Larcency and Lace Part 19

Protection, love, and joy ensnare.

With harm to none, hear our prayer.

Finally, she offered me a broom so we could sweep our way upstairs. "Only if you want to," she said.

Magic or not. Did I have it in me? More to the point, if I did, was I ready to accept it?

Maybe, maybe not. As my mother's daughter, I answered the question. "I'll accept the broom on the condition that I sweep in Mom's place."

"How appropriate." Aunt Fiona squeezed my hand. "Kathleen cherished this broom. I didn't want the knowledge to color your decision, but your reaction reveals your natural talents coming through."

"I don't mind them coming through on their own," I said, "but I'm not ready to force them."

"I respect that, sweetie, and I'd never have suggested this ritual, if I didn't consider it imperative to your well-being. When you want to read beginner's books on the craft, let me know. For now imagine your mother's hands on the broom, as they so often were, but over yours, guiding you and walking beside you."

"If only I could see her like I can see him."

"My name is Dante," our watcher said, uncrossing his arms and uncoiling his lanky body to straighten and approach us. Not hard to look at. Not hard at all.

He examined our brooms, with doubt yet with curiosity and respect for our purpose. "By now, I guess you've figured out that I'm not negative."

Fiona chuckled. "I knew that."

"So did I."

Dante's face relaxed. "Then you aren't trying to get rid of me?"

Who wouldn't want a hunk like him around? "Never."

He smiled, chin dimple deep. "Thank you. Proceed," he said. "I'll picture the negative energy here-and there's been plenty-going up in that ugly-colored smoke spiral with you, bas.e.m.e.nt to chimney."

"Concentrate hard on the bas.e.m.e.nt, Dante," Aunt Fiona said. "Neither of us can picture it."

"Happy to," he said.

My confidence grew in our task. Funny how spirit confirmation helped, when so few of us saw spirits at all.

Us? I questioned. Those of us connected to more than one plane. Those of us with a gift. Hmm. I'd included myself in "us" without hesitation. Imagine that.

I followed Aunt Fiona's lead and swept in a circular motion almost feeling the weight of dark energy flying from the ends of our brooms like sparks that burned themselves out. Negativity disappearing, leaving in its place a clean, pure energy that evoked peace and hope.

Funny, Aunt Fiona hadn't told me to feel such strong emotions, this certain belief. She hadn't said this time to picture it happening. The act simply slipped into my being on the dawning wings of a natural cognition and spiritual awakening.

As if sensing my newborn yet tentative spiritual harmony, Aunt Fiona hesitated, nodded, and continued. "Sweeping is our last step." She began her final chant: Kathleen, raise our quest,

As we sweep from east to west,

Neutralize, purify, cleanse, and bless.

Protect this place with G.o.ddess grace.

Your daughter's dream from bud to flower

To grow and prosper by the hour,

With joy, luck, love, and laughter won.

Harm it none, we declare it done.

"Oh," I said. "You invited Mom in. I feel her, Aunt Fee, as if I'm six, again, standing beside her in Stroud's candy store. Chocolate. Smell the chocolate? That's Mom."

Aunt Fiona's eyes grew bright. "I smell the chocolate, sweetie. We miss you, Kathleen."

Oh, we do, but I was too choked up to say so.

We ended our sweep in the storage room, where we'd left the candles to burn out after the blessing, because this room, more than any, needed uber-positive energy.

"Madeira? Fiona?" my father called as he entered the first floor of the shop and came up the stairs.

In this crowded room, we hadn't been able to place the candles against walls, so Fiona kicked one of the more obvious votives from sight.

My father stopped in the doorway with the two of us holding oddly shaped brooms, ones he probably recognized.

"What the h.e.l.l is going on here?"

Twenty-nine.

I have a kind of in-built clock which always reacts against anything Orthodox.

-VIVIENNE WESTWOOD I felt a need to defend my beliefs, a surprising turn I'd have to reflect on later. "Bad day, Dad?"

He clenched and opened his fists at his side, as if fighting something within himself.

Certain he meant to blast Aunt Fiona, or both of us, for the ritual brooms, I thanked the G.o.ddess, or my mother, for the scent of chocolate growing stronger and overshadowing that of burning smudge sticks.

Or, chocolate is how my nostrils interpreted the scent. G.o.ddess knew what my father thought.

He took a deep breath, hands relaxing at his sides, and breathed easier, as if overcoming his inner turmoil. "You locked the door in the middle of the day," he said, less hard, more in sync with the peace of our ritual.

"Dad, this is a business. We're not open till noon tomorrow. The locals are eager. When this was a crime scene, I sold an outfit, outside, from one of the boxes in the parking lot."

His shoulders also relaxed. "To be truthful," he said, as if he couldn't believe himself, "as I cleared the stairs, I got a flash of your mother in labor eating a candy bar on our way to the hospital."

Holy thingamabobbin, he smelled the chocolate, too.

"That shouldn't make you cranky, Harry," Aunt Fiona said. "It should make you smile."

"She's right, Dad."

Welcoming peace, he gave a serene sigh, and his lips curved up, almost involuntarily. "Other men griped about crumbs in their beds. For me, it was chocolate wrappers." He chuckled, surprising us all, even himself.

I dropped my broom to throw myself in his arms. "That's the most open you've ever been about Mom. I've ached to know that kind of silly little detail about her."

He held me tight for a minute, really tight, until he cleared his throat and pushed away as if seeing me for the first time. "Look in the mirror, Madeira. She's right there." He touched my cheek. "That's her dimple."

Like Fiona, I swallowed. "I've been known to eat chocolate in bed, too. Didn't know it was hereditary."

"Poor Nick." My father hesitated, the puritanical professor tripping over unacceptable knowledge about his daughter. "So," he said, changing the subject and rubbing his hands together. "You already made a few bucks?"

"If you want to call three thousand dollars a few."

That got his attention. "How many outfits?"

"One."

"You got me," he said. "You do know what you're doing."

It was pure luck that somebody donated a treasure trove of rare vintage and that the White Star Circle harbored a true collector, but I wasn't admitting that to the man who once predicted my failure.

Dad watched while Fiona and I swept up the debris left by the electricians.

"Harry," Fiona said, as we were finishing up. "We need to move some furniture down to Maddie's sitting room area, so the shop will look good for her grand opening."

"Not a bad idea." He looked over the possibilities in the storage room. "It'd save you money, Madeira, if you didn't buy new."

"I know, Dad. I may as well go vintage all the way."

"I can get a few locals to help move you after work hours," he said. "What did you want downstairs?"

"The fainting couch." I ran my hand over it. "The jadeite lamps, this side table, that desk. I'd use the cabinet if it were enamel black, not hospital white. I'd display my fashion dolls in the gla.s.s-front top." And relegate the tools of the mortuary trade to a body drawer.

"I can spray paint the cabinet," Dad said. "Won't take much sanding. Time has taken care of that, but there's a drawer missing."

"It's in my bedroom. I took stuff home in it." A quilt and outfit that Eve feared I'd read in front of her, but Dad knew nothing of my psychometric ability, and I prayed he never would.

He nodded. "I'll paint it in the bas.e.m.e.nt at home, happy I'm not teaching as many courses this semester."

"Now if we could figure out a way to shed some light on the collection I put inside."

"Madeira," my father warned.

"I'm thinking out loud."

"You could paint the inside a lighter color," Aunt Fiona suggested, "to give the fashion dolls prominence."

"Pale yellow inside," I said, "and after the outside dries, I'll paint funky fashion designs on it. Maybe make the bottom cupboards look like they have frog closures. I'll see where my muse takes me. Let me know when it's dry, and I'll decorate it before we bring it back."

The scent of chocolate got stronger and sweeter, swirling around us like ribbons of fudge bringing the three of us closer, tying us with a chocolate bow.

"Your mother," my father said, startling me, "inherited furniture from her parents that she loved. In the, uh, early days, after we lost her, I relegated them to the bas.e.m.e.nt beneath a tarp. Take what you want for the sitting area. She'd be pleased."

My mother knew how much I adored those pieces, my first introduction to art deco. The designs fascinated me. I remember tracing them with a tiny finger. I wonder if Mom had just nudged Dad's memory.