CHAPTER 3
“ L et’s not and say we didn’t ,” Mom howls back as she plucks Georgie right back to the floor as the Country Cottage Café explodes with laughter. My mother isn’t so keen on throwing her underwear at anyone, and typically all of Georgie’s exploits count on just that.
Mom and Georgie Conner have been friends for years. They rarely see eye-to-eye on matters—case in point—but nonetheless, they’re besties. They do just about everything together. In fact, they even own a boutique together.
Mom is a stylish redhead whose hairdo and wardrobe seem to be stuck in the eighties—think feathered locks and shoulder pads—and Georgie is a gray-headed granny who has a penchant for wearing breezy kaftans no matter what time of year it is—think maximum comfort.
“I’m with Georgie,” another woman calls out over the chaos of fifty women chattering and laughing all at once.
“I’m with Ree,” another shouts. “Besides, I stopped wearing panties about six years ago.”
More hoots and hollers break out.
“Who spiked the apple cider?” someone shouts from the back of the café, and I’m starting to wonder the same thing myself.
I expected a bit of merriment, but this room is darn right boisterous, Fish mewls just as a terrier, with a Thanksgiving-themed bandana wrapped around its neck, charges at her.
Fish yowls and darts under the dessert table and Sherlock barks after her.
Hey! The dessert table is my station, he barks once again. Save some crumbs for me, he says, darting right after her.
“Please,” Mom calls out. “Georgie doesn’t need liquor to get her to take off any of her clothes. This is Georgie at baseline, one hundred percent of the time!”
More laughter ensues and half the women ask Georgie if she’s in the market for a new best friend.
A chuckle strums from me as I take in the sight of my mother’s friends. They all look great for their age and are so fun and lively. But it’s the hypnotic thick scent of turkey that casts a temporary spell over me. And I could practically taste the mashed potatoes and gravy, the stuffing, and all the other savory dishes that go along with a traditional Thanksgiving dinner.
It’s safe to say I’ve been downright craving a Thanksgiving meal with all the trimmings for the entire last month. I can’t help it. I’ve always been a foodie.
But for the most part, the meal has been all gobbled up, the dishes have been cleared, and an entire array of holiday pies has been set out.
The women are on their feet and mingling away while noshing on apple, pumpkin, and pecan pie. There’s even a salted caramel apple pie offering, and there looks to be a cheesecake of some sort as well.
My best friend, Emmie, is in charge of the café and all of the yummy goodness it produces. We’ve been best friends since preschool. And Emmie just happens to be one of the few people who knows about my little supernatural secret.
My name is Bizzy Baker Wilder, and I can read minds. Not every mind, not every time, but I can also read the minds of animals. And believe me, I always prefer what they have to say to their human counterparts.
Speaking of my adorable bestie, she heads this way looking as cute as can be in a cranberry-colored dress that dips down to her ankles.
Emmie and I share the same medium-length dark hair, the same denim blue eyes, and the same proper moniker—Elizabeth—but we’ve been going by the nicknames our families have given us ever since we were two in an effort to avoid confusion.
Emmie just so happens to be married to my husband’s best friend, Leo, and the two of them are expecting their first baby come spring. I can hardly wait for that little bundle of adorable joy to get here. Sometimes I think I’m more excited than Emmie herself.
“Can you believe these women?” She gives me a partial embrace while patting her belly. Emmie is just four months along, but that hasn’t stopped her from holding her belly as if she had a beach ball tucked in her dress. And I can’t blame her. She loves that little peanut, no matter how tiny it might be. She’s hardly showing, but each day the two of us pat her belly in hopes it will pooch out at any minute. We can’t wait until she’s nice and round and looking like a Thanksgiving turkey herself. “I hope we’ll be just as immaculately hermetically sealed when we’re their age. These women don’t look a day over forty.”
“Tell me about it,” I say. “And to think my mother was worried sick about how she was going to look compared to her friends—and they all look amazing, my mother included. And look at the way they’re getting along. It’s been nonstop chatter and giggles from the second I walked into the room. They’re laughing and hugging and sharing stories of days gone by. Do you think we’ll do that with our graduating class?”
She snorts at the thought. “With the witches that we went to school with? Not a chance.”
“Agree,” I tell her. “You can bet your bottom dollar I won’t be hosting any sort of reunion with them at the inn any time soon.”
“Not if we want to keep our sanity.”
We watch as a couple of adorable Pomeranians with bushy auburn coats waddle toward the dessert table and I can see Fish peeking out from under the tablecloth as she eyes them with suspicion.
“Red alert under the dessert table,” I say to Emmie. “Fish is really outnumbered in this crowd. Ironic that she’s technically the only catty one here.”
“Oh, come on.” Emmie laughs. “With a room this full of women, there has to be a catty one in the bunch.”
“Haha,” I say, not laughing.
“Speaking of desserts…” She nudges me with her elbow. “All of that pie is almost gone and the cheesecake is just a memory. I’d better go replenish the supply.”
“What kind of cheesecake is that, anyway?” I ask.
It has an orange tinge to it and looks scrumptious with a generous dollop of whipped cream on every slice.
“It’s something new I’m doing through Thanksgiving. It’s a pumpkin cheesecake with a gingersnap crust. It tastes like fall personified—or at least baked into a cheesecake.”
“ Ooh, that does sound good,” I say as she scoots right back to the kitchen.
Not only does Emmie run the kitchen, but she manages the Country Cottage Café for me as well. We’ve always been a good fit in friendship, so it doesn’t surprise me one bit that we’re a good fit in business, too. And you can bet once that baby arrives, I’m going to give Emmie all the time off she needs and wants.
Family comes first in my book, and Emmie is most certainly family to me.
My excitement is off the charts for Emmie and her husband Leo. There’s just so much to do and so little time. I have to throw her baby shower, and I want to help her paint the nursery, pick out the crib, the bedding, and get my hands on every other little detail that the arrival of a baby requires—which apparently are innumerous. But I just can’t wait.
We don’t know if the baby is a boy or a girl, but we don’t care much either as long as it arrives as healthy and happy as can be. And we also don’t know if that baby will be transmundane like me—or like its father, I should say.
It turns out, Leo is transmundane as well, further classified as supersensual, which means we have the ability to pry into other people’s minds. I’m not sure I would have picked that as my supernatural talent if given a choice, but as far as supernatural talents go, it sure beats seeing the dead.
Look at her thinking she’s hot stuff, a disembodied voice pipes up, and with all these women in the room, I can’t tell who it’s coming from. And I can only guess the thought came from a woman because unless I’m standing right in front of someone, their voices can sound a bit androgynous to me. Go on, honey, lap it up , they continue. I think we both know this will be your very last night on the planet.