Page 58 of Hopelessly Teavoted

It had been Az the whole time. It hadn’t ever been Natalie, or Robbie, or any of the other people she had dated who were terrible for her in the end. They had all been distractions.

The universe had a sick sense of humor, and she’d known when he texted her last night about tailing Chet.

They were close enough to the deadline for this to be dangerous, and when he said he saw Chet go into the Brethren of One Love building Friday night, she realized, with a whisper of intuition, that none of them should confront him alone.

She made him promise not to go in without them.

They needed Evelyn, who returned this afternoon, and Priscilla, and now she needed to get through this Sultry Sunday.

Vickie knew, the second she realized how close Az could have been to death, tailing Chet, that she did not want to just pretend anymore. And this morning, having admitted it to herself, she realized she had never actually been pretending.

The day before they left for college, words had hung unspoken from her lips that it wasn’t right. For them to be apart.

Vickie wanted to dive into the memory of what it had been like to feel Azrael’s magic, and to watch him lose control in the shower, but she had a shop to open. And then a makeshift coven to assemble, and a soul to reap.

With a ding, the baking timer disrupted her fantasy, and she pulled the muffins out of the oven, checking her watch and silently thanking Azrael for the spell work that had made this a thousand times easier.

Sultry Sunday started in twenty minutes, and she still had to make coffee.

Hazel wouldn’t be here until nine, which meant Vickie would handle the first hour on her own.

She adjusted the belt on her jean shorts, re-tucking her skintight cantaloupe-colored tank top.

She was aiming to look like Baby from Dirty Dancing , and she’d curled her hair carefully for this.

The white tennis shoes would not make it through the day in pristine condition, but that was all right.

She could talk Azrael into spelling them clean again.

This week’s Sultry Sunday was iconic movie outfit themed, and she hoped her customers came out in style.

Worry made Vickie bake, and so there were more muffins than she needed, but at least the kitchen smelled like her blends: blueberry and lavender, festive October chocolate and pumpkin, and banana nut vanilla.

She’d arranged them in mahogany wicker baskets lined with orange-and-black cloth and carried them through the swinging doors to the front.

From outside the glass window, Hank waved. Today, the retired postman was wearing the exact red outfit Chi-Chi wore in To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar , and Vickie had to admit that he made a striking, albeit slightly larger-scale, John Leguizamo.

She flicked open the locks, and the little skull bells jingled.

“Morning, Victoria, or should I say, Baby? Get out of the corner with those coffees,” Hank joked.

“Morning, Chi Chi!” Vickie fired a smile, quite possibly her first authentic one in days. It was impossible not to smile at this man, dressed as he was.

Hank did a little twirl and a sashay.

“I brought my camera,” he said. “If you want to document this.”

“Yes, those will make for good pictures. What can I get you?”

He slid into the high-back velvet booth with the coffin-shaped table.

“One of those heavenly-scented muffins and a cup of Earl Grey, please.”

“Coming right up. What kind of muffin?”

“Whichever one smells like pumpkin, darling.” Hank’s face fell for a moment. “It was always Edwyn’s favorite.”

She smiled softly. “That’s nice. The people we love live on in our memories, Hank.”

Hank fiddled with his wedding ring, and she wished for an easier world, where magic didn’t have to be hidden and she could offer to bring Edwyn back for a few minutes, to say goodbye.

But the world was as it was, and sometimes that meant the best people were gone and the worst still with us.

Vickie had seen her mother slink by in the back seat of the chauffeured town car behind shaded windows last week, likely sniffing at the little shop Vickie held so dear.

Probably looking to see if Vickie had failed, and then driving away, disgruntled at the obvious success, but trying not to show any emotion on her face at all to avoid wrinkles. Reality wasn’t fair, but it existed.

“Yeah, that makes sense. This place always makes me feel better. Persephone Hart was so kind to us. We used to come here every Sunday. When Edwyn died, that first Sunday, she stopped by our condo with muffins and tea. The neighbors were aghast; you know how some people felt about the Harts, but damn if it wasn’t the only thing that made me feel better.

Like Persephone’s kindness was what Ed would do.

Started coming back here since you reopened. You do her memory justice too.”

Spots of color rose to Vickie’s cheeks. She was going to do it, to do what Persephone would have wanted, to love Azrael and watch over him.

She knew the Harts worried; she knew how Azrael struggled to be normal, that silly concept that doesn’t really exist, and that results so often in squashing down individuality in favor of empty conformity.

Vickie poured boiling water over a rose hip and hyacinth blend in a teapot with glittering skulls, serving Mrs. Weatherby, who was clad in full Breakfast at Tiffany’s regalia, complete with sunglasses and what might have been authentic jewels.

As soon as the nonagenarian walked away, Hazel leaned onto the counter and turned to Vickie, smiling at her like a cat about to pounce.

“So, Vickie. Mr. Hart has been brooding a little more than usual. We have all noticed in class.”

Oh lord. If there was one thing Hazel loved, it was meddling.

“That’s nice, Hazel.”

“Don’t act like I don’t remember him coming in here all the time in the summer, and like I haven’t seen him lingering when we close on weekends. The tension between the two of you was epic.”

Vickie rolled her eyes. Hazel and her friends were all over the spicy romance novels on video social media platforms, which was funny, because she’d heard more than a few adults argue that teenagers shouldn’t read romance novels.

That made her snort. Hazel, like all teenagers, was an actual human person who did, in fact, know that sex existed.

Books were a safe and healthy way to explore that.

“It’s complicated, Hazel.”

“Omigosh. I cannot wait to see whatever drama the two of you have play out here, like my very own book. Maybe I’ll tell him in class that he should come by the shop more often.”

“I can see the wheels turning in your head, Hazel, and no. Do not tell him any such thing.” Vickie said it a little more firmly than she meant to, but Hazel’s eyes glinted, undeterred.

Time for a subject change. “Listen, things are picking up enough that I need to hire a few more people to work weekend shifts, and maybe some of the busier nights.”

“That’s cool. I’ll let people know.”

“I was thinking of designing a flyer and sending it to the school’s counselor’s office, in addition to printing some out for our bulletin board.

” She gestured to the black corkboard, which held an old invitation to a ballroom-themed Halloween party the town had held a few years earlier, and a smattering of advertisements for tutors and babysitting.

“Vickie,” squealed Hazel. Vickie winced a little at the volume. “Can I make it? I can post it all over. You can put it on all those old-person social medias too.”

“It would be great if you made it, since, according to you, I might need the time to hobble over to AARP for some brochures at the ripe old age of, I don’t know, not even thirty.” She smiled at Hazel, who scoffed.

“You’re old enough to buy beer legally and I think maybe also old enough to know which beer doesn’t taste like ass? I’m not 100 percent sure, but in my book, that means you’re relatively mature.”

Vickie smiled. Hazel was great.

The girl gasped a little. “Speaking of old hotties, isn’t that Mr. Hart’s sister, with the Kate Sharma look-alike? Sapphic Kanthony goals there—my heart.”

“Hazel, what have I told you about writing fanfic about customers?”

Hazel giggled and waggled her eyebrows.

“That you support young people writing things?”

Vickie sighed.

Priscilla and Evelyn swooped into the shop, hands entwined, though not standing quite so close together as they had when Vickie had first met the councilwoman.

“Two honey cinnamon lattes and one of each of the muffins to go, please, Victoria.” Evelyn pretended to be interested in an advertisement on the corkboard, and Prissy leaned in.

Clearly, this had been orchestrated.

“Come to dinner at the house tonight, Vickie.” Priscilla’s brown eyes bore into her.

Her dark hair was in a single braid, over the white collar of a black dress shirt tucked into jeans that looked more expensive than the entirety of Hopelessly Teavoted and all the real estate on Main Street combined.

“We need to talk about what Azrael found.”

“I, ah…” Vickie blushed, hoping Hazel wasn’t listening too closely. “Yes. I can do that.”

Prissy’s matte red lips pulled into a tight line across her pale face, and in a full pantsuit, Evelyn looked all business.

“He misses you,” Evelyn said, and then leaned in, speaking quietly enough that no one would overhear.

“And, as a NACoW representative, I must remind you that at this point, I’ll have to file a report if we can’t wrap this up.

But I do think we can solve this together, the four of us.

” Evelyn’s phone buzzed, and she stepped away from the counter again.

Priscilla glared at her, crossed her arms, and frowned.