Spells Trouble, Kristin Cast [books to read in a lifetime .TXT] 📗

she leaves is to refresh Grandpa’s glass, visit the ‘powder room’ as she calls it, and get a new box of Kleenex. She hasn’t stopped crying.”

“Em, I’m so sorry. Is your mom any better?” Mercy balanced the phone on her shoulder while she rinsed the pot she’d used to make the cocoa.

“Absolutely not. Meemaw and Peepaw can’t make it to the funeral, even though it won’t be for four more days. They’re on a Greek island cruise and said something about not being able to get a flight out from any of their ports of call. Mom thinks that’s bullshit, and I have to agree. But, Mag, the truth is they never liked Dad, and they hate his parents. Plus, you know my parents’ marriage hasn’t exactly been good—not that that matters to Mom right now. She’s, like, totally broken, Mag. She keeps talking about everything she should’ve and shouldn’t have said to Dad. And then she cries so hard I swear I think she’s going to puke. It’s awful.” Emily paused to sob softly and then blew her nose. “Sorry.”

“Hey, take your time. I’m totally here for you.”

“Thanks.” Emily sighed deeply. “So, Mom only left her bed when Grandma got here, and when Grandma ignored her and started cooking Mom retreated back to her bedroom and the bottle of pills the doc gave her.”

“Can I please come get you? Even for just an hour or so? I made hot chocolate. I could add some witchy herbs to it to help you relax.” Mercy put the pot in the dishwasher and cringed as it clanked noisily against a plate—though Em didn’t seem to notice.

“Relax?” Emily’s laughter was filled with sarcasm. “I can’t relax. I’m the only one holding it together. I had to answer, like, a zillion funeral questions today—including stuff about Dad’s casket. Jesus.”

“Bloody hell, Em, can’t the adults do that? You have a house full of them.”

“Oh hell no. My house is filled with old people who are barely functioning. I swear if I wasn’t here Dad would be on a slab in the morgue for fucking ever.” She sobbed brokenly into the phone. “Wilson keeps asking me what Dad would want.”

“Wilson? Isn’t he just a first-year apprentice?” Mercy was sure she remembered that he was fresh out of college. Em liked to say he still looked like a very gawky, zitty teenager. “How’s it okay that he’s running the funeral home?”

“Oh, he’s not really. Mr. Burton, from Sunset Funeral Home in Champaign, is really in charge, but Wilson keeps calling me and asking me details about Dad’s service. How do I know what my father, who was murdered when he was thirty-nine years old, wanted when he died? It’s not like he chatted with his sixteen-year-old daughter about his fucking funeral arrangements!”

Mercy wiped her hand on a dish towel and felt sad and sick and angry all at the same time for her friend. “Em, just tell Wilson to figure it out by himself!”

“I c-can’t.” Emily sniffled. “Someone has to at least try to do what Dad would want, and I seem to be the only somebody who cares.” She started sobbing again.

“Oh, Em. I’m so sorry. I love you so much. I wish I could do something—anything.”

“You can.” Emily blew her nose. “Keep texting me. Even if I don’t answer. Just being here for me is everything.”

Mercy heard a woman’s voice calling Emily’s name.

“I gotta go. Grandma wants me to taste something. Again. It’s disgusting, Mag. Everything she cooks has way too much salt in it—like it was made with tears.”

Mercy didn’t know what else to say except, “I love you, Emily Parrott.”

“You, too, Mag.” And the cell went dead.

Mercy walked around the corner from the kitchen. Hunter and Xena raised mirrored brows at her.

“No way she can do it.” Mercy sat between them as she let out a long, disgusted exhalation. “I knew Em’s mom was a flake. Not just because she’s from that super rich family from New York and she always seemed to be looking down her nose at the rest of us, but because she was never here. I liked her dad a lot better. I mean, he forgot things—like school stuff.”

“And her birthday,” Hunter added.

Xena hissed sharply and said, “There is never any excuse for forgetting a kitten’s date of birth.”

“Yeah, all of that, but he was a nice man. And he told Em he was proud of her—a lot. But her mom’s family isn’t even coming back for the funeral—wankers.”

“That’s awful,” said Hunter.

“Her dad’s parents are here now, but they won’t speak to her mom and they’re so wrapped up in their own grief that they’re not helping Em at all. You guys, she’s having to make all the decisions for her dad’s funeral.”

“Oh! Poor kitten! Will she not escape to us?”

Mercy shook her head. “No. She feels like she’s the only adult in the house.” Mercy met her sister’s turquoise gaze. “H, it’s going to have to be Kirk.”

Xena growled.

“Bloody hell, Xena, stop!” Mercy told the cat person, who cringed back like she was afraid Mercy would swat at her. Mercy rubbed a hand across her face. “I’m sorry, Xena. I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.” Then she turned to her sister. “Seriously, H, if you can think of anyone else who already knows we’re witches—and I mean real witches—and who we can trust, I’ll totally go with you to talk to her, or him. Do you?”

“I’ve already thought about it. I considered Heather.”

“Heather? As in the president of the drama club?”

Hunter nodded. “Yeah. Remember a few Samhains ago she came by and asked Mom for some Wiccan tips because she wanted to write a modern version of Macbeth and make the witches draw down the moon?”

“I remember,” Mercy said. “I also remember she kept talking over Abigail the whole time she was explaining the points of a pentagram to her. Heather is one of the most arrogant people I know.”

“Actually that would be Kirk,” muttered Xena