. I don't even have a computer."
Glittering stars twinkled overhead. "We need to get you a laptop. And you're going to start emailing Ursula every day, telling her how much you love her and miss her."
"I am?"
"You are. You're going to stop moping, accept responsibility for your actions, and start making up for them. It's never too late to right a wrong. You'll beg for a second chance, a third if needed. You'll do everything it takes because love isn't something that comes along everyday and you should be thanking your lucky stars you have it at all."
He perked up a little. "Never too late, eh?"
"Never."
"A computer, you say."
I nodded.
He puffed up. "I'll give it a try. On one condition."
"What's that?"
He motioned behind me. "That you take your own advice, Miz Quinn."
I glanced over my shoulder, found Kevin watching me intently. Heat flooded my neck, my ears. "That's not what I—"
Mr. Cabrera wagged a finger at me. "A deal's a deal."
"You don't play fair."
Chuckling, he stood. "I play to win." Reaching out, he held out his hand for a shake. "Do we have a deal?"
I remembered the thought I had as I watched Mrs. Krauss drive away last week.
Sometimes looking ahead meant not looking behind you.
Reluctantly, I shook. "The things I do for you."
He kept chuckling as he walked away.
Kevin came up behind me. "What was that all about?"
"A deal with the devil," I muttered, pulling a cold beer out of a tin bucket for him, and a Dr Pepper for me. As much as I wanted something harder, I was still taking medication for the concussion.
Next to me, I felt Kevin straighten. "Nina?"
"Yeah?" I popped the top on the can and slurped my way around the edge.
"You sure you didn't have plans with the coroner guy?"
I sighed. "Look, you have to stop bringing him up, your jealousy's making me cranky. You don't understand what's going—"
I felt a tap on my shoulder. "Nina?"
Kevin's lips tightened in smugness.
Slowly, I turned. Cain Monahan stood behind me. I coughed a little, liquid caught in my throat.
Kevin thumped my back—a little harder than necessary, I thought.
Cain said, "Sorry to interrupt. Can I talk to you for a second?"
Glancing at Kevin out of the corner of my eye, I could feel the heat in my cheeks.
"Why don't you tell me what's going on then?" Kevin asked softly.
I ground my teeth. Suddenly my deal with Mr. Cabrera felt quite daunting. "Second chances," I muttered.
Kevin leaned in. "What was that?"
"I'm sorry," Cain said, glancing between us. "I can come back later."
"No," I said to him. "Now's fine." I jabbed Kevin's chest. "I'll talk to you later."
He caught my hand and stared into my eyes. "I'm not going anywhere, Nina. I'm here to stay."
My heart hammered. "I figured."
Giving a curt nod, he walked away.
Cain said, "Is he always that intense?"
"No. Sometimes, he's worse."
Cain smiled, and my heart melted at the familiarity of it.
He said, "He seems rather...attached to you."
I didn't really want to think about Kevin right now. I walked over to a quieter corner of the yard. Cain followed. I said, "You wanted to talk to me?"
His brown eyes looked black in the dim lighting, but the flecks of gold flashed. "I feel strange even coming to you, but..."
"What?" I asked, letting him lead.
"Look, I'm just going to lay it on the line, okay?"
"Lay away."
The skin on his brow wrinkled as he frowned deeply, his eyebrows dipping, his lips pulling low. His gaze met mine dead on. The darkness couldn't mask the emotion I saw flickering in the depths.
"I don't know who I am," he said, his voice shaking. "But I have the feeling you do."
A lump formed in my throat, and I bit the inside of my cheek. "Do I know you? I do. You're a ghost. A memory. A miracle. The ultimate second chance. And you've been dead for twenty years."
He blinked, and confusion clouded his eyes.
I linked arms with him. "Let's go for a walk, and I'll tell you all about a boy I used to know."
As we headed for the street, the beat of the music pulsated through the air and thrummed through my body. Yes, this party was about life. The living. The good.
"It's good to be alive, isn't it?" I said to him.
He tipped his head in the way I used to know so well. "You're a little strange, aren't you, Bo-bina?"
I laughed. "You used to know exactly how much. But now... Now you're going to learn all over again."
I'd lost him once and I wasn't going to let it happen a second time.
Moonlight lit the street as we wandered along. "Seth. You're name is Seth..."
From the Desk of Nina Quinn
Did you know that over the past few years outdoor fire features have become one of the most requested designs in a landscape? If you're longing for one, a fire pit is the perfect weekend project to tackle if you're a do-it-yourselfer. However, there are a few things to keep in mind before adding a fire pit to your backyard design.
It's a Material World
Fire pits can be as simple or complex as you desire. Your design will depend on a few factors including time, cost, and space. The go-to fire pit I use in my designs is almost always a simple metal bowl surrounded by a round or square decorative wall of brick or flagstone—materials found easily at your local garden center. Constructed much like a retaining wall, the surround is usually four to five courses of stone topped with capstone. A mallet, a level, a shovel, some landscape caulk or mortar, and you're well on your way to getting the job done. Throw in some logs and you'll be making s'mores in no time at all.
If you're looking for a fancier design, consider creating a gas fire pit using propane. It's a little more technical (plans are often available at your local garden center), but the use of decorative colored tumbled glass or lava rocks surrounding the flame ring looks spectacular.
Easy Does It
If yo
u're looking for a quick and easy fix, check your local home store. Most sell freestanding fire pits (including gas pits), fire bowls, chimineas, and also prefab stone fire pit and fireplace kits. Prices vary to fit every budget.
Safety First
Safety is of the highest importance for any project. First things first, make sure you check your town or city codes. Some do not allow fire features due to the risk of wildfires and/or pollution concerns. While there, also check to see if you need a permit to construct a fire pit in your back yard. You don't want to put all the work into your project only to be told it needs to be torn down. Be sure to "Call before you dig" to check for underground electrical and gas lines. For the actual site of your feature, consider how the wind blows and keep your fire pit at least ten feet from flammable structures and always keep a hose or bucket of water handy in case your flames get out of control. Oh, and make sure none of the materials you use are combustible. River stones, for example, will explode when heated and never use pressure treated wood in your fire pit because it releases a toxin when burned.
Soon you'll be sitting in your yard, enjoying the results of your hard work. Alluring wood smoke and crackling flames will set the perfect back drop for a night of entertaining friends or a cozy night snuggled up with a loved one. Save me a s'more.
Best wishes for happy gardening!
About the Author:
Heather Webber (aka Heather Blake) is the author of more than a dozen novels. She's a Dr Pepper enthusiast, total homebody who loves to be close to her family, read, watch Reality TV (totally addicted, especially to competition shows), crochet, occasionally leave the house to hike the beautiful mountains in the northeast, and bakes (mostly cookies). Heather grew up in a suburb of Boston, but she currently lives in the Cincinnati area with her family.
www.heatherwebber.com
www.heatherblakebooks.com
Other books by Heather:
As Heather Webber:
The Nina Quinn Mystery Series
A Hoe Lot of Trouble
Trouble in Spades
Digging up Trouble
Trouble in Bloom
Weeding out Trouble
Trouble Under the Tree
The Root of all Trouble
The Lucy Valentine Novels
(romantic mysteries)
Truly, Madly
Deeply, Desperately
Absolutely, Positively
Perfectly Matched
The River of Dreams Historical Romances
Surrender, My Love
Secrets of the Heart
Hearts are Wild
As Heather Blake
The Wishcraft Mysteries
It Takes a Witch
A Witch Before Dying
The Good, the Bad, and the Witchy
The Magic Potion Mysteries
A Potion to Die For
Read on for a sneak peek at the first book inHeather Blake’s new Magic Potion series,
A Potion to Die For
Coming in November 2013 from Obsidian
If there were a Wanted poster for witches, I was sure my freckled face would be on it.
Ducking behind a tree to catch my breath, I sucked in a deep lungful of humid air as I listened to the cries of the search party.
I didn’t have much time before the frenzied mob turned the corner and spotted me, but I needed to take a rest or risk keeling over in the street.
It was times like these that I wished I was the kind of witch who had a broomstick. Then I could just fly off, safe and sound, and wouldn’t be hiding behind a live oak, my hair sticking to its bark while my lungs were on fire.
But noooo. I had to be a healing witch from a long line of hoodoo practitioners (and one rogue voodoo-er, but no need to go into that this very moment). I was a love potion expert, matchmaker, all- around relationship guru, and an unlikely medicine woman.
Fat lot of good all that did me right now.
In fact, my magic potions were why I was in this predicament in the first place.
I’d bet my life savings (which, admittedly, wasn’t much) that my archnemesis, Delia Bell Barrows, had a broomstick. And though I had never before been envious of the black witch, I was feeling a stab of jealousy now.
Quickly glancing around, I suddenly hoped Delia lurked somewhere nearby—something she had been doing a lot of lately. I’d been trying my best to avoid a confrontation with her, but if she had a broomstick handy—and was willing to loan it to me— would be more than willing to talk.
There were some things worth compromising principles for, obviously. Like a rabid mob.
But the brick- paved road, lined on both sides with tall shade trees, was deserted. If Delia was around, she had a good hiding spot. Smart, because there was a witch hunt going on in the streets of Hitching Post, Alabama.
And I, Carly Hartwell, was the hunted witch.
Again.
This really had to stop.
Pushing off from the tree, I spared a glance behind me before running at a dead sprint through the center of town toward my shop, Little Shop of Potions, with the mob hot on my heels. The storefront was painted a dark purple with lavender trim, and the name of the shop was written in bold curlicue letters on the large picture window. Underneath was the shop’s tagline: mind, body, heart, and soul. Behind the glass, several vignettes featuring antique glass jars, mortar and pestles, apothecary scales and weights I’d collected over the years filled the big display space.
At this point I should have felt nothing but utter relief. I was almost there. So . . . close.
But instead of relief, a new panic arose.
Because standing in front of my door was none other than Delia.
I could hardly believe it. Now she shows up.
I grabbed the store key and held it at the ready. “Out of the way, Delia!”
Delia stood firm, neck to toe in black—from her cape to her toenails, which stuck out from a pair of black patent flip- flops that had a skull- and- crossbones decoration. A little black dog, tucked into a basket like Toto, barked.
The dog was new. The cape, all the black, and the skull- and- crossbones fascination was not.
“I need to talk to you, Carly,” Delia said. “Right now.”
I hip checked Delia out of the way, and the dog yapped. Sticking the key into the lock, I said, “You’re going to have to wait. Like everyone else.” I threw a nod over my shoulder.
The crowd, at least forty strong, bore down.
Delia let out a gasp. “Did Mr. Dunwoody give a forecast this morning?”
“Yes.” The lock tumbled, and I pushed open the door and scooted inside. Much to my dismay, Delia snuck in behind me.
I had two options: to kick the black witch out—which would then let the crowd in . . . or keep Delia in—and the crowd out.
Delia won.
Slamming the door, I threw the lock.
Just in time. Fists pounded the wood frame and dozens of eyes peered through the window.
I yelled through the leaded glass panel, “I’ll be open in half an hour!” but the eager crowd kept banging on the door.
Trying to catch my breath, I walked over to the cash register counter, an old twelve- drawer chestnut filing cabinet. I opened one of the drawers and grabbed a small roll of numbered paper tickets. Walking back to the door, I shoved them through the wide mail slot.
“Take numbers,” I shouted at the eager faces. “You know the drill!”
Because, unfortunately, this wasn’t the first time this had happened.
Turning my back to the crowd, I leaned against the door, and then slid down its frame to the floor. For a second I rested against the wood, breathing in the comforting scents of my shop. The lavender, lemon balm, mint. The hint of peach leaf, sage, cinnamon. All brought back memories of my grandma Adelaide Hartwell, who’d opened the shop more than fifty years before.
“You should probably exercise more,” Delia said. Her little dog barked.
My chest felt so
tight I thought any minute it might explode. “I think I just ran a five- K. Second time this month.”
“What exactly did Mr. Dunwoody’s forecast say?”
“Sunny with a chance of divorce.”
Delia peeked out the window. “That explains why there are so many of them. I wonder whose marriage is on the chopping block.”
The matrimonial predictions of Mr. Dunwoody, my septuagenarian neighbor, were never wrong. His occasional “forecasts” foretold of residential current affairs, so to speak. On a beautiful spring Friday in Hitching Post, the wedding capital of the South, one might think a wedding ceremony—or a few dozen— was on tap. But it had been known, a time or two, for a couple to have a sudden change of heart over their recent nuptials (usually after the alcohol wore off the next morning) and set out to get the marriage immediately annulled or file for a quickie, uncontested divorce.
And even though Mr. Dunwoody was never wrong, I often wished he’d keep his forecasts to himself.
Being the owner of the Little Shop of Potions, a shop that specialized in love potions, was a bit like being a mystical bartender. People talked to me. A lot. About everything. Especially about falling in love and getting married, which was the height of irony considering everyone on my mother’s side of the family were confirmed matrimonial cynics. Luckily, the hopeless romanticism on my father’s side balanced things out for me. Mostly.
Somehow over the years I had become the town’s unofficial relationship expert. It was at times rewarding . . . and a bit exasperating. The weight of responsibility was overwhelming, and I didn’t always have the answers, magic potions or not.
Because Southerners embraced crazy like a warm blanket on a chilly night, not many here cared much that I called myself a witch, or that I practiced magic using a touch of hoodoo. But the town thought I did have all the answers—and expected me to find solutions.