Page 114 of Jingle Spells
Kelly regarded her eldest daughter with a meaningful expression, but what specific meaning it held, Delilah couldn’t tell. “What do you want to do, Delilah?”
The question caught her off guard. What did she want? She’d spent so long doing what was expected that she’d almost forgotten how to want for herself. Well, except for Jasper, and look how that worked out. “I don’t know. I’m not exactly qualified for much beyond hotel management.”
“Nonsense,” Kelly scoffed. “You’re a powerful witch with a talent for organization and a keen eye for detail. I can think of several paths that might suit you.”
“Like what?” Delilah asked, her voice small. “Working at Nate’s hardware store? Helping Aphra with her yarn? I can’t cook well enough for Zahir to hire me, and with everyone’s magic restored, it’s not like the witches of Oak Haven need much assistance with anything.”
A slow, knowing smile spread across Kelly’s face. “Actually, I have something rather different in mind.”
“What are you talking about?” Delilah’s frustration boiled over. “Gods, Mama! Why is everything a riddle with you?”
Kelly patted her daughter’s cheek affectionately. “Patience, darling. All will be revealed.” She glanced past Delilah and her smile faltered. “Oh dear. Jerusha is trying to enchant the punch bowl again. I’d better intervene before we have a repeat of the Sangria Incident of ’03.”
And with that, Kelly swept away, leaving Delilah standing alone, utterly confused and but also a little intrigued. What’s the old lady up to?
Outside, snow continued to fall, blanketing Oak Haven in a fresh layer of possibility. Tomorrow was another day. And maybe, just maybe, it would bring something completely unexpected.
Chapter 33
What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve?
Jasper’s office chair had always been perfectly adjusted to his liking . . . until today, when it felt like a medieval torture device designed specifically to complement his boss’s verbal flogging. Nancy sat at the far side of his desk, her post-vacation tan forming an ironic contrast to the storm clouds gathering on her face.
“So let me get this straight.” Her skepticism was so intense it was almost material, like Jasper should offer it its own chair. “You disappeared for a week. Nobody had a clue where you were..”
“I was conducting essential historical research,” Jasper replied, the words sounding hollow even to his own ears. What research? Where? His memory offered nothing but a strange collage of feelings: excitement, fear, and something else he couldn’t quite place. Something that felt like . . . loss?
Nancy’s eyebrow arched so high it threatened to detach from her face entirely. “Historical research. I see. And what exactly were you researching that was so important you couldn’t be bothered to tell anyone where you were?”
Jasper opened his mouth, then closed it. Then opened it again. “I was investigating an anomaly. In the county records.” He adjusted his glasses, stalling. “A liquor license for an address that doesn’t exist.”
“A liquor license.” Nancy’s mouth flattened to a horizontal line.
“Yes. For J&J, Incorporated. At 278 West 113th Street, which as you know is impossible.”
“And this required you to vanish without a trace for over a week? It didn’t occur to you to, I don’t know, make a phone call? Send a text? Release a carrier pigeon?”
Jasper swallowed. The truth was, he had no idea where he’d been or what he’d done. The days were a blank slate, yet somehow he felt changed, as if he’d lived a lifetime in that lost period.
“I’m sorry,” he said, because what else could he say?
Nancy sighed, the kind of bone-deep exhalation that suggested she was recalculating her retirement timeline. “Jasper, do you know what your job is?”
“Historical archiving and preservation—”
“Filing,” she interrupted. “Your job is filing. And retrieving files when needed. You can call yourself the Grand Pooh-bah of Historical Paperwork if it makes you feel better, but at the end of the day, you’re a file clerk with delusions of grandeur.”
Each word landed like a poison dart. Not because they were cruel, although they sort of were . . . but because they were true. His scholarly pretensions didn’t change the fact that his primary function was to make sure the right papers ended up in the right folders.
“Now,” Nancy continued, “your little side project . . . the one where you actually get to be a historian? You already know that’s not even funded by the taxpayers. That comes from a private grant. A very generous grant from a donor who, coincidentally, wants to speak with you.”
Jasper’s stomach dropped. “The donor wants to speak with me?”
“Yes. The donor is just as unhappy with you as I am. Nay, more unhappy. You can expect a phone call shortly. I suggest you have a better explanation ready than the one you just gave me.” Nancy turned on her spiky heel and headed for the stairs. “Jasper? Whatever’s happening with you? Fix it.”
He crumpled, laying his head on his desk like an exhausted student after a painful test. The familiar smell of his office—old paper, older wood, and a bit of something organic that Jasper swore was not mildew but definitely was—now felt oppressive, rather than comforting. When he sat back up, Agnes Bartlett was glaring down at him from her portrait, her stern expression somehow more accusatory than usual.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered. “You don’t know what I’ve been through.”
