Midsummer Night's Mischief Read online

  Then I took off my clothes.

  It was time for a serious love spell.

  * * *

  Afterward, I sat quietly on my deck, listening to the crickets and katydids and breathing in the night air. The slender moon was now completely overhead, and I basked in the soft glow while I came down from my psychic high. Spell casting could be a pretty intense experience. Even after sending the energy I raised back to the earth, I felt as if my cells were vibrating.

  Not for the first time, I pondered what my friends and family would say if they could see me. What would they think if they knew I was a Wiccan?

  Actually, I could imagine what they would think, which was why I couldn’t tell them. Not that I was ashamed or anything. In fact, I was quite comfortable with who I was. I was secure in my identity and confident in my spiritual path. This particular pursuit of mine was probably the one area of my life where I harbored no dissatisfaction or misgivings whatsoever.

  That is, as long as no one found out.

  My Irish Catholic grandmother would blame my father and his whole side, and my Italian Catholic grandmother would blame my mother and her side. At worst, they’d all think I was mixed up in a cult of devil-worshipping crazies, worse even than my aunt Josephine, who ran off and joined a hippie commune back in the day. At best, they’d worry for my immortal soul. Or, more likely, they’d fear this would damage my chances of marrying a nice young Christian man.

  As for my friends, they might just think I was a bit flaky, even weirder than they already knew. My current friends, anyway, already called me a hippie chick—not even knowing about Aunt Josephine—given my dietary leanings and other earth-friendly tendencies. But my old friends, from high school and earlier, would likely be surprised to learn I’d never actually grown up. It was with them, all those years ago, that I had first learned about Wicca and the exciting world of Goddess worship.

  That was back when witchcraft was über-trendy. We watched The Craft and Charmed and read books like Teen Witch. We wore lots of black, painted our fingernails black, drew tattoos on our hands and ankles with permanent marker.

  I smiled as I recalled our secret “coven meetings.” We collected crystals and stones, wore pentagram jewelry, and read each other’s palms. There were spells, of course, incantations read from books to curse our enemies and attract our crushes. Then again, there was also a good amount of high-minded antiestablishment, feminist rebellion. In spite of my affection for Bewitched, we were not the daughters of housewife Samantha Stephens.

  But before long, hot-blooded vampire romance edged out witchy girl power, and my friends pretty much lost interest. Not me. The Goddess had taken hold and wasn’t letting go. My teenage experiment had morphed into a real-life spiritual journey. And it was a spiritual path that suited me perfectly: there was no dogma, no fearmongering, no judgment. There were no authoritarian gatekeepers standing between me and the Divine—the Divine was already in me. And in the trees and the trails, the rivers and streams, the birds and the bees. It was a beautiful religion.

  Unfortunately, Wicca was not exactly an accepted, let alone mainstream, religion.

  Which was another reason I had to keep this part of me under wraps. If anyone at work were to find out—or anyone in the community—it could cost us clients. And that would cost me my job.

  I started to feel chilly sitting on the deck, and my stomach began to growl, chastising me for the too-light dinner. I had just gotten up and gone into the kitchen to scrounge up a bedtime snack when my cell phone buzzed from the counter where I’d left it. I glanced at the caller ID and picked up at once.

  “Hey, groovy chick!” I said brightly.

  “Hey, chickie mama. What’s shaking?”

  “Not a whole lot. You back?”

  “Not till tomorrow, but save your evening. There’s a band we gotta see and men we gotta meet.”

  I grinned. Evidently, my fun-loving friend Farrah was “off” again in her longtime on-again, off-again romance. That suited me fine. I had a spell to test out. And meeting men with Farrah was the best test method I could think of.

  Somewhere out there was the answer to my prayer.

  CHAPTER 2

  “I’ll have a large coffee and a blueberry . . . No, make that a cranberry-walnut muffin.” I dug into my purse, fumbling for some money, thoughts fixated on the delicious energy surge I’d soon be sinking into. The voice behind me, grating in its nasal familiarity, quickly burst my bubble.

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk. Coffee and a muffin? Not quite the breakfast of champions I’d expect from someone as purportedly health conscious as young Ms. Keli Milanni.”

  I forced a polite smile before turning to face my tormentor, the tall, stiff, ginger-haired thorn in my side.

  “Good morning, Crenshaw.”

  He followed me to the condiment station. “I’d expect a super-vegan marathoner like you to be ordering wheatgrass shots at the juice bar. Not coffee and a muffin.”

  “It’s all about balance, Crenshaw. You know, throwin’ in a little sweet with the spice.” I edged toward the door. “Besides, this is a vegan bakery. It’s all good.”

  At least it was until you arrived, I thought. What was he doing here, anyway? And why was he hovering over me instead of ordering his own breakfast?

  “How many miles will you have to run to work off that muffin? It must be at least three hundred calories, no?”

  I took a sip of my coffee to avoid answering the inane question and promptly scorched my tongue. Damn!

  “See you at the office,” I said as I slipped out the door.

  Crenshaw stood looking after me, a bemused expression playing across his pasty, bearded face.

  I hurried down the sidewalk toward the town square, rolling my eyes. What a dweeb. Crenshaw Davenport III. Esquire. He probably wasn’t much older than me—we’d started at the firm around the same time. Yet given the way he looked down his nose at me, the condescending way he spoke to me, he clearly felt he was my superior. And he was always angling to prove it at the office, with transparent attempts to move ahead of me on the partnership track.

  I pushed aside pesky thoughts of Crenshaw, as my field of vision was filled with a much more pleasant sight. If I wasn’t mistaken, the hot young thing holding the door to my office building had just done a double take when he caught sight of me.

  I turned on a soft smile as I approached, doing that top-to-bottom, automatic insta-scan practiced singles did in a flash. Twentysomething, slicked hair, tight bod. Cute.

  His scan of me wasn’t as subtle. In fact, it was more of a leer. As I paused before him, his gaze seemed to stick to my chest area, and I swore he was unbuttoning my shirt with his eyes.

  Okay, maybe this guy wasn’t the one.

  “Thanks,” I said, passing through the door. I chuckled to myself. Was I going to have to put up with this all day? I was wearing a bit of my love potion from the night before, smudged onto my pulse points like perfume. It was sweet and musky, but not too strong—at least, not strong smelling. It did seem to be strongly magnetic, though, if the attention I’d received on the way to work was any indication. First, the paperboy, then the guy walking his dog, then the random driver who stopped at a green light to wave me across the street.

  Then . . . oh, Lord. Was that why Crenshaw had acted all weird and in my space at the bakery? Well, he was always weird. But if I had attracted him with my love spell, I might have to rethink this whole proposition. Crenshaw was so not Mr. Right.

  I was about to step onto the elevator when another figure caught my eye, coming from the stairwell to the left. I glanced over, ready to do another insta-scan, and gasped involuntarily. Beefy, hulking, massive were a few words that came to mind. This was one imposing dude, and that was even before I saw his face: squinty eyes, flattened nose, jagged scar across his right cheekbone. The guy seemed to be walking right toward me, and my eyes widened even as I managed to summon up a pleasant smile.

  To my surprise, the stranger looked right
at me and nodded, apparently in response to said pleasant smile. And then he kept on walking, right out the front door and down the block. I stared after him for a second, then shook myself back to the present. Time to go to work. I rode the elevator to the second floor and stepped into the polished but comfortable business suite that was my home away from home.

  Olsen, Sykes, and Rafferty was a small law firm with a long, distinguished history. The culture was an interesting mix of modern and conservative. The senior partner was a woman, and we had a lot of diversity among the attorneys, as well as the clients. In recent years, the partners had implemented some attractive contemporary changes, such as flexible work schedules and the most modern technologies. On the other hand, a good portion of the clientele was from Edindale’s old-school country club set. No matter how progressive, they still expected a certain amount of traditional formality. We wore suits to work, participated in local charity fund-raisers, and maintained a quiet deference in all our client interactions. It was just expected behavior.

  “Hey, baby. Stop by my office when you get a chance. I want to ask you something.”

  And then there was Jeremy. Jeremy Bradson was the newest and youngest lawyer here. He was certainly smart. He had been top in his class, and he was a sharp lawyer. Even so, it still kind of surprised me that he had been hired. When he started about a year and a half ago, Jeremy brought a certain element of . . . youthful irreverence to the place. He wore jeans on casual Friday; walked around munching on caramel corn, even in front of clients; and laughed boisterously at small amusements.

  He was also really cute. Tanned, toned, and trendy, with a blondish-brown haircut, he had a disarming tendency to wink at people.

  I would never forget the first time he winked at me. I was explaining our office’s computer database system at the time—this was, like, his second or third day on the job. He was in a chair next to my desk, looking over my shoulder at my computer screen. I couldn’t even recall what we were talking about exactly, but that wink I remembered. I suddenly became warm all over, and I swore my heart skipped a beat. How blatantly, deliciously, inappropriately flirtatious, I thought. From that moment on, I couldn’t help regarding him in a more . . . interesting light. That devilish grin, the mischievous twinkle in his eye . . . Sometimes when our eyes met, I felt an embarrassing flush rise up all over again.

  But I would never date him. No, no, no, God, no. There were so many reasons why that would never happen.

  For one thing, I was his supervisor. I reviewed his work, gave him assignments, approved his vacation requests. No matter which way you looked at it, that whole superior-subordinate line was one I definitely would not cross. I liked my job way too much.

  For another thing, Jeremy really wasn’t my type. He was a bit too juvenile, a wee bit careless. And there was the tiniest suggestion of the slightest bit of smarminess. The winking thing could get tiresome. He winked at nearly all women: waitresses, clients, colleagues. Most people found it charming. Not Beverly, though. The first time he tried that with our senior partner, she’d called him on it. “I would prefer it if you would blink with both eyes,” she had said.

  Yeah, Jeremy was not an option for me. In my head, I called him “the Untouchable.” I really had no business checking him out in those Friday jeans or even allowing him to drift into my idle fantasies during boring meetings. It was pointless.

  Still, I couldn’t help wondering if he had noticed my special perfume. After booting up my computer, making a quick check of my appointment calendar and messages, I walked down the hall to Jeremy’s office. He stood up when he saw me and brushed caramel corn crumbs off his shirt.

  “Hey there, Ms. Milanni! Wow. You look fantastic today. Did you do something different to your hair?”

  I’d told him a hundred times to call me Keli. We weren’t that formal around here. On the other hand, maybe the formality was his way of balancing out all the “babes” he let slip out.

  “Thanks, Jeremy. What’s up?”

  “Oh, I was wondering . . . I mean, out of curiosity, does the firm ever cut our paychecks early? Or, you know, give advances upon request or anything like that?”

  “I don’t think so. Not that I’m aware of. Would you like me to check with Beverly?”

  “No, no. That’s okay. Forget about it. Hey, it’s almost time for the meeting. I’ll see you in there.”

  He slipped past me, heading toward the men’s room. I shook my head, wondering what kind of financial difficulties Jeremy had gotten himself into. Probably just shopping for a flashy new car. Or maybe this was about the student loans he was always bemoaning. Whatever. Not my concern.

  I went back to my office to grab my coffee and a notebook, then went to Beverly’s “conference lounge.” One of the cool things about working at the firm was that our meetings often happened in the comfortable room outside Beverly’s corner office. Instead of gathering around the long table in the conference room, we settled ourselves on sofas and stuffed chairs. Beverly’s grandfather, the original Olsen and the founder of the firm, had outfitted the space with a fully stocked bar and a cigar cabinet to treat his more important clients. We usually had just fruit or cookies.

  “Okay, people. Let’s get started.” Beverly took her usual seat in the leather high-back chair by the window.

  The other partners, Randall Sykes, a wiry forty-something with a closely trimmed Afro, and Kris Rafferty, a slender woman with dark, silky-straight bobbed hair, sat in the circle of chairs with us associates, six in all. Not only was Beverly the senior partner, but she was also like our beloved Queen Mother. Her silver-streaked auburn hair was wound in a high bun, lending even more height to her striking five-foot-ten-inch figure. Even more impressive than her appearance, though, was her integrity. No doubt about it, Beverly commanded our respect and affection and returned it tenfold. She’d go to bat for any of us.

  “Keli, why don’t you go first?” said Beverly. “I think you may have the most interesting client this week.”

  This was our regular Thursday morning conflicts meeting, where we all briefed each other on the cases we were working on. It was called the conflicts meeting because it was meant to keep the firm from accidentally taking on cases where our representation of one client might conflict with the interests of another. Of course, we used law office software programs to keep track of clients and avoid conflicts, but these meetings also helped maintain our sense of community.

  “Well,” I began, “my new client is Eleanor Mostriak. Eighty-four years old, widowed. I’m preparing her will, which is pretty standard. However, for the not so standard part, I’m also assisting her with the sale of a major new asset. You might say that she discovered a treasure in her attic.”

  Everyone leaned forward a little as I told them about Eleanor’s discovery of the long-lost Shakespeare folio. When I described the book and its condition and mentioned the appraisal value, I could hear impressed murmurs all around. Someone whistled. I glanced at Jeremy, whose eyes were gleaming. He winked at me. Naturally.

  Crenshaw, apparently, was about to faint.

  “The . . . the First Folio, you say? The original, complete . . . all thirty-six plays? In very good condition? Those were the exact words of the appraiser? Very good condition?”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “Extraordinary.”

  “Yes. I—”

  “Do you realize what we’re talking about here? You were an English major. You should know. The First Folio is the most important book in all of English literature. Just think of the historical value, the cultural value—not to mention the monetary value. And rare! If I recall correctly, there are only around two hundred complete copies known to exist throughout the world today.”

  As Crenshaw gushed, Pammy Sullivan, who sat next to Crenshaw on a love seat, kept interjecting, “Oh, my,” after nearly everything he said.

  Pammy, a good lawyer and a nice lady, was nevertheless unceasingly, and unintentionally, entertaining to me. Sh
e liked to color coordinate her makeup, her fingernails, her jewelry, and her suits. Today’s ensemble featured a coral- and yellow-striped skirt suit, a matching jumbo bead necklace, a bracelet, earrings in coral, and shiny coral fingernails. I was endlessly fascinated by her outfits and couldn’t even imagine what her dressing room at home must look like. I had to force myself to direct my attention away from her and back to Crenshaw, who was still hyperventilating.

  “Has it been authenticated? Was it bound? Was it embellished? What was it doing in your client’s attic?”

  I couldn’t help grinning at his unreserved enthusiasm. “It is bound, yes. A local rare-books expert gave Eleanor his initial assessment of the value, as I mentioned,” I said. “Eleanor will have it officially authenticated next week, when she flies to D.C.”

  Before Crenshaw could pepper me with more questions, Beverly raised her hand. “Let’s move on, okay? Keli will keep us updated as this matter progresses. This will be a high-profile sale and good for the firm. It will benefit us all. Good work, Keli.”

  I sat through the rest of the meeting reveling in Beverly’s praise yet feeling I didn’t really deserve it. What had I done? I had just interviewed a client and prepared a will. On the other hand, I supposed Eleanor had chosen me based on a referral from a friend of hers. I had made another client happy enough to recommend me.

  That afternoon Eleanor came back to finalize her will. Normally, I allowed at least a week to put together a will, but Eleanor was anxious to have hers in place before her trip to D.C. So I made an exception and worked quickly that morning to prepare all the papers. When she arrived, she had the First Folio with her in a large canvas book bag with a single-button flap closure.

  “Eleanor!” I said, ushering her into my office. “Haven’t you put that thing in a safety-deposit box yet?”

  She showed me her dimples and set the bag gently on the floor. “Well,” she said, a little breathless, “it got too late last night. I had to get home after I left here. Darlene and the boys were coming over for supper. And, of course, the boys wanted to see the treasure.”