Page 102 of The Witching Hours

She squinted. “Nice try. I know you’re an agnostic.”

“You can prove me right at your leisure.” I chuckled. “Anyway. I wore tennies.”

“They’re cute.”

“Not as cute as wedges.”

“Do you want me to go home and change?”

“No! You’re making me sound neurotic.”

“I don’t have to do anything to make you sound that way, Ronny.”

I laughed. Cass’s sense of humor is one of her best attributes.

She’s one of the inner circle who calls me Ronny. It‘s short for Veronica. My mother loved Archie comics and named me after one of the worst people in all of comicdom. Veronica isn’t a typical villain. She’s just a spoiled, selfish person who goes out of her way to be unnecessarily mean for inexplicable reasons. When I was old enough to readArchieand make the connection, I confronted my mother about what the hell she was thinking. Not in those exact words because disrespect came with consequences in our house.

She said, “She’s rich! Right? Plus, she got the guy and theclothes!”

I had to admit those were positives and, if I turned my head just so, I could follow my mother’s logic. I barely restrained myself from adding, “Yes. And she doesn’t have a mother!”

“Did you come funded?” I asked. “Ready to buy out the festival.”

“Have we met? My credit cards are close to maxed and I’m deliberately avoiding looking at my bank account.”

“Yes. We’ve met. That means what I heard is, there’s enough room on credit cards to buy a couple of things if I fall in love.”

“Bingo, bestie.”

Financial solvency isn’t one of Cass’s best attributes, but at some point, her parents will pay off her credit cards. They probably think her lack of self-discipline in spending is cute, too. They can afford that attitude. Like Veronica’s dad in the comic, they can also afford to fund her lifestyle. That’s why she was ableto take a job doing what she loves instead of what pays enough for a single woman to live on her own and wear cute wedges.

Cass is community liaison for the Houston Arts Council. Being friends with her means that I get invited to several galas a year. I usually make up excuses because I can only afford a dress from Tootsie’s once a year. She claims it’s prime hunting for a significant other, that men come back on the market in late forties after kids go to college.

Changing the subject, she said, “So, did you dream about McDreamy the artist?”

Did I? OMG. I think I did! “It’s so weird that you asked that. Did you plant that seed in my subconscious? Are you a witch?”

“No. And maybe,” she wiggled her eyebrows. “Should I stop off for supplies?”

We were just passing The Magick Cauldron.

“Some other time,” I said.

“Well, pretend you’re on the couch and tell me everything.”

“I wouldn’t have even remembered it if you hadn’t asked the pointed question.”

“So? What do you remember?”

“Just that I brushed by somebody with dark hair in a crisp white shirt in HEB who smelled good. I didn’t really get a look at him. Just an impression.”

“Very intriguing. You’re subconscious has considerately left space for fill in the blank.”

“That’s how you read that?”

“I also like the part about smelling good.”

“Yeah. Hygiene is king.”

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