Page 25 of Two’s A Charm

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Bonnie

Dammit! Bonnie grabbed a drinks menu, holding it over her head.

For the fourth time that week, one of her wayward spells had set off the bar’s emergency sprinklers.

The fire department had been highly entertained the first time, but seemed slightly miffed the second.

The third time it happened, Bonnie had provided pizza and mocktails for the entire crew lest they send her a bill for the inconvenience.

And now, well, she was hoping that they’d just leave her to it, because she was starting to feel like she ran a water park, not a bar.

At least she’d become a pro at wrangling the valves of the backflow device, she thought, swiping damp hair out of her face as she dried herself off in front of the hand dryer in the upstairs bathroom.

The bar hadn’t even opened yet for the day, so she hadn’t drenched her customers. This time, anyway.

Emerging from the bathroom, she tromped down the stairs, giving a middle finger to the Uncle Oswald aura painting on the wall.

If Oswald hadn’t got her embroiled in this whole dastardly collab, she wouldn’t be casting wonky spells and setting off every sprinkler within a mile radius.

All right, so sales had been up in the two days since she’d introduced the Memory Lane menu, and Oswald had promptly paid her the agreed-upon percentage of sales the following morning, but this was all a huge pain.

Bonnie missed the days when pouring a gin and tonic was enough to call herself a mixologist. This full-time spellcasting thing was far beyond the effort she was used to putting in.

‘Everything all right, Bon?’ asked Bobby, who’d come in early to help with the deliveries.

‘Fine,’ she said, with a fluff of her damp hair. ‘The sprinklers are being temperamental again.’

‘Do you need me to take a look?’ There was an odd hitch in his voice that made Bonnie pause.

Bonnie shook her head. ‘No, it’s just a workflow thing. But thanks. You can help with prep, if you want?’

Bobby hesitated. ‘About that. Since I’m not getting paid for the time, I’m going to need to set some boundaries. Work–life ones, you know?’

Bonnie did not know, actually. For a solid decade, Bobby had been a cheerful presence in her life, always happy to do her bidding.

All right, so maybe she’d taken his generosity and reliability a touch for granted.

But Bobby seemed happy to serve her, and Bonnie was certainly happier when Bobby helped take a chunk of her infinite daily errands off her plate.

She was only one woman, after all, and everyone needed something from her at all times.

Something had changed, but what? Had Effie put him up to this? Her sister was all about unions and fair labour laws and blah blah blah. She’d been very proud of the display she’d put up in the library for Labour History Month a few years back.

She definitely wouldn’t put it past her sister to get into Bobby’s ear about unpaid labour.

‘Sure,’ said Bonnie easily, braiding her hair with as much indifference as she could manage. ‘You know I’d never ask you to do anything you don’t want to do. I thought you liked helping out.’

Bobby clasped his hands awkwardly. ‘I do, I do. I did. I was just talking to Kirsty about it, and she isn’t super into it. She thinks it’s exploitative. And that you’re using your social position to take power over me.’

Bonnie snapped her hair tie in shock.

Well, this was a plot twist she hadn’t seen coming. Since when was Kirsty a psychoanalyst? No, blogging didn’t count.

Not only that, but when had Kirsty decided to lend her new-found psychoanalytical talents to the relationship dynamic between Bonnie and Bobbie?

Which she’d completely misread, of course, because there was no dynamic between them.

There was just Bobby the puppy dog, and Bonnie the, well, queen bee.

Who really could do with the free labour and kind words right now.

‘I didn’t realize Kirsty was a labour organizer,’ said Bonnie archly.

‘She’s not. But we’re kind of dating, I guess, so...’

Bonnie was too damp and frizzy and frazzled to properly compute this. When had this happened? And how? Kirsty had spent their entire childhood mocking Bobby for being too dull and too nice .

And what about the whole Make Theo Jealous campaign that Bobby was an integral part of?

Not that that was going well, given that Effie had apparently recruited Theo full time at the library.

Maybe the man had some community service hours he had to complete as part of a deferred sentence or something.

‘But Kirsty hates you,’ she said, voicing her thoughts in case it helped Bobbie come to his senses. ‘She thinks you’re destined for a small life in a small town.’

Bobby propped his arms on his dolly, which was marked Property of The Golden Hour Bakery – the bakery that he and his dad had built over the last decade and a half, and which Bobby would eventually inherit. ‘Well, I probably am, aren’t I? And anyway, is that so bad?’

Bonnie wasn’t sure, honestly. Part of her had always wanted to try her luck in the city, just to see how far she could go.

But another part had told her to stay here, where she ruled the roost and was surrounded by people who happily did her bidding.

It wasn’t worth it to risk her big fish status here for who knew what elsewhere.

‘But you hate Kirsty,’ she said. Because it was true.

Bobby had always warned Bonnie about Kirsty, whose friendship had a cutting edge to it.

She’s rooting for your downfall , he’d warned her earnestly one night after a few too many ciders, the drink he described as his own personal truth serum.

And Bonnie knew it, always had. But she’d also known that she could handle having a frenemy, just so long as everything else stayed as it was.

Now she wasn’t so sure.

‘That’s not true,’ Bobby countered. ‘When have I ever said that? I don’t hate anyone.’

All right, so technically Bobby had never used the word hate. He was nice to a fault. And that niceness had led him into Kirsty’s arms. Somehow. Some why .

Bonnie had to get to the bottom of this before she lost two friends, and the hierarchy of the town became irrevocably topsy-turvy.

But not now. First, she had to make sure she had enough of her bespelled cocktail mix ready prior to opening, and that she wasn’t going to set off the sprinklers for a fifth time.

The hardwoods and pinball machines could only take so much water intrusion.

‘Fine. You’re easily replaceable anyway,’ she snapped, her tone harsher than she’d meant. But once she’d gone off down that track, there was no reeling in the nastiness. ‘I’ll find someone else to do the deliveries. Someone with actual liability insurance. And a backbone.’

Bobby flinched, confused by how this conversation was turning out. Of course, none of this was Bonnie’s fault. He was the one skewering their friendship.

‘I’ll drop the day’s leftovers at your house, though,’ he said. ‘It’s not like it’s out of my way.’

Bonnie gritted her teeth.

‘Don’t bother,’ she said. ‘I’m trying to cut down on my sugar intake.’

Bobby didn’t respond, but she could see the hurt in his eyes.

He’d been bringing them leftover pastries for as long as Bonnie could remember.

They’d started as his dad’s recipes, and bit by bit, Bobby’s own recipes and additions had crept in.

It was a tradition Bonnie had secretly loved, even though she’d always pretended the whole ritual was beneath her.

Treat ’em mean, keep ’em keen .

It was the opposite of what Mom had always preached.

Mom, whose personal mantra was more like kill ’em with kindness .

But somewhere along the way, watching Mom work those long shifts and give and give and give , right up until the end, when she had nothing left to give but her spirit, Bonnie had found that kindness became equated with weakness.

Especially when you were a woman. Bonnie didn’t want to be steamrollered.

And if that took being the steamroller, then so be it.

Still, watching Bobby climb into his old truck and pull away, Bonnie felt a pang. She’d never known life without Bobby. It was as though the world were conspiring to take the people she cared about away from her. First Mom, then Effie, and now Bobby.

But she didn’t have time to wallow. She had debts to pay and a bar to keep afloat and a hole in her heart that she needed to heal before she could consider the mere possibility of letting someone into it. Besides, Bobby had decided that he wasn’t the one to fill it.

As Bonnie prepared a batch of the Memory Lane cocktail that was proving so popular, a tear trickled down her check and landed in the pitcher. It hissed and steamed, sending a purple cloud of sparkling smoke into the air.

At least it didn’t set off the sprinklers.

‘Are we open for business?’ asked Winston, poking his balding head around the front door. Weird – where was his cap? ‘Because I’m ready for a game of, ah, what’s it called? Ooh, I’m having a senior moment. Fancy that.’

‘Reckon it must be the stress of knowing he owes me a chicken and chips dinner if he loses,’ teased Gerald, who was hot on Winston’s heels and ready for his newly spell-infused shandy.

It was the Memory Lane concentrate, but mixed with lemonade.

Gerald didn’t like to be left out. This was apparently a deep-seated fear that had its roots in New Zealand regularly being left off world map illustrations.

‘Old what’s-his-name here can’t handle the pressure.

Anyway, pop one on our tab, and give us a shout when you’re ready. ’

With a cheerful arm around Winston, Gerald ushed his friend towards the pinball room.

Bonnie frowned. This was an unusual development.

Winston had long been a vocal opponent to the very concept of pinball.

The only thing he loathed more was foosball (with oversized Jenga coming in a close second).

Darts was a game of both skill and strategy, whereas pinball was, to quote him verbatim, the ‘earliest form of button-mashing’.

‘We might have added some new drinks to the menu, but we haven’t started on the renovations yet. The darts board is that way.’ Bonnie pointed with a sprig of sage.

‘Oops, off we go, mate,’ said Gerald, steering Winston back on track.

Bonnie went to work mixing their drinks, grimacing as she added a too-heavy pinch of pink sea salt, which she tried to offset with a smoked stem of rosemary. But now the entire concoction was unbalanced. She couldn’t quite tell how, but she could feel it. She swore. She’d have to start over.

Thankfully, nothing caught fire this time.

After what felt like an hour, Bonnie carried the drinks, and an extra pitcher for the team members who would be arriving any moment, over to their usual table by the darts board, cursing Bobby for not being around to help.

But what she saw disquieted her. Instead of the usual jovial chatter about Winston’s daffodils, which were fit to rival Freddie Noonan’s, and the rude ribbing they gave each other over their wayward throws, Winston and Gerald were sitting in silence, each quietly regarding the dart they held in their hand.

‘Everything all right, gents?’ she asked, setting down their drinks.

She’d never seen them manage more than a moment of quiet.

The two were famously chatterboxes. Between their propensity for gossip and their shared habit of narrating their darts games, there was barely a moment of peace over by the darts board.

‘Do you need me to take the first throw?’

Winston blinked, confused. Then realization showed behind his eyes. ‘Oh, right! Just warming up the old throwing arm.’

He stretched his arm back and forth like an Olympian preparing to take on a world record. With a wink, he turned that move into one culminating in a grab at his drink. He knocked back the bespelled cocktail, then wiped his mouth with the back of his wrinkly hand.

Then, without reciting his usual prayer to the darts gods, he turned to the board, aimed carefully, and missed.