Chapter 3 It’s Going to be a Bumpy Night

The tuneful crash brought Delilah and Luna racing in from the kitchen.

Luna gasped. "The piano!"

"Seriously, Scarlett?" Delilah said angrily. "You've been here five minutes!"

"Oi, wot's all this bloomin' hubbub, then, eh?" An improbably tall, alarmingly thin man peered down from the first-floor landing. He wore a fuzzy hotel bathrobe, accessorized with an oversized top hat and a droopy mustache. His theatrical Cockney accent was only slightly more believable than Dick Van Dyke's. "Wot's 'appened to the peace and quiet of me 'ome away from 'ome?"

"It's okay, Max," Nate called out reassuringly. "Nothing to worry about, just a little . . . piano apocalypse. Everything's under control."

"It don't sound 'ardly controlled, now do it?!" said the mustached man.

"Just a little mishap. We're fine; you can go back to your room."

"All right then, I'm off," he huffed, "but if I'da wanted to stay at bleedin' Fawlty Towers, I wouldda bloody done it, right! You lot best sort it out, sharpish."

"Who the hell was that?" Scarlett asked.

"That's Max," replied Luna. "He's very sweet."

" Sweet is not the word I'd use," Delilah said. "He goes by Maximillian the Magnificent. He's been staying here the past few months."

" Months ?" repeated Scarlett. "Since when does the inn have guests who stay for months?"

"Uhh, I dunno, Scar," Delilah said sarcastically. "Since we started having hardly any guests at all? Somewhere around there, I guess?"

"Maximillian thinks he's some kind of magician," Nate said. "And today he apparently also thinks he's English?"

Delilah corrected, "Technically speaking, he is a magician. The English part, I won't vouch for. Pretty sure he was Swedish yesterday. Regardless, he is a right bloody pain in me arse, eh wot ?"

Scarlett frowned. "Since when do men in this town have magic?"

"Oh, I never said he had real magic. Maximillian is the non-powered, card-trick-performing, saw-the-lady-in-half type of magician."

Luna added, "He invited me to go see him at work tomorrow."

Nate wiggled his eyebrows. "He has a rabbit named Quentin."

"And he likes to play the piano in our lobby," said Delilah pointedly. "Or rather, he used to. But, now , thanks to Scarlett—"

"Oh my God, Del, it was an accident, obviously. I'm really sorry . . ."

"Nate," Delilah said, "didn't you tell her not to use—"

"Please," Nate snarked. "You think she listens to me?"

"Hey!" Scarlett exclaimed. "You gave me no indication that would happen!"

"What are you talking about, Scar? I literally said, do not do magic !"

"Sure, but you didn't make it clear how bad it would actually—"

"Are you kidding me?!" he interrupted.

As the bickering swirled around them, Delilah and Luna exchanged glances, and Luna grinned. "Nice to see some things never change."

"Everyone, pay attention to me now!" Zahir, the hotel chef, appeared in the doorway. He was pushing a wheeled cart, overburdened with platters and trays and tureens containing all manner of deliciousness. "Everyone to the dining room!"

Scarlett grinned and meant it for the first time since she'd arrived. "Zahir! I'm back, can you believe it?" Zahir was practically a brother to Scarlett and her sisters. His parents had been co-head chefs of the inn when they were kids, so Zahir had grown up alongside the Melrose girls—racing up and down the halls, terrorizing the guests. Now it seemed Zahir had stepped up to replace his parents and carry on the family tradition. Unlike certain other bad children Scarlett could name.

But as Scarlett moved to hug Zahir, Mama swooped in from the kitchen. "Ladies who have made messes need to address their messes before dining." She departed without pausing for any objections.

Delilah grinned like the cat who'd just inherited the entire canary factory. "No messes made by me. Guess I'm digging in first." She marched after Mama, leaving Scarlett at the mercy of the wrecked piano.

"Zahir," Scarlett said, "isn't it a little early for dinner? It's, like, four o'clock!"

He wrinkled up his forehead. "How many years has it been since you have had my family's cooking?"

"That would be ten," she admitted.

"Then I would have to say that your dinner is extremely late ." That established, he turned and rolled his gorgeous-smelling cart into the dining room.

Luna was on her way outside to deal with the gourds on the lawn, but she turned back. "Just think of it as afternoon tea—we'll pretend we're Brrrrrrrrrritish!" She gave a perfectly royal curtsy and danced out the door.

"Hey," Nate called after her. "You want some garbage bags or . . .?" But Luna was long gone. "Never mind, I guess." He bent down to pick up one of the larger pieces of the piano. He slung it over one shoulder like it was nothing. The sight set off a flutter in Scarlett's chest that she very much did not appreciate.

"You know, I'm not sure I understand this new Nate Williams," she said to him playfully. "Whatever happened to the ninety-eight-pound weakling who used to help me with my algebra homework?"

"Who used to do your algebra homework, you mean." He picked up a second plank of the piano to carry in his free hand. This was really getting ridiculous. "Wait here, I'm going to take these pieces down to the basement for safekeeping. I'm sure I can turn them into something useful—end tables or something. And I'll grab you a broom—you can start sweeping up the small pieces."

Nate turned to carry the piano rubble downstairs, unintentionally providing Scarlett with a view of his back, which was every bit as enticing as his front.

"Oh for crying out loud . . ." she muttered.

"What's that?" he called back.

"Nothing! Nothing at all . . ." Scarlett crossed her arms over her chest and rocked back and forth on her heels. "Go on, go grab a broom for the witch . . . that's so original."

***

Nate brought the broom and a dustpan, and Scarlett set about tidying the floor while he made a pile of the remaining salvageable pieces.

"So, Nate," she said as casually as she could. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"I help your mom out sometimes, no big deal."

"No, not here. I mean in Oak Haven. Didn't you want out of this town even more than I did? Whatever happened to Mr. Get out of Dodge ?"

"Dunno, Scar. Whatever happened to Ms. Stay Home Forever ?"

"Ouch." Scarlett took a step back, stung. "You know exactly what happened."

"You're right." Nate paused, then spoke more gently. "Shouldn't joke about all that."

They worked in silence for a while, awkwardness hanging over them like an indoor rain cloud. They were both relieved when Luna returned, brushing some remaining gourd guts off her dress.

"All done," she chirped.

"That quick?" Scarlett gazed at the appalling piano mess all over the floor.

Luna held the front door open so the other two could see her handiwork. She'd transformed all the smashed gourds into pumpkins and neatly lined them along the walkway. "You can't really see from here," she explained, "but if you go outside, you'll see they're all carved with the faces of famous topiarists." With that, Luna went skipping into the dining room, no further questions permitted.

Scarlett and Nate were left staring. "Can you name a single famous topiarist?" she asked.

"I'm not sure I know what a topiarist is," Nate replied.

"Someone who designs ornamental plants—you know, topiaries?" Scarlett smiled slyly. "I mean, duh."

"Ohhhh," Nate said with a laugh. "A topiarist , why didn't I think of that? Well sure, of course there's tons of famous ones, there's . . . um . . . nah. Kidding. I have no clue."

"Some guy at Windsor Castle? Probably?"

Nate chuckled and went back to lumber stacking. "How's San Francisco these days? You guys have got, what . . . Alcatraz, Google, and terrible weather. Is that about the size of it?"

She grinned. "Perfect description—you've really nailed it."

"What's that saying? The coldest winter I ever knew was the summer I spent in San Francisco?"

"Yeah yeah yeah. Whoever said that was full of it." Scarlett emptied the dustpan into the trash and knelt down on the floor to gather up the escaped piano keys. "Seriously, I love it there. Lots of interesting people, great restaurants, very lively."

"By interesting people, you mean interesting witches?"

"No, not at all! I mean, I'm sure there are covens around; I just don't participate. Nope, I live a completely normal life. I work in an office, I bike everywhere, buy groceries, binge Netflix, sleep seven hours, and start over again."

Nate made a face. "Seriously? You like living like that?"

"I happen to love living like that!" But as soon as the words came out of her mouth, Scarlett knew she'd oversold it. "I mean, it's cool. It's good."

"Sounds horrible."

"I'm sorry, who are you again?" She stood up, ebony-and-ivory-filled hands on her hips. "So far as I know, you haven't left this town even once in your whole life, but you're going to stand there judging me? Like you know me or something?"

"I used to know you pretty well, Scar."

"You haven't seen me in ten years, Nate ."

"Whose fault is that?"

Scarlett boggled at this. "Um, both of ours? I mean, who was it who couldn't wait to leave Oak Haven? Deny thy father and refuse thy name —that was supposed to be you, wasn't it? Who covered the walls of his bedroom with maps? Who had lists of every roadside attraction he was going to visit? Have you scratched the World's Largest Ball of Twine off your bucket list yet?"

"All right, fine." Nate raised his hands in surrender. "I haven't seen you for ten years—I'm not kicking things off with an argument. Let me finish up here and you go have dinner with your family. After all, they haven't seen you in a decade either."

Scarlett's eyes widened. "Wow, that was a shot! Somebody's been spending too much time with Delilah."

"Well, Delilah's been here , so yeah. I tend to spend time with people who are here ."

"Fine, be like that." Scarlett stepped back, her arms raised in surrender. "Maybe consider whether this embittered Bette Davis routine of yours really matches with the whole Captain America look you're going for. But, you do you." She marched off toward the dining room.

Alone in the lobby, Nate gazed down at his neatly piled piano wreckage. "Huh," he muttered. "Me? Captain America?"