Page 2 of All My Witches
“I could hardly forget.” Mom gave my shoulder a sympathetic pat. “You’re channeling Aunt Tillie today, so it’s not as if your personality is small enough tooverlook.”
Oh, well, that just did it. “That is the meanest thing you’ve ever said tome.”
Thistle let loose with a smirk and a chuckle as she poured herself a mug of coffee and settled at the rectangular table. She was a few seats down from me – which I was convinced was on purpose so she could easily escape when she said something to irritate me – and she looked ready to start poking about in an effort to enrage. She definitely gets that from Aunt Tillie. I, on the other hand, am nothing like the woman. I’m notevil.
Yes, I’m a witch. I’m not a diabolical one, though. I leave that to Aunt Tillie andThistle.
“You’re clearly agitated,” Thistle said after studying me for a beat. “Are you nervous about being the owner of thenewspaper?”
I’d been getting this question from family members and people on the street ever since news went public that I was buying The Whistler, Hemlock Cove’s lone newspaper. Brian Kelly was the grandson of the man who’d hired me, but the younger Kelly’s efforts to turn The Whistler into something it wasn’t – mainly a multimillion-dollar profit machine – failed. He finally tried to fire me, and the advertisers turned on him, resulting in me purchasing the newspaper (with a little help from my friends, family and boyfriend) while he prepared to slink out of town with nothing but a few thousand dollars and a chip on hisshoulder.
Yeah, it wasn’t exactly a comfortable environment at the office these days. I was still a week away from closing on the property thanks to an error in the initial paperwork. Brian refused to hang out anywhere else because he was keen to punish me for stealing his birthright. That’s how he termed it once, mind you. I’m not the one who came up with that lovelycomplaint.
Wait … what were we talking aboutagain?
“I’m not nervous about owning the paper,” I shot back. “I’m annoyed with Aunt Tillie. There’s adifference.”
“Oh, there’s definitely a difference,” Thistle agreed. “What did that old shrew donow?”
“Thistle!” Mom extended a warning finger. “You cannot talk about your great-aunt thatway.”
Thistle was blasé. She was used to Mom scolding her and didn’t care in the least. In fact, now that she was living away from the family property and only visiting the inn our mothers owned a few times a week, her brashness had grown incrementally. “Why not? It’s not as if she hasn’t earnedit.”
“She’s still yourelder.”
“Oh, did you just call her elderly?” Thistle’s eyes flashed. “She won’t likethat.”
“I most certainly didn’t call her elderly,” Mom shot back. She knew very well what Aunt Tillie would think about being called the E-word. To Aunt Tillie, that word was worse than every other word, including the C-word (which would be “crone” in this instance). It was only an option when she tried lying to the cops or getting out of jury duty. “If you even thinkof… .”
Thistle didn’t care to let Mom finish her threat, instead raising her voice so it would carry into the kitchen. “Did you hear that, Aunt Tillie? Winnie just called you ‘elderly.’ You should get out here and kick herbutt.”
Mom’s eyes flashed. “You’re in so much trouble,” shehissed.
Thistle shrugged, unbothered. “She’s also thinking of having T-shirts made up with a reminder that you’re elderly so people won’t forget. We’re looking through the family albums to find a photograph of younow.”
“I will kill you!” Mom was on her feet, her eyes trained on Thistle. “You are going to regret saying that.” Instead of storming into the kitchen to deny the charge, Mom turned in the opposite direction and breezed through the door that separated the dining room from the rest of theinn.
I watched her go with a mixture of amusement and curiosity before turning my attention to a smug-looking Thistle. “That wasmean.”
“I’m fine withthat.”
“She’ll make youpay.”
“I’m fine with that, too.” Thistle sipped her coffee. “I’m bored, so at least this will serve as a form ofentertainment.”
She had a point. “Is it still snowing?” I asked, shifting on my chair. “The weather forecaster is predicting at least a foot of snowovernight.”
Thistle scowled. “Yeah, and it’s getting rough out there. The road between town and the inn hasn’t been plowed. It’s almostimpassable.”
We live in northern Lower Michigan, so snow in January shouldn’t be a big thing. That didn’t mean it wasn’t cause for concern occasionally. “Really?” I rolled my neck. “Landon is on his way over here right now. He’s coming from Elk Rapids. Those side roads will be amess.”
Thistle took pity on me. “Don’t worry about Landon. He’s an FBI agent. He knows what he’s doing. I’m sure he wouldn’t risk the roads if he didn’t think he could make ithome.”
In addition to being an FBI agent, Landon Michaels was my boyfriend … and kind of my roommate … and most definitely the person who made me smile the most. He’d moved into the family guesthouse, located on the edge of the property, several weeks before. Now that Thistle was preparing to move out and was spending more time with her boyfriend Marcus at what would soon be their new house, we had the run of the place. It was still a work in progress, but things had been goingwell.
“I’m sure he’s fine, too.” I forced a weak smile. “What are you doing here tonight? I would’ve thought you’d stick close to town rather than risk theroads.”
“We’re in a bind,” Thistle explained, sobering. “The new furnace Marcus installed went out. He’s not sure why, but he can’t get in there to look at it until it warmsup.”
