What Not to Were (5 page)

“You listen up, you three-eyed, spastic wonder! Give me one little reason, and I’m going all
Snapped
on you!”

Calla clapped her hands then put a finger over Icabod’s unmoving lips. “Okay, all familiars are hereby ordered to play nicely. Twyla Faye? Off to your appropriate corner.” She gave her a scoot with her hand, sending the lizard to the far end of Winnie’s big bedroom. “Now, no more arguing. I’m here to find a dress. Behave. Both of you.”

Icabod cackled. “So I heard. Around these parts, they say you need that dress for the big coital hootenanny with Nash tonight.”

Calla flopped on the edge of the bed, blowing her hair out of her face. “Who in this town doesn’t know about tonight?”

“Not a soul. Well, maybe old Mrs. Corwin, but only by default because she’s deaf. Though, she did enter the beer-for-a-year raffle. I mean, because—
beer
.”

She eyed him with suspicion, still unclear about whether he could actually see her. “Did you enter the raffle, too, Ic?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t drink or eat. But hand to the goddesses, if I could, you can bet your sweet, sweet backend I would.”

A glance at the bedside alarm clock told her she needed to get moving, but instead she lingered, her thoughts torn about her choice to wait and tell Nash tonight instead of before they ever made it to the bedroom.

“Nervous?” Icabod asked.

She leaned in and whispered, “Between you and me?”

“Like I’m going somewhere fast in this condition?”

Calla laughed, pulling at the frayed hole in the thigh of her jeans. “I feel like a coon cornered in a crawl space.”

“Wanna talk about why?”

To a Cabbage Patch doll? “Nope.”

Icabod clucked his unseen tongue. “I know what you’re thinking, Calla. Oh, that Ic, he’s just a Cabbage Patch doll, or creepy doll, as I recall overhearing you say once or twice. But my advice is sound. Just ask Winnie.”

She shook off her nerves and smiled at him in apology. “I’m sorry, Ic. I judged before I knew you. Can you ever forgive me?”

Icabod sighed. “Of course, and I get it. A talking doll is pretty
Chuckie
-ish.”

“And I don’t doubt your advice is sound. Not for a second. Winnie tells me all the time how sage you are. But there’s really nothing to talk about. It’s just first-time jitters, nothing more. Promise.”

Liar…

“Okey-doke. Then I’ll just sit here with my mouth closed. Pun intended. But you make sure that wingnut lizard stays in her corner, or I’m opening a kiosk at the mall featuring her as some belts.”

Twyla Faye made a sniffing noise, but Calla gave her the eye, effectively quieting her again.

Peering into the big walk-in closet where Kirby was sifting through Winnie’s dresses, she decided it was now or never. “Find anything good in there, Kirby?” she asked, sliding off the bed to make her way across the floor.

Kirby poked her head out and held up a black, slinky dress with a swirly skirt and tight, sequined bodice. “This is really pretty. It would look amazing against your fair skin and dark hair.”

Calla took it from her and held it up against her frame. The bodice would no doubt be too tight. “It’s very pretty. Just not me. Mind if I squeeze in there and take a peek around?”

Kirby slipped past her and motioned her in.

Winnie’s closet was amazing. There were endless shelves of shoes, scarves, and purses. She had a dress in every color of the rainbow, and clearly she didn’t mind wearing something revealing.

But Calla pushed hangers around and sighed. Nothing was catching her eye. Nothing that made her think “the one”.

Kirby leaned against the doorframe, her eyes following Calla. “Have I ever told you how grateful I am to you? For…for not judging me? For letting me work at the senior center?”

Calla nodded and smiled. “You have, and really, there’s no need to thank me. We’ve all made mistakes. You’re a very valuable employee and an awesome guinea pig. Who else would try my bacon-and-vanilla-flavored cupcakes without batting an eye but you?”

But Kirby’s eyes became even more intense when she grabbed Calla’s hand and held it tight. “Are we friends?”

She cocked her head, confused. Where was this coming from? “I’d like to think we are, Kirby. Is something bothering you? Do you want to talk?”

Kirby was a quiet soul who’d had a troubled past. Winnie was big on disclosure, and while she didn’t break confidentiality about her parolee’s crimes, she did give you some emotional background information on them on the off chance you needed to deal with a situation.

But according to Winnie, Kirby was as nonviolent as a newborn kitten, and after she’d been imprisoned back in Salem, a model inmate.

But then Kirby smiled, sweet and full of sunshine. “Nah. I’m fine. Just feeling maudlin and missing home, I guess.” And then her attention turned to the far corner of Winnie’s closet. “Ohh! What about that one?”

Calla’s eyes swung toward the direction of Kirby’s finger. “Pink?”

“Well, it is your favorite color, isn’t it? You did paint an entire physical therapy room pink. Seems like a good choice to me.”

“True that,” she said, reaching for the hanger and slipping the dress from it. She wandered out into the bedroom where Winnie had a full-length mirror and held it up. It was a wraparound with a tie-belt, simple and without any fancy adornments. Definitely not the slinkiest dress her friend owned, but something about the way the fabric swished at her knees made her consider it as a candidate.

“Try it on,” Kirby encouraged, pointing to the interior of the closet.

“Did you find one, Calla?” Icabod asked.

She closed the closet door, kicked off her sandals, and then shrugged out of her jeans. “We’ll see.”

As she pulled off her tank top, she let it drop to the floor and closed her eyes.
Breathe, Calla. Just breathe.

She readjusted her bra, pulling the dress over her head, loving the slink of the material down along her hips. She gave one last glance to the neckline and kept her fingers crossed. Sexy, but not desperate and not too revealing.

Popping the closet door open, she headed for the mirror again, stopping a couple of feet away from it.

Both Kirby and Icabod let out appreciative whistles. “Nice,” Kirby murmured.

“Yeah, definitely your color, Calla. You look amazing,” Icabod said.

“You’ll have all the boys in the yard wantin’ that milkshake,” Twyla Faye said with approval.

“Ya think?” She smoothed her hands over her waist, pivoting on her toes. The dress fell to just below her knee, accentuating her long calves. The belt, tied at the side, made her waist appear much smaller than it really was, despite her two-mile jogs every morning. It hugged her breasts without exposing them as a suggestion rather than a blatant statement.

She felt…sexy. Provocative. Confident. All things she hadn’t felt in a long time.

“I think this is it,” she mumbled, more to herself than anyone else.

Kirby came up behind her and squeezed her shoulders, giving her the warmest smile Calla had seen to date. “You look beautiful, Calla. Really beautiful.”

Calla patted her hand. She’d needed to hear that. Sucking in a deep breath, she grinned, not nearly as nervous as she’d been. There was an ember of anticipation in the pit of her stomach and the longer she looked at her image in the mirror, the hotter that ember began to glow.

“You think Nash will like it?”

Kirby scoffed and planted her hands on her hips. “He’d be a damn fool not to.”

“Then this is the one,” she said, her excitement growing, her belly battling a band of butterflies.

Nash Ryder better prepare to have his socks rocked right off his feet.

E
zra wolf-whistled from his place on his favorite recliner as she strolled out into the living room of the apartment she shared with him. “Ain’t you somethin’?”

Twyla Faye sat contentedly in his lap, her eyes closed as she lifted her face toward the end table, where a heat lamp sat that Ezra had bought.

Calla grinned. She definitely felt like somethin’. Sexy and flirty and…so alive. She gave a gentle tug to Ezra’s beard. “Oh, stop. You have to say that because you’re related to me. It’s in the rules.”

He rustled the newspaper he was reading before setting it down on the end table. “I do not. I never say it to your cousin Mort. He’s ugly. Told him so on the phone just the other day.”

Calla giggled as she stashed things away in her purse. Mort wasn’t ugly. He was just big, and awkward, and her grandfather adored him. “Leave Mort alone, Gramps. He’s a good guy.”

“A good ugly guy with feet the size of warships. Not nearly as pretty as you.”

“Twyla Faye? What do you think? Do you approve?” She twirled, luxuriating in the fabric rustling against the tops of her knees.

“Do purses and belts get the right of approval?”

Calla snorted and ran a hand over the lizard’s spiny back to soothe her bruised ego. “Oh, stop grudging over Icabod. Besides, I never think purse when I think of you. I’d definitely go with shoes.”

Twyla Faye gasped, her head swiveling in Calla’s direction. “You cut me to the quick. It’s like I have no feelings at all. And after all my love and undying devotion.”

“Define ‘undying devotion’, lizard. Does undying devotion entail you flirting with Nash?”

“No fair. He’s hot, Calla. Thinkin’ about it now, given the chance, I’d turn you into a sign on the turnpike if I thought I had a chance at him. But he only has eyes for you.”

“And if you could get the sign correct,” she teased.

Twyla Faye gave Calla her back. “One gnome gone wrong and it’s like I turned the Maldives into a Dollar Store. Much ado about nothing.”

Calla chuckled and pressed a kiss to her fingers, dropping it on Twyla Faye’s head. “Behave while I’m gone, and don’t wait up for me.”

Taking a deep breath, she snapped her purse shut and turned to Ezra. “You about ready?”

Ezra rose and stretched before smoothing his hands over his best pair of trousers. “Question is, are you?”

She rolled her eyes. She was absolutely not talking the big sex-tivus with her grandfather. They were pretty close, but that was one subject she’d never be able to comfortably discuss with him. “Grandpa…”

He grabbed her hand and pulled her into his embrace, the warmth of his sweater vest tickling her chin as he hugged her. He smelled of all the good things from her childhood—pancakes with thick maple syrup, hickory from the smoker he used to smoke bacon, and Old Spice, his favorite if utterly outdated cologne.

“That’s not what I mean and you know it, young lady. I’m just teasin’ ya to tease ya about the other stuff. That’s none of this old geezer’s business.”

“So you didn’t really buy raffle tickets for the beer-for-a-year contest?”

“Oh, no. I did that. I bought eight and I put Twyla Faye’s name in the pool, too,” he blustered before he grinned. “I meant, are you ready to let go? Trust? Nash is a good guy, Calla-Lilly. Strong, dependable, nice to us golden oldies around town. Can’t do better n’ Nash.”

Calla peered up at him, watching his blue eyes twinkle, the corners of them lined with crow’s feet, and she knew he was remembering her grandmother Lettie. Theirs had been a marriage for the ages—literally. She’d learned everything she ever wanted in a relationship from them.

“Old? You? You’re about as old as a fifth grader.”

Placing her hands on his shoulders, she pecked him on the cheek. She was beyond grateful her grandfather had agreed, at her urging, to let the witches of Paris buy his building when he’d planned to sell it after closing the doors of his butcher shop, allowing her a new career opportunity.

Hallow Moon had been her brainchild after discovering some of the senior witches and warlocks in town could be hard to handle, and downright mischievous. That they needed a place to spend their days to keep their minds active had become evident upon her initial return to Texas.

As the old order grew older, families were finding it difficult to find caregivers privy to their supernatural status in Paris. In fact, it was virtually impossible, and hiring a human was out of the question when it came to magic wand mishaps. The risk of discovery was too great.

But after one of her favorite seniors ever, Clive Stillwater, had set a car on fire with a misaimed flick of his finger, everyone agreed old Clive needed a watchful eye.

As she’d licked her wounds over her bag-of-dicks ex-boss, she’d found a much-needed distraction keeping track of Clive and his gang of miscreants while his granddaughter was at work, and that’s when her idea to open a senior center had begun.

The elders of the Council of Witches paid her well to manage the center, and she’d grown to love her band of curmudgeons, as well as her employees from Winnie and Ben’s halfway house.

So many good things had happened since she’d come back to Texas. She just had one more hurdle and it would be perfect…

Ezra chucked her under the chin. “Quit jokin’ around about my mental age in order to avoid the subject. I just want you to finally be happy with a decent fella like I was with your grandma Lettie.”

She and Ezra had a bond she didn’t even share with her parents, and the chance to dote on him for more than just a summer had been too good to pass up. They made great roommates and even greater bingo partners. Ezra accepted her as-is—loved her in the unconditional way her parents just couldn’t seem to manage, and she’d never forget that.

“I have you. I don’t need any other fellas. Now c’mon, old man—before all the soft food is gone and you have to fight Agnes Wheeler for the last bowl of Jell-O.”

Ezra guffawed, holding out his arm to her. “She mighta won that round last spring dance, but I’d like to see Crabby Patty take me down when it comes to the tapioca. I don’t care how many threats she lobs at me about frog eyes and moth wings, I shall not be defeated!”

Calla pulled him out the door and toward the steps leading out of the building. “You play nice, buddy. I hear Agnes Wheeler wields a mean, unforgiving wand.”

Stopping, Ezra looked down at her, running his finger along the bridge of her nose just like he used to when she was little. “I love ya, Cupcake. You know that, right? No matter what—always-always—forever-forever.”