O.C. Writers

//  Chapter One //

“Abby, I’ve got the perfect frog guaranteed to break the curse.” Sam stood in the doorway of Abigail Goodbody’s rented Craftsman bungalow, letting in a blast of cold December air. She hipped the door shut and pulled a frog out of an opaque plastic bag.

“Samantha Theodora, tell me you did not kill that poor creature!” Abby stood frozen at the gas stove, her heart in her throat. She held a handful of dried mugwort root over a steaming cauldron.

“Well, not this one.” A limp frog with bulging, dead eyes swung crazily by one of its feet from the tips of Sam’s fiercely long fingernails.

Abby’s fluffy, white cat Endora abandoned a Christmas ball on the floor and raced over to Sam.

“Don’t you dare.”

Her familiar ignored the fierce mental images of severe punishment Abby sent her way. The cat stood on her hind legs and batted at the dangling critter and sent back her own message. Want. Want.

Sam lifted the frog higher. “I bought the thing from Crawley’s shop, from his secret stock. Like I said, guaranteed.”

“Right.” Abby sighed as she sprinkled the root flakes into the brew. She’d known Sam since childhood and little from her saucy friend surprised her anymore. She shooed Endora away before the cat decided to claw her way up Sam’s sprayed-on jeans.

“My mother doesn’t even list a frog in her spell book.” Abby tucked her long hair, limp from the steam, behind her ears. She ran a finger down the lengthy list of ingredients she’d already added under the heading “Breaking a Curse.” Funny how this page is so stained and worn. Apparently breaking curses was quite a pastime in her mother’s day.

“My mother says a frog a day keeps one happy and fey,” Sam said.

“That explains a lot.” Abby closed her eyes when Sam swung the poor creature over the water and let go with a brief chant and a plop. “Okay, Sam. We’ve gone through all the curse breakers in the book. If this spell doesn’t work, I’ve only got eight more days until Christmas Eve to find my one true love or I never will.”

“Then let’s get this done, girlfriend.”

Abby clasped Sam’s hand in a firm grip, careful to avoid being stabbed by her friend’s painted talons. Sam closed her eyes and began to sway back and forth in front of the stove, more for dramatic effect she liked to say, so Abby did the same. Sam joined her in the chant.

“Fire burn and cauldron bubble,

Free me from this nasty trouble.

I need not find love so true,

This curse is gone, this curse is through.

So say we, two as one,

We declare this curse undone.”

Abby kept her eyes squeezed shut. She concentrated on her body, the blood flowing through her veins, the strong pulse at her neck, the steady thud of her heartbeat. Wicked sorceress Hilda Grimm had told her when the curse was lifted (or hopefully broken in this case) she’d feel its strong, physical manifestations leave her body and know it was done.

“Anything?” Sam asked.

Abby opened her eyes. “Nothing. I still feel as if a shroud, or some kind of sheath is covering my heart.”

“Like a condom on a—”

“Very funny. As if we’d know what that feels like.” Abby blew out a breath. “If I’d known how obsessed Roald was with me, I’d have, maybe…”

“You let that demented little snot down very gently because that’s how you are. Kind.”

“Tell Hilda that. She called me terrible names. Said I devastated her son forever.”

“Well, the rest of the females back home in Oakville will be forever grateful to you.”

Abby smiled, moving to the sink and washing her hands. “And I’m grateful you’ve helped me with all these spells. To thank you, I’ll share my bottle of Cab.”

“Not that we need any excuses for wine, but here’s another one. Isn’t this your six-month anniversary in this house and away from family and foe?”

“It is. Let’s celebrate.” Abby scooted over to make room at the sink for Sam and her icky frog fingers. For years Abby had longed for her independence from her big, needy family. When Sam bought a chocolate shop many miles away in Mayfield, Mass., and offered Abby the manager’s position, she jumped at the chance. Finally, she had a place of her own in a quaint little town and a responsible job she loved. She could utilize her MBA in a very real way.

If she couldn’t either satisfy or break the curse, she’d have no one to grow old with in this wonderful place. No lover. No kids. Was having a fulfilling job and good friends enough? They might have to be, but not having a family of her own would leave a cruel hollow deep in her soul.

“I can’t believe it’s been almost a year since you were cursed. I wish I could have found you a true love,” Sam said, creating a cloud of soap bubbles as she scrubbed her hands.

“Don’t forget the ‘true love of heart, soul and mind’ part.”

“The search might be easier if we had the whole male population to choose from and not just the witches. If only there were a witchmatch dot com, but we’re such a secretive lot.” Sam made a rude sound. “We need more time than this Christmas Eve. Damn that Hilda Grimm. I’d like to curse her to the devil’s pit.”

“Well, we can’t. Both of us together aren’t powerful enough to create a wart on the nose of a sorceress like her.”

“She already has one, anyway.”

“Huh, you’re right. But a matching pair would be perfect.”

Through the window over the sink, Abby had a view of the side fence and the house next door. A light went on in the kitchen. Seven o’clock. Joe worked late today.

Sam wore a huge grin that scrunched all the freckles on her face clear up to her cheekbones.

“What,” said Abby.

“You. That look on your face when Joe’s light went on. All soft with a slight little frown. Eyes aglow.”

“Eyes aglow? What have you been reading? Joe’s a friend. I worry that he’s working too hard, just like I worry about you.”

“Hmph. Joe is true-love material.”

“If he were a witch. He’s an Ordinary. He doesn’t have the faery mark on his back. Too bad we can’t just sniff the guys and know who’s a witch.”

Sam closed her eyes and clutched her chest. “If only I’d been here when he took his shirt off for you.”

“He didn’t take it off for me. The heat was stifling when he fixed the pipe in the bathroom. Definitely not romantic.”

Abby remembered the scene as if it were yesterday instead of months ago. Six foot something of rippling muscles, a six-pack of abs, big, strong, capable hands wielding a hefty wrench. No faery mark. That had been so disappointing because Joe was hot. More importantly, he was a really good guy.

“Did you make sure the mark wasn’t lower, like on the top of one of his beautiful, hard buttocks?” Sam asked. “You know, plumber, butt crack.”

Abby laughed. “No, his jeans were respectably located.”

Sam pouted. “Well, phooey. I’d go for him if I didn’t already have my Ryan Gosling. Joe wears his heart on his sleeve. Too bad for him that he’s fallen for you.”