The accountant opened the folder and skimmed the stack of documents it contained. A W-2, 1099s, receipts, investment summaries, it was all there, Annie hoped. Matt always left it up to her to compile the papers needed before they sat down with Tom, their CPA. Her business was laden with supply orders, customer invoices, and back-end pay-outs. Matt worked in analytical statistics for a pharma company: salary, health insurance, 401(K), easy-peasy.
“This expense here.” Tom tapped his finger on a receipt. “Shadow essence. For your shop?”
“Yes. I go through three boxes a week, minimum.” Annie had opened her store, A Spell on You, three years ago and had yet to turn a profit—a sore point with Matt, who was used to assessing revenues in the hundreds of thousands.
“How much longer are you going to play at this?” he’d groused several days ago as she was assembling the folder for Tom. “Give it up. Get a real job.”
“I’m not playing. This is my dream and I’ll make it work.”
“Yeah. Conning people into thinking you can ‘cast spells.’” Matt didn’t believe in magic; he believed in numbers. “Numbers don’t lie.” His favorite three words to live by.
Annie knew in her bones she was the real thing. Her testimonials were glowing. Her repeat customers came with a list for her to work through. If only there were a few more customers. Still, imposter syndrome ate at her, and Matt’s griping made it worse. She didn’t want anyone to know she was uncredentialed, a seat-of-the-skirt kind of gal, when it came to spelling. But books on spell craft filled three full shelves in her shop’s back room, and she’d memorized most of them.
Tom coughed politely, and Annie pulled herself back to the present.
“Sorry,” she said, her face hot. “Did you have a question?”
Matt sighed in annoyance. “Come back from la-la land, bae. Tom doesn’t have all day for you to daydream your way to financial success.”
Putting his readers on, Tom smiled kindly at her. “I’m in no hurry.” He turned back to the folder and held up another sheet. “Now this one for spider milk.”
And on they went, with Tom asking questions, to which she supplied explanations, while Matt rolled his eyes.
At the session’s end, after shaking hands with Tom, they stood at the elevator. The doors swished open, and Matt strode into the empty car, his anger obvious in the set of his jaw.
“Next year, we file separately,” he said. “I’m tired of this hocus pocus shit.”
“Let’s try something,” Annie said, as the car descended, with a clunk, from eighth to the lobby. “You don’t believe in magic, so we’ll put it to a test. See who’s right.”
Chuckling, Matt shook his head. “Can’t you see how ridiculous you are?”
She cocked her head, moved her feet in a patterned sequence, and spoke in a monotone. “Five, twenty-three, fourteen, thirty-nine …” She continued on with a handful of additional digits. It was a spell she’d been waiting to use, patiently watching for the perfect moment.
A low groan filled the elevator, and Matt sagged against the rear wall. His eyes held panic—understandably, since he could no longer move or speak.
The car settled on the ground floor, and the doors swished open.
Annie smiled sweetly at her husband. “Matt, dear, I agree with you. Numbers don’t lie.” She walked out of the elevator, leaving him where he was.
More of Dianna’s Stories
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The accountant opened the folder and skimmed the stack of documents it contained. A W-2, 1099s, receipts, investment summaries, it was all there, Annie hoped. Matt always left it up to her to compile the papers needed before they sat down with Tom, their CPA. Her business was laden with supply orders, customer invoices, and back-end pay-outs. Matt worked in analytical statistics for a pharma company: salary, health insurance, 401(K), easy-peasy.
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The conversations murmuring around her provided white noise for Erica as she sat at her laptop in the busy coffeeshop. One more chapter to finish. Then a scrap of an exchange broke through her deep concentration.
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Shaun held the framed photo of his grandfather and traced the image with his finger.
“He was such a great man.”
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The clock read fifteen minutes to midnight on New Year’s Eve, and the party had descended into arguments instead of winding up for the big calendar change.
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Today was her birthday, but her closest friends were busy, so Nicole took herself out to dinner. The Purple Potted Plant was her favorite restaurant for special occasions, and this year qualified as one: her fortieth.
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