And securing a few new spots in Hell for those committee members…
Back at Kettle and Cauldron, Violet puts on a bland smile for her sister, giving a few tight-lipped, one-word responses to Emmie’s inquiries about the presentation before scooting upstairs to change clothes.
Fifteen minutes later she returns, dressed in the familiar overalls and a long-sleeved shirt covered in teapots and biscuits, her hair in a loose braid over her shoulder.
“Feeling any better?” I ask.
“No. But at least I’m not feeling hopelessandwearing pantyhose, so… win?” She heads back behind the counter to relieve Emmie and gets right to work—grating ginger and cinnamon, chopping mint, crushing one thing or another.
Across the street, the ongoing Mean Beans crowd has finally begun to thin. We haven’t seen lines in days, and sure enough, the tea business is ticking back up. Today, a somewhat steady stream of customers keeps us both busy—Violet preparing her magical brews, me clearing tables and sweeping floors and generally trying to keep busy, lest I fly into a murderous rage and burn something down.
Still, not even the slow-drip return of her regulars is enough to brighten her spirits today, and when the last customer of the evening finally heads out, Violet locks the door and turns off the main lights, tosses her apron into the wash pile, and drops onto the couch with a sigh that could sink ships.
Giving her a moment to regroup, I step behind the counter and brew her a cup of chamomile tea—one ingredient, hard to mess up—because seeing her in pain and knowing there’s nothing I can do about it is a torment so brutal even the King of Hell can scarcely endure it.
“If you’d like to be alone, I’ll leave you to it.” I hand her the cup and saucer. “But I’m here if you’d like to talk.”
“What’s there to talk about? If you looked up ‘epic disaster’ in the dictionary, it wouldn’t even mention my name. That should give you a clue.” She sips the tea. Sets the cup back in the saucer, china clinking and trembling until she finally gives up and abandons it on the side table. “You might be tempted to try ‘hot mess express,’ or ‘human wrecking ball,’ or ‘pathetic failure playing the sad trombone,’ but you won’t find it there, either. In fact, you won’t find itanywhere,inanydictionary, online or off, slang or classic. Why? Because they haven’t actually invented a phrase to encompass the complete and utter shitshow that Violet Pepperdine performed at that presentation today.”
“Oh, Violet.” I sit next to her, drawing her feet into my lap. “I’m so sorry, love.”
“I totally bombed,” she continues. “All the slides, all the facts and figures, my colored pie charts… and all I got was ano. A big, fat, irreversible no with a side of better-luck-next-time and a don’t-let-the-door-hit-ya-where-the-good-goddess-split-ya garnish. I can’t believe they didn’t ban me from ever stepping foot inside the Town Hall again. It wasthatbad.”
I know she’s upset, but… None of this makes any sense. Sure, I expected her to be nervous. A bit shy at first, maybe. But this is her dream. Her passion. She knows the tea business better than anyone, and she knows how to talk about it, no matter who’s in the room.
“Did they actually tell you Kettle and Cauldron is out of the running? They’re still hearing pitches, aren’t they? I thought they weren’t supposed to announce winners for another week or two.”
“They didn’thaveto tell me. I could read it in their energy, Devlin. They were completely disinterested. And Brandt?” She shakes her head, teeth clenching. “That smug bastard. As I was gathering up my things, he had the nerve to offer me a fifty-dollar bonus if I opened up a new business checking account at his bank!”
Remind me to get that rotisserie fire and pole ready for him…
“That wasn’t even the worst part. I was in such a rush this morning, somehow I tossed Mr. Wiggles into my purse with my makeup. Well, he must’ve felt left out, because he gave everyone quite a show.” She tells me the rest of the story, a blush creeping up her neck that darkens a bit more at every turn of the tale, right up to its tragic end. “Maybe I’ll be able to laugh about it one day, but today is not that day.”
“Surely they didn’t turn you down because of a haunted vibrator. That’s grounds for a discrimination suit or… something.”
That something being me shaving Brandt Remington from head to toe, tarring and feathering him, parading him down Main Street, andthen—finally, dreams really do come true!—roasting him alive.
“I told them it was my phone.” She reaches for the abandoned chamomile and scoffs. “Pretty sure Brandt Remington theThirdhas never evenseena vibrator. It’s like you said—that man wouldn’t know a good time if someoneliterallyshoved it up his ass. He’d probably think it was some newfangled at-home proctological exam and thank me for being so concerned about his preventive health screenings.” She sips the tea. Rolls her eyes. “Great. Now I’m thinking about that puckered asshole’s puckered asshole. Could this night get any worse?”
“Not anymore. We’ve hit a new low. But getting back to the disaster with the vibrator—”
“It wasn’tjustthe vibrator, Devlin.” She gazes into her teacup, shoulders sagging. “Even before Mr. Wiggles crashed the party, I was already toast. I blew it five minutes in. It was like they’d already made up their minds about me before I even queued up the first slide. I should’ve known better than to think I could compete with Brandt’s ego.”
“If it’s any consolation, I’ve already phoned in his reservations to Hell. Presidential suite.Verynice accommodations.”
At this, she finally cracks a smile. “I appreciate you trying to cheer me up.”
“Oh, that wasn’t the cheering-up portion of the show. That was just an FYI.” I wink at her and rise from the couch. “But I do have something thatwillcheer you up if you’re game. Two somethings, actually. Sit tight.”
I retrieve the box from under the counter and reclaim my seat next to her. “First thing: Ricci dropped off our mugs while you were upstairs changing.”
Her eyes light up—victory at last—and her grin stretches wide—double victory. “You didn’t peek at them, did you?”
“No. I wanted us to open them together.” I pop open the lid. The mugs are wrapped in white tissue, and I peer beneath an edge to find mine, then pass it over. “For you, mushroom. I fully expect you to display it up front. No relegating me to a dusty shelf in the kitchen.”
“Noneof my shelves are dusty. But it’s a deal. Front row placement at all times.” She unwraps the paper to reveal my masterpiece—a white mug painted with the Devil’s horns and tail swishing over the words,The Devil Made Me Brew It. Inside, I’ve left her a tiny black pitchfork.
“Aww. Now that is quite…cheeky.” Violet wriggles her eyebrows. “Get it? Cheeky?”
