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 flames danced in the fire pit, inviting Dulci to relax, but the drift of smoke rising into the night sky only darkened her mood. Cora, who knew her like any best friend should, was trying to help. But some things just hurt too bad.
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Two months into the job, and Cordi knew every regular’s preferred beverage. She could sift the deadbeats from the barflies who had dough, and had memorized The Bartender’s Guide, from the Apple Martini to the White Knight. Mostly, she poured and listened.
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The cereal poured from the spout so quickly it overflowed Marie’s bowl and fell to the tile floor in the breakfast bar. She and Todd were on the second day of their summer vacation, and bar was a stretch.
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Three long weeks. Marla checked her calendar for the fifth time that morning and stared at the next cubicle, vacant, as it had been for twenty-one days. Where was Chet? Her work queue glared at her, each extra file on her screen a reminder that her coworker was shirking his duties.
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Sixty miles into the drive, Jill had second thoughts about the wisdom of bringing her animals with her. The cat, sequestered in her carrying case on the front seat, kept up a steady mewling. Except when the beagle in the back seat got too near, which set off a yowl. That prompted a barking response, joined by the woof of the English setter in the rear compartment.
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