Page 8 of Midlife Witch Unexpected

Flicking the back porch light switch lit the backyard up with happy strings of light stretching across its breadth. Wow. They must have known how to throw a party. I stared at the shadows of the plants and the twinkling of the lights, and I was left with a slightly melancholy tug on my heart.

Everything was different.

Everything had changed.

The people who used to eat at the table here and socialize in the backyard are gone. My husband is gone. My daughter is in college.

I am alone.

Alone with the ghosts of the people who used to live here.

I walked down the back porch steps and across the green lawn bathed in yellow light. Long shadows fell across a small graveyard in the corner.

“The pet cemetery,” Branson said at my shoulder.

“Oh my gosh!” I cried out. “Do not sneak up on me.”

He started laughing but I moved one step away as his hand reached out to touch my wrist as if we were familiar friends. I don’t know what was going on with Branson but there was definitely some sort of mutual attraction, one I could not afford to investigate.

“So, um, who is the last pet they put in here?” I awkwardly tried to make conversation when all I wanted to do was make out.

“She had a dog named Carl,” Branson said. He died about before she did. Your aunt laid him to rest in here. I swear those two loved each other more than any two creatures that walked the earth. I was surprised anything was keeping them apart. Was expecting any minute Carl would raise himself out of the ground and go back to sleep at her feet. I was wrong.” He chuckled self-effacingly.

We stood in silence staring at the grave. I felt like a tongue-tied teenager. “It stayed dead?” Could my words be any more stupid?

“Yep,” Carl said with a smile. “Sure did.” He turned and began heading around the side of the house. “I’ll be back in the morning to take you to get your jeep.”

“If the Sheriff will give it back,” I grumbled.

Branson laughed. “He’ll give it back. He was just making a point is all.”

I watched him disappear into the shadows with a slight feeling of euphoria.

A dangerous euphoria.

Chapter 4

The kitchen, just like the rest of the house, was pristine. You could practically eat off the floors. The slate gray quartz counter gave the space an air of solemnity belied by the oversized family table that sat, its chairs in chaos, waiting for people to bring it to life. It had been a shock when my mom died, and I discovered I had inherited her house in Southern Oregon.

My younger brother had been a bit put out, but she had left him the equivalent in cash, so there wasn’t a lot he could say. The estate was equal, his was just liquid and mine was this structure built by our forefathers when they first came to settle on the West Coast of America. The house had some renters already lined up, so I had just kept it, planning on selling it one day.

I never planned to live there.

Yet here I was.

“Living my best life,” I muttered to myself.

Despite the long drive from Los Angeles, I was too tired to fall immediately to sleep. I needed to unwind and get a little more grounded and centered. The journey, followed by the run-in with the sheriff, close on the heels of being totally gobsmacked by Branson, had left me feeling ungrounded and unfocused. I needed to change that if I was going to get a good night's rest.

I decided to see if the renters had left anything in the kitchen so I could maybe make a cup of tea. But when I opened the cupboards, I was shocked. There wasn’t just a left-over tea bag, there were tons of teas. The shelves were lined with small jars, each having a distinct tea leaf blend. And nothing, absolutely nothing, was labeled. I started pulling down the jars one by one and opening the lids to smell. The first thing I smelled was a lavender and rosemary blend with a hint of citrus. I nodded but didn’t judge. I knew people all had their own tastes, especially down in Los Angeles; everyone was putting infusions of odd stuff like rosemary into their teas.

“I should be able to find something here I like,” I murmured to myself.

I opened a jar and took a whiff of cinnamon and vanilla. Definitely not that.

But none of the concoctions looked familiar. Some smelled like nutmeg, some smelled like roses, and some smelled like lemon. I had gone through about thirty jars before I just decided to give up and closing my eyes, I rubbed my hands together, and then, I moved my hand over all the jars.

“Please give me whatever is going to make me feel better tonight,” I murmured to whatever forces in the universe were in tune with my body. My hand moved to the left and I felt the heat radiating from my palm. I reached out and grabbed the jar my hand was drawn to.

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