RECIPE for MAGIC by Kristen Painter

RECIPE FOR MAGIC by Kristen Painter * * * * * PUBLISHED BY: Kristen Painter RECIPE FOR MAGIC Copyright © 2010 by Kristen Painter Want to be up to date on all books & release dates by Kristen Painter? Sign-up for my NEWSLETTER (http://bit.ly/1kkLgHi ). You get the news first! All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. * * * * * Chapter One Kelly pounded his fist against the door for the third time. “I know you’re in there, Shelby. Open up.” If she’d done anything foolish…his blood chilled at the thought, and he raised his hand again. Across the hall, a door opened and a wizened face peered out. “She hasn’t been out in days.” He nodded. “I know, Mrs. Rubenstein.” He lifted the plastic sacks stuffed with food containers from his restaurant. “That’s why I came. She’s got to eat.” The old woman clucked her tongue. Her fingers strayed to a strand of graduated pearls at her throat. “When my Milton died, I lost twenty pounds.” He smiled. “You must have been nearly invisible then.” She smiled back and touched her gray curls. “If I were thirty years younger, you’d be in trouble, young man.” Her smile faded. “You take care of that sister of yours. Poor thing is taking this so hard. She’s got a lot of life left to live.” “Will do, ma’am.” He knocked on the door a fourth time. If he had to, he’d go get Mick and they’d take the door off the hinges. “Shel, let me in or I’ll call the super and tell him I smell gas.” “That’ll do it.” Mrs. Rubenstein gave him a wave and shut her door. A few seconds later, the sound of a deadbolt unlocking came from inside Shelby’s apartment. His sister opened the door, but left the chain lock on. “What?” He could barely see her in the dark interior. It was 10 A.M. Every blind must be nailed down. “I brought you some food.” “I’m not hungry.” She started to close the door, but he jammed his boot in. “You’ve got to eat.” “No, I don’t.” “Let me in or I will pole-axe this door, so help me.” “You’re a bully.” “I can live with that.” She exhaled like the act of breathing was a chore, her eyes blank and dull as the dark circles beneath them. “Move your foot so I can undo the chain.” “You swear you’ll let me in?” Her mouth bunched to one side and she tugged at her t-shirt – one of Kevin’s old ones. Judging by the length of her sweatpants, they’d been Kevin’s too. “Yes. Fine. Whatever.” He moved his foot. “Love you too.” She undid the chain, opened the door and walked back into the cave of her apartment without waiting for him to enter. Her honey blonde hair was knotted up in a greasy ponytail. She flopped onto the couch, her gaze going to the bags in his hand. “If you think I’m eating something you made…” “I didn’t use the book.” He wouldn’t either, not directly. Shelby had to get through this for real, without the use of the magic his family’s mystical cookbook could provide. He set the sacks on the litter-covered coffee table. “Prove it.” He grabbed the box on top, opened it, took out a piece of cornbread and bit into it. He swallowed and stuffed the rest of the piece back in. “There. No spell. And even if there was, it would be gone now.” “Fine. I’m not hungry. Stick the food in the fridge. I’m going back to bed.” “Shel, you can’t spend the rest of your life in bed. Or in this apartment.” “Sure I can.” She disappeared into the master bedroom, shutting the door hard enough to tell him she hadn’t gotten past anger yet. Sighing, he flipped on the kitchen light and put the food in the fridge beside a gallon of milk that had expired a week after Kevin’s sudden heart attack. He added it to the overflowing trash, then changed the bag and set it by the door. The apartment smelled stale and slightly rancid. Dirty dishes spilled out of the sink. Unread mail covered the counter. He walked into the living room to let in some light, wondering if he could get away with opening the windows for some fresh air. He yanked up the blinds and a shower of papery leaves rained off the ivy that had once thrived on the sill. Kevin had been in the ground nearly five months. Shelby should be functioning better than this. Kelly shook his head. He hadn’t felt so helpless or useless since they’d been kids. He’d vowed to protect her and he had, up until now, but this was different. Shelby was shutting down and he was powerless to stop it. Nothing he’d said or done had made any difference. Hope drained out of him like he’d been shot full of holes. He kneeled and scooped the leaves into an old newspaper. They crumbled into dust under his touch. Losing his brother-in-law had been painful enough. He would not lose Shelby too. She’d refused the counseling offered by the hospital, said she wasn’t about to be put through that machine just so they could feel better about not being able to save Kevin, but there had to be someone she’d listen to. Someone who understood what she’d been through. Who knew how to free his beautiful baby sister from the grief turning her into a ghost. He stared at the ceiling. Dust motes turned the sunlight coming through the windows into foggy streaks. Cobwebs draped the room’s corners. The leaves and newspaper crumpled in his fist. He’d find someone who could help her. That much he could do. * * * Fifteen minutes until opening and the chain bookstore hummed with activity. In the employee break room, Kelly arranged some chocolates on a small wooden tray. What woman could resist a man who made his own chocolates? Hopefully, not the one he was about to meet today. After all he’d read about Dr. Meredith Black, she seemed like the right person to fix Shelby. She’d been on Oprah. That was like the female stamp of approval. And fate, in the form of his publicist, his editor and numerous phone calls, had gotten him a seat at this multi-author book signing. Charming Dr. Black into helping Shelby should be the easy part, so long as he got some of these chocolates into her. The manager sidled up. “She’s here.” He bumped his chin toward the tables reserved for the signing. “Just settled in.” “Thanks.” Kelly turned, his heart thumping with new hope. She arranged the books at her table, visible through the door. Her dark brown hair was twisted up, sleek and smooth, and her conservative tan suit, white blouse, and low heels were just what he’d hoped for. She was perfect. Exactly the kind of woman Shel would respect. Professional. Serious. Killer legs. He grinned. Shel wouldn’t care about those, but they were a nice bonus. Leaning against the fridge, the manager snorted. “Don’t know how she got one man to marry her, let alone two. She looks like a dull fish.” Kelly stiffened and glared at him. “She’s buried both those husbands. Might take a toll on a person, don’t you think?” “Yeah, I suppose.” He mumbled something about work to do and took off. Kelly returned his gaze to Dr. Black. Any woman who could survive being twice widowed and then make a career of helping others through their grief deserved some respect. So she looked a little reserved. So what. She could help Shelby. Dr. Black sat in her chair and folded her hands in her lap, back straight, face serene. He palmed the tray and stepped out to see better. She studied the other author tables. Dog biscuits and fuzzy neon mice covered the table opposite hers. An easel displayed the book Sit, Speak, Feel. Some sort of pet psychic. He glanced back at Dr. Black. She smirked and rolled her eyes. He chuckled. No surprise a practical woman like that didn’t buy the psychic thing. He moved closer, following her sightline to the next table. A romance author. That was probably more her speed. But her jaw tensed as she surveyed the stack of books titled Second Chances. She frowned, her fingers worrying a ring on her right hand. Odd. That whole fairy tale ideal seemed to fall in line with the “getting on with your life thing” she preached. She adjusted a wayward hairpin, her gaze turning downright disapproving.

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