‘Poetry, huh?’ Bonnie chuckled. ‘Unfortunately, I’ve been on the receiving end of too much of it to be a fan.’
‘Poets are a unique breed indeed.’
The two fell into an easy rhythm as they finished their prep work and started serving the trickle of customers who came in once the doors opened. Thankfully Clark had a smoother temperament than Bonnie, because the patrons were even more scattered than usual. If Bonnie hadn’t known better, she might have assumed they were already drunk. She had to give directions to the downstairs bathrooms (the signs for which were visible from the bar) no fewer than five times, reassure a woman freaking out about her lost spectacles that she was actually already wearing them, and help an older regular through the security questions on her bank account. This involved a good deal of guessing.
On the plus side, at least no one was sobbing over their palm’s heart line or having a panic attack about whether they were astrologically compatible with their love interest, so at least Uncle Oswald’s hexed recipe was doing what it needed to. Although Bonnie was starting to wonder whether it was doing a tad more than it needed to. Was everyone always this airy-fairy? Perhaps she was just noticing it more now that she was so busy and every little miscommunication or delay messed up her schedule.
Oh goddess, was this how Effie felt about her? No, surely not. Effie was just unreasonably grumpy.
Bonnie’s phone buzzed, startling her.
The Dorothy House sold,texted Hannah.Cash offer, over asking. Investor. Let me know when you’re free to celebrate!
Bonnie texted her back a series of celebratory emojis, although she felt conflicted about it. Happy for Hannah to receive her commission, of course, but disappointed to hear that the young family she’d liked so much had missed out on the house.
It wasn’t until a full hour later that Iris, in a profusion oftulle and perfume, finally burst through the doors. Erroneously assuming she was part of the night’s entertainment, the patrons burst into applause at the dramatic entrance.
‘I’m here!’ she called breathlessly. ‘I’m so sorry I’m late, Bonnie. I forgot all about it until my mom texted me.’
Bonnie passed a beer over to a student and gave Iris a hug. ‘Oh, it’s fine. It happens all the time when you book a party after the actual birthday.’
Iris looked relieved. ‘I suppose you’re right. Everyone’s not mad I left them hanging, are they?’
Bonnie cocked her head. ‘Everyone?’
‘Everyone up there waiting for me.’
Oh, this was going to be awkward. Because when Bonnie had come back down the stairs about half an hour ago, not a single person had been up there. And since then, she’d seen a sum total of three people head upstairs: Winston, who preferred the height of the upstairs toilet, and a former classmate of Bonnie’s called Greenly, who wanted to show his boyfriend the weird paintings on the wall. All had returned and were presently sitting downstairs. Winston was musing over a stack of Jenga blocks, while Greenly was considering the various Camemberts on their cheese plate as he sipped his charmed cocktails. Greenly’s boyfriend, meanwhile, was regarding the agate coaster with Uncle Oswald’s details on it.
‘This place looks cute,’ the boyfriend was saying. ‘We should get some charms and crystals and things. Don’t you think a huge crystal would look amazing in that nook by the entryway? Especially if it wards off evil spirits.’
Bonnie exhaled. Given the extent of the no-shows, she’d assumed that Iris would be bringing the party with her.
‘Everything okay?’ pressed Iris.
Bonnie poured a glass of Memory Lane, garnishing it with a gold-dusted sprig of lavender and a handful of edible flowers. Iris was going to need it.
‘Do you happen to remember if you sent out the invitations?’ she asked gently.
Iris’s eyes widened. She reached into her purse, drawing out a stack of cards. ‘Oh no. It completely slipped my mind. No, wait.’ She frowned. ‘Iwas going to deliver them, but I had this weird brain fog. I couldn’t remember anyone’s addresses. I thought maybe it was a post-Covid thing or something, so I went back home and napped. And I guess I just forgot.’ She grimaced. ‘I don’t still owe you for the room rental, do I?’
Bonnie’s heart clenched. She’d spent a small fortune on the decorations and the food, and if Britney Spears sued her for failure to pay her music licensing fees, she’d be out on the street selling wildflowers to pay for a lawyer.
But Iris looked so forlorn. She’d ruined her own birthday. Or rather, thought Bonnie,Bonniehad ruined Iris’s birthday. Because the niggling feeling she’d been having before about the townsfolk’s capriciousness was growing strong. There was definitely something more to Uncle Oswald’s cocktail spells than the recipe book suggested. But was it her wayward magic at fault – or something more?
‘Of course I wouldn’t expect you to pay,’ said Bonnie, grimacing as the numbers in her bank account dwindled before her eyes. ‘Unless...’ she began. An opportunity to make things right, and profitable, was coming to her. ‘Can you give me half an hour? We’ll have this place rocking in no time.’
Iris’s eyes widened. ‘Really?’
Bonnie pulled out her phone. ‘I have the phone number of every single individual who’s ever stepped foot in this town. Particularly the hot guys. Just let me work my magic.’
The magic she could actually control, that is. Because when it came to social charms, no one had a patch on Bonnie Chalmers.
Bonnie was on top of the world as she cruised home after her shift. Iris’s party had become quite the rager (a term Bonnie loved because it always elicited such a pained responsefrom Effie), and although the guest list hadn’t been quite what the birthday girl had originally intended, she’d rounded out the afternoon, and then the night, full of cake and smiles. Bonnie had almost decided to crash upstairs in the half-finished apartment, but after her poor night’s sleep the night before, she needed a date with her own bed.
She took the long way back, the way that took her past the Dorothy House that she’d been so certain Beatrice and Todd were going to buy, and which had been snapped up instead by someone who’d never even live there.
TheFOR SALEsign had been taken down, and a work truck belonging to Bronson, the town handyman, was camped out the front. Giant tubs of white paint sat on the porch, next to a stack of mass-produced canvas prints featuring geometric designs of famous cities and boxes of flat-packed furniture. Bonnie didn’t have to see the pictures on the front to know exactly what they contained: cheap mid-century knockoffs with splayed pin legs and chevron wood patterning. And definitely an oversized backyard Connect Four set.
