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Bailey shrugged, taking another drink of her milkshake. “I did.”
“Well, you did it wrong.”
King growled. “Scribe. You are getting married in four hours. What the hell is going on?”
Before Scribe could answer, the front doors of the clubhouse opened, and like a fresh spring morning, in walked Scribe’s parents.
I had met Scribe’s parents many times before, but it never failed to surprise me. There was just something about the free-spirit hippies that looked more like they were headed to Woodstock than to their only son’s wedding.
Backing up a few steps, I glanced around the room, seeing if I could make a hasty exit. I had lots of love for Scribe’s parents, but they weren’t what I would call... normal people. Scribe’s mom scared the crap out of me, and his father never failed to debate how the scientific community was soon to be the downfall of modern society.
While I had love for the man, I really wasn’t in the mood today.
“I can’t believe you did that, Stevie,” Scribe’s father, Woody, chastised angrily as he shook his head. “I understand you want to see our son married and settled, but were you trying to kill us before we could witness the big day?”
“That car was driving too slow.”
“It was a solid line, woman!” Woody shouted. “You don’t cross a solid line.”
“Watch yourself, Woodlawn Malpas. Your progressive governmental roots are showing, Stevie accused. “Now where is my baby boy and new daughter-to-be?”
Scribe’s parents were something else, that was for sure. His father, Woodlawn, or Woody as he preferred, was a tall, robust man with long, grayish blonde hair and piercing ice-blue eyes. Wearing his traditional handwoven poncho made of earthly fibers, khaki shorts, and flip-flops, the man looked ready to light up and smoke a doobie rather than attend his son’s wedding. As for Scribe’s mom, well Stephanie, or Stevie, as she liked to be called, was a vision right out of Salem. With her long, wild, curly black hair, flowy multi-colored skirt, and bohemian style baby-doll shirt, Stevie twinkled, jingled, and rattled everywhere she went. Almost like a symphony of unheard music, the woman the poster child for ‘Make Love/Not War’ of the 1960s era. She was also a stunningly beautiful woman, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out where Scribe got his good looks from.
“MOM!” Scribe smiled happily, opening his arms as he greeted his mother.
Sliding over to King, I leaned close. “Prez?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t make me stay here.”
“Say hello and then you can leave.”
“But?”
“Frank!” Claudia shouted, walking in the door next with a wailing Charlie in her arms, looking flustered and worn out. Rushing over to her, I didn’t even get the chance to ask what was wrong before she thrust Charlie in my arms. “He’s been crying since this morning. Do that thing you did.”
“What thing?” I calmly asked, shifting her sobbing son in my arms as she also handed me his diaper bag.
“Make him stop crying,” she huffed, raking her hands through her hair. “God, I need coffee. It’s too damn early for this shit.”
“But, Lidi,” I muttered, looking at the cooing little boy. “He’s not crying.”
“What!”
Spinning toward me, she narrowed her eyes at me before looking at her soon-to-be son. “You traitor.”
“Oh shit!” I heard Freyja curse before suddenly doing a quick about face, only to come to a screeching halt when Stevie shouted. “You hold it right there, Freyja Elspeth Malpas!”
“Elspeth?” Priest commented as Gunner shrugged and asked, “Is that even a name?”
“Yes, it’s a name!” Freyja growled, stomping her foot. “It’s Scottish.”
“It’s Hebrew.” Priest grinned from ear to ear, hiding his laughter. “It means my God is my oath. Didn’t think a witch like you would tolerate a Hebrew name.”
“Don’t antagonize her, Priest,” Pheobe warned, walking over. “Freyja hates that name.”
“You would too, if our parents saddled you with a Christian name” the angry woman quipped.
