What Not to Were Page 10

  “It left you raw and cautious. Totally understandable, but I’m standing here in front of you right now, telling you I don’t care.”

  The echo of his words from the night before struck a sharp chord in her heart.

  Her eyes began to fill with more tears so she let her chin drop to her chest, but Nash pulled her into his arms, like he would when she’d had a bad day, almost as if he remembered every moment of their relationship.

  “Never, Calla,” he murmured against the top of her head. “I promise you, that would never happen.”

  * * * *

  The blessed relief of darkness enveloped them, though it was still hot even minus the glare of the sun.

  The words one day kept repeating themselves in her head as Calla sat on the blanket they’d used when Nash had asked her to be his girlfriend.

  If they only had one day to show Nash whatever she was supposed to show him, their time was swiftly running out. She’d spent a good portion of the ride out here to this part of Nash’s property trying to figure out what hour this mythical timer was set for one day. Did it begin when Fate spoke the words? Did it begin at dawn? What if they’d missed a detail? Something no one had thought of? What would happen if Nash didn’t remember when the mystery time was up?

  They’d taken the seniors back to the center to rest up and have a late snack before pickup, then staged yet another unsuccessful reenactment, this one of The Big Talk, wherein she and Nash spent most of the time giggling at all the rules they’d placed on their road to total commitment.

  And still nothing.

  Kirby came up behind her and tapped her on the shoulder. “You ready for the Be My Girl scene?”

  Daphne rasped a sigh, her beautiful face even prettier by the glow of the campfire Nash had built. She dropped her clipboard on her director’s chair—another item that had mysteriously appeared. “It’s not called Be My Girl. It’s called Sex And The Smitten.”

  Kirby threw her hands up like two white flags. “Sorry! I’m just trying to help.”

  Calla grabbed Kirby’s hand and squeezed it. “Of course you are. You’ve been a total rock through this. Go sit in the bed of Nash’s truck and relax. There wasn’t anyone here but Nash and I at this one anyway.”

  Kirby gave her a tired smile. “I think I’ll do that, but save me a hotdog, would you?” she joked, wandering off into the velvety night toward Nash’s truck.

  Nash was busy putting hotdogs on skewers while Greta set their places on the blanket, putting a soda can on each plate. One just like the can Nash had pulled the tab from that she now kept on a chain around her neck.

  She tried to relax, but the longer the night went on, the more anxious she was beginning to feel. It was as though if they didn’t find the last piece to this puzzle, everything was going to blow up.

  “Makeup!” Daphne shouted.

  Flora appeared out of thin air in front of her, waving a powder puff. “Lift your chin, toots,” she ordered.

  Calla’s heart tightened. “What are you doing, Flora? You’re supposed to be at home with your family, not out here in the middle of nowhere.”

  Flora screwed up her face, her eyes warm from beneath the brim of her baseball cap. “Bah. My son’s boring. Have I ever mentioned what he does for a living? He’s an accountant. Most boring job in the entire world. Who wants to talk tax shelters over a pot roast when I could be out here, waitin’ to see you two fall in love all over again?”

  “Thank you, Flora,” she barely whispered, overwhelmed by their generosity.

  Flora dabbed at her nose with the powder puff and grinned. “Wouldn’t have missed it. Now, lift your chin so I can be sure I get all your angles.”

  “Flora?”

  “Calico?”

  She smiled at Flora’s pet name for her. “Why are you powdering my nose? We’re not making a movie.”

  Wait. Were they?

  It wouldn’t surprise her to find Daphne had whipped up some cameras and a craft service table at this point.

  “Because Miss Flora asked for a job and I gave her one. You should have your pretties just right for when Nash remembers you. It’s going to be a moment you’ll always remember, and you’ll look like a goddess,” Daphne offered.

  As Flora drifted away, she mouthed a thank you to Daphne, who simply smiled. Some of her seniors felt as if they had nothing left to contribute to society, and often times, when their family members first brought them in to spend the day at the center, they were despondent.

  She’d spent many an afternoon helping them rediscover their usefulness by organizing bake sales, and charity marathons, and encouraging them to attend soccer games for the children in town whose parents weren’t able to attend due to work. No one worked a pom-pom for an elementary school soccer player like her seniors.

  For them to put as much if not more effort into this project than she’d been willing to attempt in the beginning because of her fear, meant they respected her as much as she respected them. It meant she was making a difference, and nothing made her happier than their success.

  Greta’s sigh made her refocus her thoughts. “One more time I tell you to get down from that tree, Gus, and it’ll be the last.”

  “Gus? Are you crazy? You’re going to break your leg! What are you doing?” Calla demanded.

  “I’m the set grip. Grips set stuff up.”

  Now they had a set grip? Next they’d have a sound guy and a set designer.

  Standing, she held out her hand. “Come down from there now. You’re supposed to be at home all tucked in with The Rockford Files reruns, not out here in a tree.”

  As he hopped down, he squeezed her hand, and it wasn’t a suggestive “Come on, baby, light my fire” squeeze. It was one of support. “Just doin’ my part.”

  Calla pressed a kiss to his weathered cheek. “Don’t do your part in a tree, okay? Now go grab something cold to drink and put your feet up. I think it’s up to me and Nash now.”

  Gus tweaked her cheek and set off to find the cooler someone had brought on this crazy journey.

  Gripping Daphne’s arm as she flipped through yet more of her notes, she asked, “Hey, how’s hubby? Is he okay?”

  “Oh, he’s fine, honey. This happens all the time. Whatever vision he had took its toll on him, is all. He’ll sleep it off like some drunk and be right as rain tomorrow. Don’t worry about him, worry about you. How are you?”

  Despite the thick air of the night, she rubbed her bare arms. “I’m worried. Really worried. Nothing’s worked so far, and I still can’t figure out why Nash has to regain his memory today. If that’s even what Fate meant at all. What happens to him if he doesn’t get his memory back?”

  Daphne’s breathing hitched. “I don’t know, sweetie. Damn, sometimes it’s so hard to be married to this man. I know it’s his job, but it kills me when it affects the people I love. I’ve been racking my brain all day while we act out this crazy look into your lives, and I just don’t know.”

  Calla experienced instant regret. Everyone in she and Nash’s lives had gone to bat for them, and she wanted them to know how grateful she was. “I’m sorry. I don’t want it to sound like I’m blaming anyone. I’m grateful this happened or I might be wallowing in a bag of corn chips and watching The Notebook instead of at least trying to help him remember. Any news from Winnie?”

  No one had had any luck getting in touch with Winnie, and even though Daphne and Greta and all the seniors were the most amazing entity of support, Calla really wished Winnie was with them.

  “Nothing, and quite honestly, I’m beginning to wonder why the hell no one can get in touch with her. She’s never out of touch with us—especially Greta, because of the halfway house. It almost makes me think I should dig out my broom from that dusty playpen Fate calls a garage and fire up the old GPS.”

  “You have GPS on your broom? Wait. Did I just say that out loud in conjunction with the word broom? You have a broom?” She wasn’t stru
ck dumb by much these days, not with witches in the mix, but a broom made her pause.

  “You bet your pert ass I do. Don’t use it much since the new Council made all these crazy PC rules about using our magic only when absolutely necessary, but there are days when I miss a good road trip on old Ozzie.”

  “Your broom has a name…”

  Daphne flapped a hand at her and chuckled. “I went through a heavy Black Sabbath period where I loved everything Ozzie Osborne.”

  Out of the blue, a pang of fear struck Calla for no reason. An unsettling, irrational fear. “Do you think Winnie’s okay?”

  Daphne’s nod was quick. “I’m sure of it, honey. Maybe she just lost her phone or something. But the entire witch world would know if something happened to her. Trust me. Now, let’s do this before we miss our time period.”

  Calla hesitated for a moment, fighting her fear. This was their last big hurrah, and she was trying not to dwell on the fact that it might not work any better than any of the other scenarios they’d relived.

  Daphne pulled her into a hug, squeezing her hard. “I have a good feeling about this.”

  “Me too,” Greta chirped, massaging Calla’s shoulders. “You ready, champ?”

  She forced a smile to her face and thumbed her nose. “Ready, coach.”

  “Places, everyone!” Daphne bellowed into the megaphone.

  As she positioned herself once more on the blanket in front of the campfire, Nash looked over at her and shot her an encouraging smile and a wink. “I have a good feeling about this, Cupcake Lady.”

  Calla gasped, words escaping her.

  Nash’s head shot up, his eyes concerned. “What’s wrong?”

  She grinned just before she threw herself at him, knocking him backward onto the blanket. Planting a kiss on his lips, she rubbed her nose against his. “You called me Cupcake Lady!”

  He looked surprised, but it didn’t stop him from wrapping his arms around her. “Did I? Wait. Why would I call you Cupcake Lady?”

  “Because I bake all the time! But we haven’t mentioned it once today. Not one single time. Cupcakes are how I talked you into helping me paint the center shortly after we reconnected! You love my cupcakes!”

  “I do? Wait. I do! Holy hell, I do like your cupcakes. I love your cupcakes, in fact—”

  “Are cupcakes another strange metaphor for the smexy? Because we really need to get on with this, kittens. You industry folk are hard to keep focused,” Daphne groused.

  Calla pulled herself to her feet, taking Nash with her. “No! He called me Cupcake Lady!”

  “He called you Cupcake Lady?” Greta shouted, her face splitting into a grin. “Yahooooo!”

  As everyone began cheering, she reached for Nash, her heart pounding so hard she wasn’t sure she could keep it in her chest.

  But when she turned back around—he was gone.

  Like, totally and completely gone.

  * * * *

  Everyone sat in stunned silence around the large table at Winnie’s house. No one spoke, no one moved—not even when two of the witches made sweet tea and poured it into tall glasses.

  Nash was gone and they’d looked everywhere for him. From his ranch and everywhere in between. Nothing. Just nothing.

  Flora held her hand, stroking the back of it in soothing circles while Ezra let her rest her head on his shoulder and Twyla Faye nested at her feet.

  Thunder cracked in loud rumbles outside, lightning followed shortly thereafter, sizzling across the sky and lighting up Winnie’s kitchen windows.

  “Okay, people. I can’t take this anymore,” Icabod said from the far end of the table, where he was propped up against Greta’s chest. “Tell me what happened again?”

  “He was there one minute, gone the next,” Daphne said into her hands, her defeat crystal clear in her tone.

  “Into thin air,” Gus muttered.

  “Yep,” Flora said, snapping her fingers. “Just like that.”

  Dread filled Calla’s chest, clawing its way up to her throat. What did this mean? Did it mean they’d failed? Had the invisible timer on this madcap day buzzed and this was the outcome to the one-day theory?

  Was this the something awful? Because wow—this was pretty shitty.

  Greta’s head snapped up. “You know, just a couple of seconds before the ruckus broke out, I smelled magic. But it wasn’t male magic…”

  “Okay,” Icabod encouraged. “That’s a clue! So you smelled magic. What kind of magic, BIC? Good, bad, playful, angry?”

  She cocked her head. “I don’t know. It was just a whiff. I didn’t stop to examine it because we were all in such a rush. I just know there was no need for it. I mean, Nash didn’t use his magic when he was asking you to be his steady, did he, Calla?”

  “No.” She shook her head emphatically. “No magic.” Unless you counted the magic his words filled the air with that night. “But then, how would I know? I’m a werewolf. I smell emotions, detect shifts in body language, and I run fast. I wouldn’t know the scent of magic if it hit me in the eye. But is that what made him disappear? Maybe it had to do with what Fate said? Maybe Nash’s disappearing was his fate?”

  Daphne popped up from the table, slapping her hand on it as she did. “Okay, who was using their magic tonight?” she demanded. “Fess up or I’ll use mine, and I know none of you wants to experience the wrath of my decimator!”

  “Jesus in a Speedo! Not the decimator spell. You put that finger down right now, Daphne Martin!”

  Winnie?

  Winnie was suddenly there, right in the middle of the room, a puff of sparkly purple smoke surrounding her, dressed in slacks that looked suspiciously like MC Hammer pants and a cropped jacket with big shoulder pads.

  She looked down at her clothes and giggled. “We threw Baba a ‘surprise, you’re eleventy-billion years old’ party, and you know how she likes her Hammer time.” Snapping her fingers, she went from retro ’80s to a pair of jeans and an old flannel shirt.

  “Where have you been? We’ve texted, called. We were just shy of Greta sending smoke signals. You’re never out of touch!” Daphne accused.

  “That’s what brought me back. Something happened to my phone. Damnedest thing, too. I haven’t gotten a single message since just after I left yesterday—not even Greta’s daily update. When I tried to call with Ben’s phone, no one was picking up. Something just didn’t feel right. That, and a weird premonition I just couldn’t shake brought me back.”

  “Thank God you’re here,” Daphne muttered. “We’ve got a problem—a big one.”

  Rolling up her sleeves, she sat down at the table next to Calla and gave her a hug. “Okay, what the hell is going on here? I’m gone one day and all hell breaks loose.”

  Everyone began talking at once, sharing their versions of what had gone down since this morning when she and Nash woke up, while Winnie held Calla’s hand and listened, absorbing the information.

  Twenty minutes later, they were all silent again.

  Winnie blew out a breath. “Okay, so he just up and disappeared and no one but BIC smelled magic or saw anything. Nothing happened at the dance? Did someone maybe slip something in his drink?”

  Calla firmly shook her head. “Nothing.”

  Gus snorted and popped his lips. “They weren’t there long enough to put anything in his drink. They danced one dance and went off to make the whoopee.”

  Daphne and Greta both nodded their heads. “But oh, Winnie. You should’ve seen our girl,” Daphne breathed. “She looked beautiful. Just amazing. All dark hair and a pink dress that fit her like a glove. She was gorge—”

  “Pink dress?” Winnie asked, her head cocking to the left. “Did you end up borrowing one of my dresses, Calla?” The tone of her question was urgent.

  Calla’s anxiety rose. “Yeah. It really was amazing, too. I felt so feminine and sexy in it.”

  Now Winnie rose, her fists clenched. “A pink wraparound?”
<
br />   Calla rose, too, her heart pumping. “That’s the one. It was the only pink one you had…”

  Winnie gripped her hand, her eyes intense, just as another crack of lightning screeched across the sky. “Where’s the dress, Calla?”

  At the scene of the crime? “Back at Nash’s. I think. I left in such a hurry, but I’ll replace it. I promise.”

  “No! That’s not what I mean. Just hold on!” she yelped and snapped her fingers.

  The next thing Calla knew, they were all in Nash’s bedroom, falling into each other like a bunch of dominos.

  Flora was the first to speak from beneath Clive, who’d fallen on top of her. “Clive! Put your pickle away and get off me, you old buffoon!”

  Sprawled on the floor, Calla tried not to waste time thinking about how she’d gotten here. As she rose to a sitting position, she saw the dress. Nash had draped it on the edge of his neatly made bed. “There! On the bed!”

  Winnie snatched it up, her eyes widening as Calla helped Flora and Clive up off the floor. “Oh no. No, no, no, no, no!”

  Panic seized Calla again. Her eyes flew to Winnie’s. “What’s wrong?” Oh God. What now?

  Winnie held up the dress and shook it in the air. “This is my get lucky dress!”

  Oh, she’d gotten lucky…“Okay, Voodoo Lady, what does that mean?” She was almost afraid to ask.

  “I should’ve burned this dress! It was my Vegas dress. Zelda and I used to joke about it all the time.”

  Zelda—Winnie’s best friend, the one she’d done time with in magic-abusers jail before she’d come to Paris, or something like that. “And?”

  “And before I came to Paris, I was…well, I was freer with my affections than even I like to admit. I put a spell on this dress, so whomever I chose as my prey—er, date, wouldn’t remember me or anything that happened between us the next day. Sort of a play on ‘what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas’. I just made sure it really stayed in Vegas.”