Page 100 of The Holiday Clause

She tipped her head and bobbed as if she’d said the opposite. “Poor thing. He never did recover after losing your mother.”

Wren frowned. “He’s okay. The cats keep him company.”

“Cats are not the same as human companionship, dear.” She covered her smeared lips. “Oh, what am I saying, you two are one and the same.”

“I…I have friends.”

“What you need,” she whispered behind her hand, “is a lover. Are you sure there’s nothing going on with you and that Hawthorne boy?”

Wren laughed nervously, the sound sharp and brittle. “I’m not sure what you heard, Birdie, but?—“

“I heard quite a bit. That author friend of yours—what’s her name?”

“Jocelyn.”

“Yes, Jacqueline. She’s up to no good. Parading all those women into town with their phallic jewelry and selling sex toys and pornography.”

“Um, I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

“I know what’s in her books, dear. And now she’s trying to take over the public library so she can brainwash our youth.”

Wren hitched a thumb over her shoulder at the Wilde Kettle. “I really have to go, Birdie. Aunt Astrid’s expecting me.”

Birdie’s pruned face pursed as if she sucked on a particularly sour lemon. She and Astrid used to be bridge partners and thebest of friends, until something happened a few years back. Now, they couldn’t stand in the same room without drawing blood.

“Oh. Well. I should get back to my appointment. They’ll probably have to repaint this finger.”

“Then you better go. It was nice seeing you.”

“You be careful out there, dear. And try to spend a little less time with those cats. Find a man.”

Wren’s fake smile started to feel like a plastic mask. “Bye.”

Rusted wind chimes clattered like old bones as she pulled open the door to the Wilde Kettle. The trail of baby powder and flowers vanished, overwhelmed by the potent scent of patchouli and herbs that wrapped around her like a comforting embrace.

“You look like you’re running from something, Wren,” Aunt Astrid greeted as she ground herbs into the old stone mortar on the counter with practiced precision.

“I just got accosted by Birdie Quinnley.”

“What does that old witch want?”

The warm aroma of dried lavender, cloves, and something vaguely medicinal wafted from under the pestle as she crushed the leaves and seeds into a fine powder. “Does anyone ever know?”

“Good point.” Aunt Astrid sniffed the concoction with a connoisseur’s appreciation and pulled an oil off the shelf to add a few drops. “So, are you just looking for sanctuary or did you come in for a reason? Perhaps some chamomile and ginger to soothe those inner muscles?”

She frowned, heat creeping up her neck. “Why would my inner muscles need soothing?”

“Oh, you know, in case you had a long night.”

Dust motes floated lazily in the golden sunbeams slanting through narrow windows, shifting as Wren blew out a frustrated breath. “What did you hear?”

Her aunt shrugged and nosed through the glass jars filled with loose tea leaves, curled roots, and brittle flower petals. “Me? Oh, sweetie, you know I’m not one for gossip.”

“Right.”

“But I will say this. If you’re going to start having a social life with the son of a man as formidable as Magnus Hawthorne, you should probably take something stronger than herbal tea. Don’t want a litter of little ones running around before you’re ready.”

She drew in a deep breath, her nose tingling with the hint of a sneeze from the dust dancing in the air. Did everyone feel entitled to the details of her sex life? If only they realized how non-existent it was.