Read Online A Cast-Off Coven by juliet blackwell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: juliet blackwell
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“Let’s get going.”
Max was usually a hard read, but as he passed by me on the steps, I felt sadness and rage emanating from him in waves.
And something nastier: guilt.
Chapter 5
All the way home Max and I ignored important subjects. We made plans to visit the redwoods, but there was a perceptible distance between us wrought of so much that was not said. I reminded myself that I hardly knew him, after all. Maybe “we” were not meant to be.
I was happy to return to Aunt Cora’s Closet and all the warm and welcoming elements of my new home: the scent of fresh laundry and herbal sachets, the comforting hum from my inventory, the damp snout of my miniature potbellied pig, and a plump, fiftysomething Wiccan wearing kohl eyeliner and a garland of fresh flowers twining through her fuzzy brown hair.
“Lily! Blessed be!” Bronwyn came out from behind the herbal counter to envelop me in swaths of incense-scented gauzy purple material. I let myself sink into her embrace, savoring Bronwyn’s ability to love those around her with neither condition nor restraint.
“Maya was just telling me what happened at the school last night.” Bronwyn pulled away, concern on her face. “Oh my Goddess ! What a terrible thing!”
“Yes. It was . . .” I trailed off, searching for how to describe finding someone moments after his life has slipped away. I could feel the frigid stillness of the body. I was only human, after all. “. . . Intense.”
Maya snorted at my understatement. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor near the dressing room alcove, sorting through a black plastic Hefty bag full of big band-era clothes.
“Oh, by the way, Lily,” Maya said, “Ginny Mueller called earlier to see if you still wanted to pick up those clothes from the school.”
I had been wondering how to snoop around the school on Aidan’s behalf without seeming ghoulish. Picking up those clothes was the perfect solution. I glanced at my watch.
“Actually, if one or both of you are willing to mind the store till closing, maybe I could go get them this afternoon.”
“I’ll stay,” Maya volunteered, then added with a shiver, “Just don’t ask me to go back to school yet. I’m still dealing with last night.”
“How is Ginny holding up?”
“Actually, she’s over the moon. She was offered representation by a Union Square gallery.”
“Wow. That’s a real honor.”
“You’re telling me. She—”
The bell on the front door rang as Susan Rogers, fashion editor for the San Francisco Chronicle , swept into the shop. Susan wrote a glowing article about Aunt Cora’s Closet for the newspaper’s Style section after I outfitted her niece’s entire wedding party with vintage gowns. Since then she had become a semiregular client, stopping in whenever she happened to be in the neighborhood. An über-stylish trendsetter in her fifties, Susan leaned toward sleek, all-black ensembles, had a propensity for swooning over fashionable but virtually unwearable shoes, and was capable of waxing philosophical about “the ever-changing hemline.”
I, in contrast, knew a fair amount about the fashions of yore but next to nothing about current trends. Nonetheless, I couldn’t help but respond to her ready smile and vivacious energy.
“Lily, thank goodness you’re here. I’m a wreck!” said Susan. “I’m in desperate need of your help to find a dress to wear to my niece’s wedding. I woke up at three this morning just thinking about it. I can’t believe I’ve let it go this long!”
I smiled. The wedding wasn’t for another six weeks. I was lucky if I knew what I was going to wear ten minutes before I left the house . . . but I do have an advantage, owning my own clothing store and all. Besides, until recently I had never been invited to any event for which clothes were something to fret about. Most supernatural affairs are “come as you are,” while some are even “clothing optional.” So when Susan invited me to her
Max was usually a hard read, but as he passed by me on the steps, I felt sadness and rage emanating from him in waves.
And something nastier: guilt.
Chapter 5
All the way home Max and I ignored important subjects. We made plans to visit the redwoods, but there was a perceptible distance between us wrought of so much that was not said. I reminded myself that I hardly knew him, after all. Maybe “we” were not meant to be.
I was happy to return to Aunt Cora’s Closet and all the warm and welcoming elements of my new home: the scent of fresh laundry and herbal sachets, the comforting hum from my inventory, the damp snout of my miniature potbellied pig, and a plump, fiftysomething Wiccan wearing kohl eyeliner and a garland of fresh flowers twining through her fuzzy brown hair.
“Lily! Blessed be!” Bronwyn came out from behind the herbal counter to envelop me in swaths of incense-scented gauzy purple material. I let myself sink into her embrace, savoring Bronwyn’s ability to love those around her with neither condition nor restraint.
“Maya was just telling me what happened at the school last night.” Bronwyn pulled away, concern on her face. “Oh my Goddess ! What a terrible thing!”
“Yes. It was . . .” I trailed off, searching for how to describe finding someone moments after his life has slipped away. I could feel the frigid stillness of the body. I was only human, after all. “. . . Intense.”
Maya snorted at my understatement. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor near the dressing room alcove, sorting through a black plastic Hefty bag full of big band-era clothes.
“Oh, by the way, Lily,” Maya said, “Ginny Mueller called earlier to see if you still wanted to pick up those clothes from the school.”
I had been wondering how to snoop around the school on Aidan’s behalf without seeming ghoulish. Picking up those clothes was the perfect solution. I glanced at my watch.
“Actually, if one or both of you are willing to mind the store till closing, maybe I could go get them this afternoon.”
“I’ll stay,” Maya volunteered, then added with a shiver, “Just don’t ask me to go back to school yet. I’m still dealing with last night.”
“How is Ginny holding up?”
“Actually, she’s over the moon. She was offered representation by a Union Square gallery.”
“Wow. That’s a real honor.”
“You’re telling me. She—”
The bell on the front door rang as Susan Rogers, fashion editor for the San Francisco Chronicle , swept into the shop. Susan wrote a glowing article about Aunt Cora’s Closet for the newspaper’s Style section after I outfitted her niece’s entire wedding party with vintage gowns. Since then she had become a semiregular client, stopping in whenever she happened to be in the neighborhood. An über-stylish trendsetter in her fifties, Susan leaned toward sleek, all-black ensembles, had a propensity for swooning over fashionable but virtually unwearable shoes, and was capable of waxing philosophical about “the ever-changing hemline.”
I, in contrast, knew a fair amount about the fashions of yore but next to nothing about current trends. Nonetheless, I couldn’t help but respond to her ready smile and vivacious energy.
“Lily, thank goodness you’re here. I’m a wreck!” said Susan. “I’m in desperate need of your help to find a dress to wear to my niece’s wedding. I woke up at three this morning just thinking about it. I can’t believe I’ve let it go this long!”
I smiled. The wedding wasn’t for another six weeks. I was lucky if I knew what I was going to wear ten minutes before I left the house . . . but I do have an advantage, owning my own clothing store and all. Besides, until recently I had never been invited to any event for which clothes were something to fret about. Most supernatural affairs are “come as you are,” while some are even “clothing optional.” So when Susan invited me to her
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