“Hey, sweet costumes!” The guy at the front of the coffee line was grinning wide, looking back and forth from Gwen to me. “The Sanderson sisters, right? Man, I loveHocus Pocus!Must’ve watched it a hundred times growing up. Did you know they filmed it here in town?”
“Uh, no, I didn’t,” I admitted. “I like your costume too.”
His grin got bigger. He looked like a high school kid, all gangly limbs and acne-ridden cheeks. But his costume was undeniably cool. (Han Solo had always been cool, would alwaysbecool, if you wanted my honest opinion on the subject.)
As for my own outfit, I hadn’t had much choice in the matter. Gwen had shoved it into my arms the minute I walked in the door that morning and told me to head into the stockroom at the back to change. When she’d found the time to whip together coordinated costumes, I did not know — and, frankly, was too startled by her appearance to ask.
She was dressed as Winifred Sanderson, in a flowing green dress with ultra-deep bell sleeves. Her red hair was teased out to maximum volume in a pile of curls atop her head. There were twin spots of rouge on her high cheekbones, à la Bette Midler in the movie.
“I’m not doing my hair like that,” was all I could manage to say.
She’d scoffed. “Sarah Sanderson wears her hair down. Keep it just like you have it, all those loose waves around your shoulders… It’s perfect. Now go get changed! We open in ten.” Waggling her fingers at me, she’d pitched her voice into a hag’s cackle. “Fly, my sistah, fly!”
It had been simpler to comply than resist.
My own dress was maroon, full-skirted, and flowed to my feet. It had a cool corseted bodice that made the best of my B-cups, and a coordinating purple cape that draped over my shoulders. It even matched my gloves. As I stashed my jeans and blouse in the back room and shimmied into the witchy attire, I had to admit, it was nice to be included.
I took teenage Han Solo’s order, then moved immediately to the next customer, hardly able to take a breath between them. In a way, it was good the store kept me so busy. With my thoughts occupied by costumes and customers and clients, I had no time to fixate on my plans for the evening.
Dinner with Cade.
At his house.
A house which, I could only assume, included a bedroom… And in that bedroom, a bed. One where we could finish what we’d started last night, just as Cade promised…
Fine, I admit, maybe I hada little timeto fixate on my plans for the evening. I managed to pull myself back before I got swept up in a full Cade-daze that would result in singeing my skin on the steamer-wand or messing up tarot meanings. (Most of the time, anyway.)
Around 3PM, Gigi swept through the doors with Rory in tow. He was in high spirits — no doubt aided by copious sugar intake at school — and dressed in his kickass alien space invader suit. Sure, there were a few lopsided seams (I blamed the limoncello) and one of the adhesive plastic flight-activator panels was coming unglued from his forearm… but all things considered, I thought Party City couldn’t have done any better.
“Imogen! Imogen!” He raced to the counter, ignoring the long line of waiting customers. “Guess what?”
“What, bub?” I asked, leaning over the counter to him.
“I won best costume in the contest! Out of all the other second graders!” Rory yelled, throwing his hands up over his head in celebration. “I got a whole bag of mini-Snickers as a prize!”
That explained the energy.
“That’s awesome, Rory.” I gestured down at myself. “Do you like my costume?”
His light brown eyes swept over my witchy attire with a skepticism that only a seven-year-old could pull off. “It’s fine, I guess. But next year, you should totally be a space invader with me.”
Next year?
My heart lurched.
Gigi was still swimming upstream through the dense cluster of waiting patrons. “Sorry, sorry, not cutting, just catching up with my son…” She bumped her hip against Rory’s as she slid up to the counter beside him. “Make some room for your mother, will you bub?”
Rory slid over and began to eye the sugar packets at the creamer station.
Just what he needed.
Gigi had cat ears on her head, but otherwise looked the same as she had that morning at breakfast, in jeans and a light pink blazer. Her eyes swept me top to toe, then flickered over to Gwen and did the same.
“Sanderson sisters, huh?” Her brows arched. “Can I be Mary?”
“Sorry, Flo will be here in an hour and she already has dibs,” Gwen called from the milk fridge, laughing. “Next year, we’ll find a theme that works for a foursome.”
There it was again.