Some Like It Witchy by Blake Heather

Author:Blake, Heather [Blake, Heather]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2015-05-04T19:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fifteen

The rest of the night had passed in a blur. Mimi refused to discuss Glinda at all and dinner had felt stilted, as we tried to avoid the topic of why Mimi was in a bad mood. Nick and I shelved discussions of the case while we ate, Ve filled us in on the latest election happenings (she had actually found Sy’s Our Guy amusing), and I regaled them with the story about poor Vince and the squirrels.

By eight, Nick and Mimi had gone home.

And once again, I’d forgotten to ask him to help me move the cabinet.

After chitchatting with Ve for a while, I happily grabbed Missy and went to my room for some quiet time. Feeling out of sorts, I turned to the one thing that always put me in a better mood. Drawing.

I’d been working on one particular drawing for a couple of months now, taking it slowly on purpose because a part of me didn’t want it to be finished.

With Missy curled on my bed, I went to my art desk, set out my colored pencils, sat on the curved stool, and pulled from my portfolio the sheet of twelve by sixteen toned paper on which I’d been working.

It was ultimately going to be a Christmas present for Harper.

A family portrait.

Taking a deep breath, I silenced my inner critic and stared at the work. I’d sketched the whole drawing already in white pencil, which showed nicely against the gray paper, and I was in the middle of coloring it in.

I’d taken a lot of artistic license with the picture, obviously, since Harper had never even met our mother. Plus, I had drawn the two of us as we were now, and my parents when I remembered them the happiest.

A memory I had, thanks to Mimi.

On my last birthday, she’d gifted me with a memory spell she’d found in Melina’s diary and for the first time in years and years, I’d been able to recall what my mother looked like.

Closing my eyes, I whispered the spell, repeating it three times, and in an instant, I was six years old, holding my mother’s hand as she walked me to school. It was a beautiful autumn morning, and the sunlight lit her blue-brown eyes as she smiled down at me, the metallic blue eyeliner she loved so much glittering. She’d been petite like Harper—I had apparently inherited my height from my father—but to me at that age, she’d seemed larger than life itself.

Keeping my eyes shut, I soaked up the details of her, from her long brown hair, heart-shaped face, high cheekbones, and cupid’s bow lips. The way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled. The way she smelled—like cinnamon and a hint of syrup because she’d made me French toast that morning for breakfast.

But most of all, I soaked up the emotion of that moment.

Of feeling safe. Loved.

And when she broke into a skip, tugging me along, I smiled at how my younger self had laughed and laughed as I skipped alongside her.

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