Magical Stew

  Magical Stew

  Three Fantastical Tales

  by

  Barbara M Hodges

  ISBN: 978-1-926965-38-3

  Books We Love

  (Electronic Book Publisher)

  192 Lakeside Greens Drive

  Chestermere, Alberta, T1X 1C2

  Canada

  Copyright 2010 by Barbara M Hodges

  Cover art by Sheri McGathy Copyright 2010

  The Child of Prophecy

  Prologue

  Mirabella passed her hand over the wavering water in the shallow scrying bowl. “Aura…maren…serenus—gentle breeze of the sea calm.” The surface flattened and a shroud of fog formed and hovered above the water. “Doorway of mist part. Heed the call from the blood of the ancient and show me who I seek.” A wind flowed from the corners of the cottage, parted the white mist—and she stared into a kitchen.

  Rays of sun streamed through sparkling panes of glass and glistened off counters of white tile. Planter boxes bursting with rosemary, thyme and basil hung outside the windows.

  A petite woman, her pale hair pulled back and secured at the nape of her neck with a tortoise-shell clip, sat at small table, her head bent over an open book. Suddenly she shivered looked upward and rubbed her bare arms. Her brow wrinkled in puzzlement.

  Mirabella nodded with a pleased smile of recognition. Eleanor. It has been a long time. And in this life you are a woman of mature years. Good, even untrained you feel me.

  She waved her hand again across the water of the scrying bowl. “Now, show me the messenger.”

  At first there were only trees. A forest? But as she watched people, some running, some walking dogs along the gray paths, came into her vision. “Who…?”

  The scene narrowed until but one running man filled the bowl. He slowed to a walk. The man was tall, with a shaggy mane of hair black as a moonless night. He wore sunshine-yellow, shapeless top and gray baggy pants. His tanned skin glowed in the early morning light.

  He stopped, turned his pale blue eyes upward and Mirabella smiled. “Ah. Of course, Mason Warren. Now I understand. It has been a long time since we spoke. Open to me and hear my words.”

  Chapter One

  Brianna sang along with the oldies station as it played Into The Mystic by Van Morrison. As the song faded, she spooned another mound of fudge icing on top of the pan of brownies, smoothed it, and then created some delicate swirls. She stepped back with a satisfied smile. The icing was a good half-inch deep, just like she loved it. “You can never have enough chocolate.”

  Some oozed over the edge of the pan, and she wiped it free with her finger, sampling the creamy icing with her tongue. She sighed in pleasure, ignoring the nagging thought of the extra pound her scales showed that morning. Oh, come on. Any decent pastry chef had to sample her wares now and then.

  The front door buzzer sounded and she glanced at the clock. 8:40, she didn’t open for another 20 minutes. “Damn, can’t anybody read?”

  Wiping her hands on a towel, she called. “I’ll be right there. You’re early.”

  Her gaze swept across the three frosted cakes still waiting to go into the display case. She picked up the Black Forest, adjusted a cherry, and went through the two white swinging doors and out into the front of the bakery.

  Her early customer was a man. He’d been jogging, judging by his yellow tee shirt and gray sweat pants. His long, black ponytail surprised her. You didn’t see that much around here. Must be a tourist from Los Angeles.

  She gave him her best customer-smile. “Good Morning. Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

  He said nothing for a moment, just stared at her with startling blue eyes. His gaze made her conscious of the damp strands of hair clinging to her forehead and her cheeks warmed. Well, if he hadn’t been twenty minutes early, she would’ve had time to comb her hair and put on some lip-gloss. She turned away from him and bent to place the cake into the case.

  “The name hooked me, Java Jive’s Bakery.” His voice was dark, like his hair. “Am I too early? I saw the lights on.”

  She straightened and smiled again. “Catchy name, isn’t it? The special today is a mocha latte and a blackberry scone. What can I get you?”

  “Sounds great.” He smiled, showing even, white teeth.

  “For here or to go?”

  “Here please.”

  She waited for him to go to one of the tables, but instead he picked up one of her new business cards from the counter. “This is a nice place. It’s very down-home. I like the red geraniums. They were my mom’s favorite flower.”

  She bristled as she swept her gaze across the bakery. Down-home? She’d been hoping for Paris chic. The green granite counter had been her biggest expense and the reason she’d had to opt for the geraniums in the terra cotta pots for each table.

  “Really,” she said, forcing pleasantness into her voice. “How nice.”

  He pointed to the framed decorative tiles hanging upon the walls. “I have some like them in my pool house.”

  Yeah? Then why don’t you go home and dunk your head in your fancy pool and forget to breathe. Her thoughts must have shown upon her face, because a slight frown wrinkled his sun-browned forehead.

  “Will there be anything else?” she said quickly.

  “Another one of those blackberry scones to go.”

  “I’ll be right out with it.” She kept her smile plastered in place until he turned and walked to the nearest table, then released a deep breath. Upsetting your first customer. Not a good way to start your day, Brianna, she thought as she put his mocha latte together.

  The scones were still warm. She placed one on a pale-green china plate and the other in a white paper bag. Maybe that would smooth things.

  He was still giving the bakery a good once over as she walked toward him, and it made her edgy. Was he shopping for a local business? Well, it wasn’t going to be hers. She wasn’t going to become a millionaire anytime soon, but she was doing okay.

  “You never get tired of that smell, do you?” he said.

  The words threw her. “What?”

  “Cinnamon and sugar. My grandma’s kitchen always smelled like this.” He pulled out a chair and sat down. “Do you bake gingerbread, too?”

  “Only during the holidays,” she said, placing the scones and coffee before him. “I’ve got some peanut butter cookies in the oven. I’ll be in the back for the next few minutes.” She turned away, but his next words stopped her.

  “Are you the Brianna Cole listed here?” He held the card out toward her.

  “That’s me.”

  He nodded. “I’m Mason Warren. Could you sit down for a minute?” He indicated the chair opposite him.

  She’d come across his name before, but where? She waved a hand toward the back of the bakery. “I’m really very busy. . . .”

  “Take care of your cookies,” he said, leaning back. “I’ll wait.”

  “Mister Warren, if this is about Java Jive. It isn’t for sale. Try Pismo Beach, the next town north of here.”

  “It’s nothing like that. I’d like to hire you. I need a caterer.” He tapped the card on the table. “I was going to let my fingers do the walking, but…it must be magic, me coming in here.”

  She smiled at his choice of words. The buzzer on the oven sounded. “Give me a minute.”

  Her heart beat fast as she pulled the cookies from the oven. Her first catering job. Well, that’s if she didn’t count Jillie’s birthday party for her two-year-old. She set the cookies on the large table and went back to the front of the shop.

  “What kind of party?” she said.

  “Halloween.”

  Her stomach did a dive. “But that’s two days away.”

  “I know.”

  “Sorry,” she
said, shaking her head.

  “Wait, hear me out.

  She pressed her lips together. She didn’t want to hear him out. He’d dangled a nice carrot in front of her for a nanosecond, then jerked it back.

  “Look.” He handed her a sales invoice. “Read this.”

  It listed: 25 lbs. of cracked crab, 20 lbs. of shrimp, all the fixings for cocktail sauce, every kind of booze made, six kinds of beer, two cases of assorted wines, and another three cases of champagne. Three smoked hams and two smoked turkeys. The list ended with ten or twelve different cheeses and every variety of cracker she’d ever heard of and a couple she hadn’t.

  “Are you feeding an army?” she said.

  “Around 100 guests.”

  She still shook her head. “Super woman I’m not. I’d need a week to turn this list into food….”

  “I have a staff…well, the caterer’s staff.”

  She had to ask. “Why don’t you have the caterer?”

  “He had a family emergency. His daughter was in a car accident.”

  “Oh, my God.” If possible, she felt even worse than before.

  “She’ll be okay, but he had to go to Boston. Now I have all the food ordered, the use of his staff, but I need someone to pull it all together.”

  Brianna frowned. “How many on his staff?”

  “Ten. Three bartenders and seven others to help set up, prepare, and serve. All very experienced.”

  “But in two days. I don’t know.” She tried to wrap her mind around the problem.

  “I’ll double what I was paying him—that’s six thousand dollars.”

  She took a deep breath. She could buy the new Hobart mixer she’d had her eyes on and even take a weekend trip to San Francisco. She looked up and met his intent gaze. He wasn’t stupid; he knew she was thinking it over.

  He leaned toward her. “If it goes as well as I think it will, I’ll even throw in a five hundred dollar bonus.”

  That would be enough to replace her old espresso machine. It was too good. She couldn’t turn it down. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

  “Great.” He picked up a napkin, wrote quickly on it, and handed it to her. “Directions to my house.”

  “River’s Rush,” she said. “Arthur Hanson’s place. I’d heard there’d been a buyer.”

  “You know it.” Not a question.

  “I’ve never been up there, but yes, I know it.” She looked harder at him. “So you’re the mystery man.”

  He smiled. “You know of me?”

  She shrugged. “People talk.”

  “What have you heard?”

  “Odd-ball. Recluse. A mafia hitman hiding out. I’ve heard them all. Small towns, you know,” she said with a shrug.

  “I’m plain old Mason Warren,” he said. “Looking for a little peace and quiet.”

  Then it came to her where’d she’d seen his name, but he didn’t look much like the unsmiling man in the photo plastered all over the front of yesterday’s Santa Teresa Times. Self-made millionaire and single. They’d dubbed him the Wall Street Wizard; it seemed everything he touched turned to gold. “I’ll need two hours to set up.”

  “Then I’ll expect you at seven o’clock. I’ll make sure the rest of your staff is notified also.” He stood. “And, by the way Miss Cole, this is a costume party. Elizabethan era.”

  She grimaced. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Then I’ll say thank you and get out of here before you change your mind.”

  She watched until he walked out the door and then shook her head. What had she gotten herself into?

  Chapter Two

  Brianna slowed and edged to the right of the narrow blacktop road. As she glanced down again at the directions, a horn blared behind her. “Okay. Sorry.” She looked at the green illuminated numbers of the clock and frowned. Shit, she was already late. The directions had seemed simple, but she’d lost twenty minutes when she’d taken the first turn, Mountain Crest Circle, instead of Mountain Crest Loop.

  A little further down the road, she saw the street sign as she passed. “Damn.”

  It took her another mile before she found a place wide enough to whip a U-turn.

  Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to loosen her death grip on the steering wheel. Hey, she’d get there when she got there.

  She spied Mountain Crest Loop, made the turn and started looking for the rusted wagon wheel mentioned in the directions. Seeing it, she slowed. His directions said the driveway should be coming up soon. Her headlights cut across a stone cairn with large, metal numbers. This was it. She made a quick right turn.

  The road twisted, climbing upward. Evergreens crowded close. A narrow, planked bridge crossed a wide chasm and even through the closed windows she heard the roar of rushing water. I wonder what this place looks like in the daylight? Must have quite a view. She rounded a curve and slowed. White moonlight flooded a wide expanse of green grass. Topiaries in fanciful animal shapes surrounded the lawn; a rabbit tipping a hat, a rearing unicorn, and a dragon with wings wide for flight. In the wash of light, they seemed a moment away from breathing.

  She looked across a wide expanse of manicured lawn, and her eyes widened in astonishment. You couldn’t call what she saw a house. It didn’t fit. It was huge, some dark color, and built on the form of a geodesic dome. The closest thing she could compare it to was a giant egg. A widow’s walk circled its middle like a narrow belt. The gothic walkway looked out of place on the modern mound of architecture. Oval windows, like dark watching eyes, were spaced evenly across its front.

  With a deep sigh, she parked her aging Toyota next to a newer-looking red Mazda Miata. There were seven other cars there with the Miata. It was too early for the guests. They must belong to the rest of the caterer’s staff. She glanced at the house and saw a figure move upon the widow’s walk. It moved into the moonlight. It was too far away for her to see who it was, but a certainty hit her. It’s him, Mason. He loves the night, always has. The thought made her shiver. How could she know what Mason Warren liked? Before yesterday morning, they’d never met.

  He circled the dome, stopped above the front door, and stared toward her.

  He can’t see me. It’s impossible. But she felt her stomach tighten. Brianna climbed from behind the steering wheel. She closed and locked the car door. When she looked up again, he was gone.

  Chiding herself for her overactive imagination, she hurried toward the front door.

  White paper-bag luminaries lined the curving walkway and the wide flagstone entryway. As she lifted her hand to push the bell, the door swung inward. The smell of burning candles and musky incense hit her nose.

  Mason had chosen a monk’s costume, all in black. A gold chain belt circled his waist. A smaller chain hung around his neck and suspended from it was a ruby the size of a pigeon’s egg.

  Elizabethan? Well, she supposed a monk was a monk no matter what era. She grinned as she saw the white toes of a pair of running shoes peaking from beneath the robe’s hem. She wore a pair of Nikes beneath her own get-up.

  “Welcome to my home, Brianna.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Warren.”

  She watched his gaze take in her cream-colored peasant blouse and rust-red, floor-length, full skirt. “It’s the best I could do at such short notice.”

  “It suits you, and please, make it Mason,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you. I’m sorry you got lost.”

  A chill touched the back of her neck. “How did you know I’d gotten lost?”

  His eyes narrowed for a moment before he smiled. “You are thirty minutes late. Very unlike you, I am sure. What else could it have been?” He took her arm and drew her forward. “Come, I’ll show you to the kitchen and introduce you to the rest of the catering staff.”

  The kitchen was bright with overhead lighting. Measuring, expectant faces turned toward her, then hands were outstretched and names given.

  “How many guests,” she asked Mason as he handed her a glass of iced tea.

&nbs
p; “Herbal. Raspberry with two sugars, like you prefer it,” he said.

  Taking it from him, her eyes widened.

  “Don’t look so surprised. I always check out anyone I hire. The guest list is small,” he went on. “Just over a hundred.” He motioned to a man standing in the shadows. “Chad, this is Miss Cole. She will be handling the food for this evening. Miss Cole, this is my chef.”

  A white-clad man with creased skin like a raisin appraised her with chocolate-colored eyes. He nodded with a tight smile. Great, she thought, he’s territorial. She held out her hand to him. “I’m glad you’re here. It’ll make it much easier to work with someone who knows the kitchen.”

  Chad’s poker-stiff body relaxed a little at her words.

  “I left some things in my car. If….”

  Two young men jumped forward, their shoulders colliding. “We’ll get them for you.”

  “Why, thank you.” She handed her keys to the nearest reaching hand. “Now, if you will show me the refrigerator, Chad, we can get started.

  *****

  Brianna stood against the wall and looked around. A sliding door had been opened between two rooms to make this one the size of a small amphitheatre. A ten-piece orchestra played at the far end. Her three tables and a fully stocked bar sat at the opposite end. In between the two, people milled, a few dancing, but most chatting in small groups. She counted nine Henry VIIIs, seven Queen Elizabeths, eleven Robin Hoods, twelve Maid Marions, scads of lords and ladies and hoards of bar maids, their peasant blouses sliding halfway off their shoulders and baring lots of swelling cleavage. She glanced down at her own top to make sure she wasn’t guilty of the same.

  The heady scents of exotic perfumes, spicy aftershaves, and melting candle wax hung heavy in the air. It was the incense of pleasure, and she inhaled it greedily. Her gaze drifted around the room, grinning at the Transylvanian decor. Black tapers in gleaming silver candelabras regally circled the room. The guests’ shadows danced along the walls as they moved in and out of the flickering light. Their cavorting images reminded her of a live theatre presentation of Dante’s Inferno.