Regardless, he produced a card and a pen, scrawling a number onto the back before handing it to me with a smile.
“My phone number,” he explained. “Call or text me whenever you want. I’d love to make you dinner one of these nights.” He took a big breath. “Now I’ve gotta get back to work, Poppy Potion Maker. But, I hope to hear from you very soon.”
And with that, Roy Osbourne disappeared into the back, leaving me at the bar, number in hand, and more anxious than ever.
Chapter Sixteen
Stoppered vials clinked against each other in the small messenger bag I’d slung over one shoulder as we made our way up the street toward Layla Clemmons’ home.
Someone was waiting for us when we pulled up.
“Who is that?” I asked as I pointed to the Mazda that had parallel parked between an old Cadillac and a cobalt blue Pontiac Lemans. Marty parked in the half-empty driveway, apparently finding it too much of a chore to wedge the hearse between the Dodge Charger and Volvo up the road.
“That’s Bailey, my friend from Spook Society,” Marty answered.
“You mean, the medium?”
“Yep, Bailey’s a psychic and she helps us whenever she can.”
I nodded as I looked up at the two-story Clemmons’ home. With proper care, the place would have been the textbook definition of ‘picturesque’. It was situated on a corner lot on one of the least traversed roads in town. The population here seemed to be made up of the idle wealthy, or at least, what passed for wealthy in a town as small as this one.
The home was built in the American Cottage style, with powder blue siding and a large, covered deck that looked out over a neatly trimmed lawn. A sidewalk wound the short walk from the street up to the stairs, chalked within an inch of its life by overzealous children.
Off to the side of the house was a pergola, climbing with ivy. Several raised beds sported the last blooms of the year, soon to be wiped out by the first hard frost. Gorse, Eyebright, and Primrose shivered in the breeze sweeping in from the north. Between the plants, illustrations of shamrocks on the granite slabs of the sidewalk, and the Irish flag waving in the wind, it wasn’t difficult to puzzle out that the late Mr. Clemmons had been proud of his Irish heritage.
The strain in the facade only showed around the edges. The lawn was longer than it should have been and the sides of the house needed a power wash. The holes in the yard hadn’t been filled in yet, and I had a feeling the interior would have the same, semi-neglected air. This was the look of a wealthy family that had fallen on hard times.
“Marty! Hello!” Bailey called out as she opened her door and stepped out.
She was pretty. Really pretty.
She had a waist-length sheet of pale hair, but hers was the pure, glittering white of untouched snow. Her eyes were neither blue nor green, but trapped between the two, like the perfect teal color of the ocean at sunrise. The subtle lines on her face didn’t detract from just how attractive she was.
And her body was... well, fit enough to belong to someone half her age. Judging by her face, I’d have guessed her to be around forty or a little under. But, her slender, athletic build and perky breasts would have been the envy of some twenty-year olds. Even dressed in a pair of sweats and a cutoff Def Leppard tee, she looked like a million bucks.
Was I the only forty-something in town that had a muffin top? The women of Haven Hollow were going to give me a complex.
As she approached, I realized she was quite a bit shorter than I was, which was saying a lot because at five-four, I wasn’t exactly tall. But, Bailey had to be five foot or less. It was only the dangerous hum of her aura that let me know she wasn’t someone to be trifled with.
“Thanks for coming, Bailey,” Marty said as he then turned to face me, but just as he was about to introduce us, she interrupted.
“You must be Poppy,” she said. Her voice matched the rest of her exterior. Soft, almost girlish, at odds with the steely look in her eyes. I wasn’t sure why, but she didn’t seem happy to meet me.
“Yes, it’s nice to meet you,” I said and extended my hand. She took it and shook it briefly, her own grip tight.
“Yeah,” she said, those perfectly blue eyes narrowing in suspicious splits. She scoured me, taking in every detail. And her eyes were hard. For some reason, this woman didn’t like me.
And I had a good idea why. Clearly, she had a thing for McFly…
Marty didn’t seem to notice, which wasn’t a surprise, given how oblivious men could be, in general. Instead, he started up the walkway to the Clemmons’ front door, and I noticed Bailey hung behind.
“What are your intentions with Marty?” she demanded in a whisper as I felt surprise ricochet through me. Wow, she was certainly to the point. No beating around the bush with this one.
It took me a second to compose myself enough to splutter out, “W-what?”
She shoved up on her tiptoes so she could put her face level with mine. “I heard through the grapevine that you’re dating Marty. And I just wanted to know what your intentions are with him?”
I watched as Marty knocked on the door, and then waited for someone to answer it. He turned to face us and smiled, clearly not realizing I was being interrogated by his… friend? Girlfriend? Ex-girlfriend? Scary stalker?
I blinked down at her, unsure of how to get the tiny, furious woman to back away long enough to let me think. “Marty and I aren’t dating and I don’t have any intentions where he’s concerned,” I managed at last. “We’re… just friends,” I finally managed. “Are you his… girlfriend or something?”
Bailey blinked in surprise, leaning away from me with another, more speculative look on her face. When she scanned me the second time, she seemed less hostile. We both turned to watch as Marty knocked on the door again. Then Bailey looked back at me.
“I’m not dating Marty,” she said and finally smiled, revealing a set of perfectly white, straight teeth. The smile transformed her face, fanning lines out around her eyes, making the blue twinkle.
“Are you sure?” I asked with a frown. “I mean, you sounded like a jealous girlfriend.” I felt the need to defend myself.
She shook her head. “No. Marty’s my friend. Possibly my best friend, and has been since high school. He looks out for me. So, I return the favor.”
This was her way of looking out for him? Scaring off any potential girlfriends? Not that I was a potential girlfriend… because I wasn’t… I was just a friend, but…
Oh my gosh, Poppy, why are you tripping over your words inside your own head?
“Okay, so why did you get in my face if Marty isn’t your boyfriend?” I demanded.
“Just because I was worried about him and wanted to make sure you were a good egg.”
“Well, I think you can rest assured that I am a good egg,” I answered, finding this whole conversation beyond strange.
“Good. Just wanted to see for myself.”
“And?”
“And I think you’re a good egg, as far as I can tell.”
“Okay, so does that mean we can be friendly now?” I asked. Even though she’d come off as tough and angry, I still liked her, though I couldn’t exactly put my finger on why. I mean, after that introduction, I had all the reasons in the world not to like her. And yet… There was something about her—she was genuine and she genuinely cared for her friends. Clearly. I respected that.