Maudlin's Mayhem (Bewitching Bedlam #2)(31)

She pressed her lips together, then nodded. “Yeah. I have.”

A sudden fear ran through me. “Not Max…or Jenna or Mr. Peabody? Are they all right?”

Again, Sandy nodded. “Yeah, they are. But you know I was supposed to go to a board meeting today?”

“Right, for your restaurants.”

“Well, while I was changing for it, I got a call. My ex died. He had a heart attack at five-thirty this morning. They couldn’t get hold of me till about an hour ago. I can’t believe he’s gone.” She paused, then added, “And I can’t believe that I still care this much,” as a sob escaped her throat.

I pressed my lips together. Finally, I reached my good hand across the table and took her hand in mine. “I’m not surprised. You two were friends. He couldn’t help it that he didn’t realize he was gay until later on in life. Or at least, wasn’t ready to admit it to himself. And you guys…you still love each other. How many times have you had dinner together in the past few years?”

She pulled out a tissue and blew her nose. “Once a month, on the clock. Every month. Yeah, we are…were…still friends. I wanted the best for him and he wanted me to be happy. After I got over the initial shock, I knew that I didn’t want to carry a grudge.”

I leaned across the table and took her hands in mine, squeezing her fingers gently. “Sandy, if you didn’t care about him, then you wouldn’t be hurting. Face it, you guys were meant to be in each other’s lives. Just not the way you originally thought.”

She worried her lip, holding tight to my hands. “You know he broke up with his boyfriend recently? His mother and father weren’t happy at all when they found out he had left me and that there weren’t going to be any grandbabies. I’m going to have to take care of the arrangements for the general service.” She paused. “He focused more on his business than his magic, but would you preside over the Cord Cutting when it’s time?”

I patted her hand as I let go. “Of course. I’d be happy to help. I liked Bart.”

That much was true. Though I had never quite forgiven him for hurting Sandy the way he had, I also liked the guy. We had had many a late-night movie binge together, the three of us, until I had married Craig and Bart came out.

“Thanks. So tell me, what happened to your thumb? And how’s Bubba doing? Did you get to see him?”

“Are you sure you want to know? You must be swimming in thoughts—”

“No, take my mind off Bart, please.” She sounded so forlorn that I mustered up a gusto I didn’t feel and, as we segued onto other subjects, I found myself thinking about how it never failed to shock when a friend died. No matter how many people had left your life, you never got used to it.





I WAS WALKING back to my CR-V when the sound of skidding tires filled my ears and I whirled to see an out-of-control pickup truck come sailing my way. Terror fueling my reflexes, I leaped out of the way just in time to avoid being creamed by the massive vehicle. The truck spun out, slamming into the side of the parking lot, which was basically a concrete retaining wall separating the restaurant from a small park. The driver was trapped, unable to get his door open. I raced toward the truck, Sandy hot on my heels, as a trail of gasoline trickled down from the gas tank.

“Crap—gas! Nobody light up!” I screamed at a couple of guys headed toward the truck. One of them was dangling a cigarette from his lips.

He must have heard me, because he came to a halt, falling forward as he lost his balance. The sudden jolt dislodged the cigarette and it flew out of his mouth, landing in the pooling gas. Sandy and I froze as it blazed to life, the flame traveling up the trickle of gas into the gas tank. An explosion reverberated through the air as the truck caught fire.

Frantic—the driver was still trapped—I raised my arms and focused on the fire. Fire was my element. Fire was my strength.



Flames eat flames, please depart.

Veil of flames, I bid thee part.

Open the way, bridge a path,

Hold back the fire’s wrath.



As I chanted the spell, a break in the crackling flames opened up right in front of the passenger-side door. I focused on keeping the flames apart as Sandy ran forward. She grabbed the door handle and screamed—the metal was hot—but she didn’t let go till she had wrested it open. By then the other man—the one without the cigarette—was by her side. He motioned for her to move. He crawled in the cab of the truck and a moment later, as I struggled to keep the hungry flames from gobbling up the truck, he emerged, dragging the unconscious driver. Sandy was calling 9-1-1 and we could hear sirens in the near distance.

“Clear—he was the only one in the truck!” the man called to me.

But the man who had been smoking was unconscious, as well. The force had knocked him silly, and a few wisps of the flame were heading directly for him across the pavement. Another bystander darted in to drag him out of the way. As everybody cleared from the path of the flames, I released them and they roared together, a ravenous monster of flame and fire, as thick black smoke rose from the truck.

The fire department and ambulance rolled into the parking lot and I hurried over to Sandy. Her right hand was burned, blistered across the pad directly below her fingers where she had grabbed hold of the handle. As the medics began to assess the condition of the two men, I made her join them to be treated.