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“I like them. They add a little class to the joint.” Margaret Balefire stretched herself into as menacing a posture as she could manage, narrowed her eyes and glared at her sister, Clara. She waggled a finger, and a set of tatted lace doilies magically appeared on the shelf.
Not intimidated in the least, Clara retaliated with a haughty lifting of her chin. “They’re old-fashioned and not in a good, antique-y way.”
She swiped her hand through the air, clearing the offending bits of material for the third time, then continued lining the oak bookcase with sparkling bottles and jars. Each sported the store’s distinctive label—the store name, Balms and Bygones emblazoned in silver and green across a complicated Celtic symbol stood out nicely against a creamy background.
“You can arrange the antiques any way you like them, but the personal care products are my domain,” Clara said, placing each jar just so. “Besides, I chose the jewel tones of these glass bottles because I knew they’d look great on the antique shelving. I’m not displaying my products on the next best thing to a pair of granny panties.”
If Margaret—Mag to her friends—had her way, everything in the shop would be covered in Victorian lace or dripping with tassels and frills. Her decorating tastes ran completely counter to the staunch exterior she presented to the world and hinted at gentler emotions lurking beneath the prickly shell.
“Some people have no sense of style.” Mag wrinkled her nose, waggled her hips, and flashed a rude hand gesture behind Clara’s back. Hair aged to a dandelion-fuzz-like texture floated in the breeze created by the motion.
“I saw that,” Clara said. “Mature, Margaret, real mature.” Resisting the temptation to return the gesture took every ounce of her self-control. Instead, she swiveled a jar of face cream so the label faced front, and the ruby-colored glass picked up a shine from a strategically placed spotlight. After a moment’s thought, she added a bar of soap in the same scent.
Heart, soul, and a dollop of true magic went into every drop of her ever-growing product line.
“You want to flaunt your wares on naked shelves, that's your business. Now, if you’re done communing with the display, we should get moving before we miss our appointment at the newspaper office. You have the photos, right?” Despite the tart delivery and emphasis on the words communing with the display, there was no real heat behind Mag’s comment.
“I’ve got everything right here.” Clara brandished her cell phone.
“Should have known. That thing is practically melded to your hand these days. What self-respecting witch takes selfies, I ask you?”
ReGina Welling writes cozy mysteries, some with romance--some with ghosts, some with witches, all with humor.
To learn more about my books, visit my website here: ReGinaWelling.com and if you'd like to join my reader group by email, you can do that here: ReGina's Page Turners Group
