“It was only for a half an hour because you needed Ben and Jerry’s cookie dough ice cream,” Mr. Grumpy mutters.
“I needed that to eat with your chocolate chip cookies! It’s like a law.” His partner flings his arms into the air.
“I love chocolate chip cookies,” my sister says.
“I like cookie dough, both the ice cream and just regular cookie dough,” my woman confesses.
“Oh, me too,” my sister whirls around with a smile. “I like that stuff at the cupcake place that doesn’t have the eggs.”
“I love that stuff. How do they make it without eggs?” My woman’s face becomes animated. She leans toward Marly. They’re making a connection now, and we can put the silly hex stuff behind us. I can’t have my woman and my sister not getting along.
“I don’t know.” Marly frowns.
“It’s baking soda and vinegar,” volunteers Mr. Grumpy. “You can use it as an egg substitute in almost any baking recipe. Except meringues. You have to make meringues with real egg whites. Also souffles. You’re not going to get the volume with an egg white substitute.”
Marly steps away from the porch. “You bake?”
“Are you the one with the eggs?” Mr. Grumpy wants to know.
I cover my eyes briefly because that was the wrong thing to say. We were all getting along there for a moment. Even my woman had released her death grip on the door and was easing out of the house.
At the mention of eggs, my sister throws up her hands. “I was the one with eggs. Emphasis on the past tense because my chicken is eggless, and it's her fault. She hexed them. I saw her the other night, lurking around my henhouse, wearing all black. The next morning when I went to harvest the eggs, there were none.”
“That wasn’t me! I didn’t hex anyone or anything. I’m not a witch. I wouldn’t know how to hex chickens.”
“Maybe she stole your eggs,” Mr. Grumpy wonders.
“I didn’t steal any eggs. I didn’t hex anyone. I have never been in your backyard. I don’t know anything about witchcraft.” My girl steps back inside her house and slams the door.
Fuck. I had let my guard down.
“I think she’s serious,” Mr. Brocade says. “You’re new here, aren’t you? I’m Ted Lemon, and this is my partner David.”
“I’m Marly Knight, and this is my brother Jackson.”
I send a frustrated glare toward the closed door before coming down to the walk to greet the Lemons. We all shake hands.
“We saw you move in and meant to come over.”
“With fresh baked cookies,” David Lemon interjects.
“But then David’s mom had an emergency and we had to go tend to her for a week. When we got back, David—he writes—had a burst of inspiration—”
“About a crazy mother figure—”
“And he locked himself inside the writing room for two weeks.”
“It was only eight days.”
“Two weeks. Time is a blur for him when he’s writing.”
“Have I read any of your works?” I wonder.
“If you like mysteries, you have. David is the author of the Cat Got Your Tongue series.” Ted beams like a proud parent.
Marly’s eyes grow big, and she claps her hands. “I love that series.” She turns to me. “The cat always finds the big clue that breaks open the case.” Recognition dawns in her eyes. “And the owner always wears a brocade waistcoat.” She points excitedly toward Ted’s chest.
Ted’s face grows smug. “I am very inspirational.”