Read the first two chapters of Something Witchy This way Comes before it drops on Tuesday, June 10! Make sure you read the entire thing because there’s a treat at the end.
Prologue
Atlanta, Georgia
“Your show’s been canceled.”
Her insides twisting in knots, Sinclair glanced at each of her producers. The cowards. Each pair of eyes dropped in guilt—or more like embarrassment. Not even the bearer of bad news, her executive producer Jill Schumacher, could stand to look at her. As soon as she’d dropped the bomb, Jill had suddenly taken an undue interest in her iPhone.
So this was the big news that had kept them from doing this morning’s shoot. When she’d arrived at the crack of dawn, they’d shuttled her into a production trailer to discuss some “pressing business.”
Sinclair swallowed the cold, hard dose of reality they’d fed her before breakfast, but it didn’t upset her stomach. In all honesty, she’d known this day would come. She’d seen the writing on the wall as soon as they’d laid Aunt Bernie to rest over a year ago. The only reason she hadn’t walked away from Cooking with Sin was because her aunt wanted her to continue with the show.
And she’d done it as long as she could, while guarding the secret they’d kept for the show’s five-season run.
What no one knew, not even her producers, was that she, Sinclair Delilah Fletcher, was a fraud.
When it came to cooking, she knew the basics, but in actuality, Aunt Bernie was the culinary genius behind the show’s Low Country recipes that kept three million television viewers tuning in every week.
And shortly after Aunt Bernie’s death, the signs that would bring about the show’s eventual demise had begun. The stagnant sales of a cookbook Sinclair had released nine months ago. The less than stellar reviews since the season premiere. And now, a year after Aunt Bernie’s death, the show’s viewership had plummeted to less than half a million.
Dix Collins, one of the show’s executive producers, sat forward. The director’s chair groaned sickly under his bulky weight, drawing Sinclair’s attention.
“Sin, look, even though your contract stipulates you can’t move on to another show for two years, the network will honor a percentage of the remainder of your contract.” He paused to look down at the screen of his iPhone. “According to my calculations, it should be thirty-five percent of the remaining years.”
Sinclair did a quick calculation. Into the fifth year of a six-year contract, her six-figure income was about to dry up faster than an unlucky senior citizen’s pot at a bingo parlor. Even worse, Sin had been careless with her money.
Instead of having a nice nest egg, all she had to show for her stint on Cooking with Sin was a condo currently underwater and worth about twenty thousand less than what she’d paid for it. Thousands of frequent flyer miles, a wardrobe rivaling Carrie Bradshaw’s, a six series BMW she loved more than life itself, and a bank account with less than a quarter of her total earnings from the show.
“You’re going to be okay, kiddo,” Dix offered her a conciliatory smile. “You’re walking away at the top of your game. You’re still under thirty-five, and you should have a nice nest egg set aside. Maybe now you can open that restaurant you’ve always talked about.”
Finished with his obligatory “cheer up” speech, Dix snapped his fingers in the air, then rolled his forefinger. On cue, the Peachtree Studio’s production crew started to break their equipment down.
“And you never know.” Jill’s voice rose by degrees while the shredded remnants of Sinclair’s life were rolled up and packed away. “You might get tapped again. You know, like Emeril Lagasse.”
Sinclair’s stomach gurgled with the first sign of unease. Not from the possibility of headlining another show but at the not so subtle reminder of a lifelong dream. Well, not entirely hers, since she’d shared it with Aunt Bernie.
They’d planned to open a restaurant at the end of the show’s run. They’d already agreed on the name, Too Sinful to Burn, and the location, a mixed-use building Aunt Bernie had purchased more than forty years ago in downtown Savannah, Georgia. Currently, a mercantile store occupied the bottom floor, and renters resided in the top two.
If their dream had been realized, Aunt Bernie would have had free rein of the kitchen while Sinclair managed the business. They were going to be a well-oiled machine, much like their time together on Cooking with Sin. Unfortunately, death had smashed a sledgehammer through it all, disrupting both of their futures.
Sinclair groaned. Her family was going to get a kick out of this! Miss Perfect, as they called her, was finally getting knocked off her pedestal. As the self-proclaimed star of a family of four sisters, all in the hospitality and food business, she’d left her Southern roots behind and gone to college to study broadcast journalism.
After graduating, she’d received a dose of reality in the ultra-competitive field she’d chosen. Opportunities that had come to her so easily in the past remained out of reach. Despite her best efforts, she fell into one field reporter position after another in some Podunk news station in some God-only-knows-where small town, USA.
After ten years of trying to climb the ladder, Sinclair had changed her priorities. She gave up being the hard-nosed, serious reporter exposing voter fraud in Sawmill, Indiana and became the quirky personality uncovering who made the best apple pies in Pennsylvania Dutch country.
Hundreds of offbeat foodie-centered features later, Sinclair had been presented with an opportunity to host a cooking show for a regional network in Atlanta, Georgia. She’d agreed to sign on only if they hired Aunt Bernie as a creative advisor.
To Sinclair’s surprise, the show’s popularity had snowballed into national syndication in less than two years, and they’d won an Emmy within four. Their surprising success was due to Aunt Bernie’s culinary genius.
Now everyone was suggesting she go from one lie to another.
Too bad she had too much pride to reach out to her family. As if it that would have helped. Her mother was adamantly retired, and her siblings had their hands full with their businesses. Her sister Rosalind helmed a popular wedding cake business. Her other sister Tanya’s candy-making business was on the verge of going national, and her older sister Veronica made a nice living for herself and her two little girls operating a matchmaking service.
So, how could a person who’d simply gone through the motions for five years open a restaurant? With Aunt Bernie gone, the idea seemed ludicrous.
“We’re going to head to breakfast want to come with?” Jill asked.
Break bread with the people who’d just canned her? “I think I should stay and clear out my trailer.”
As if they couldn’t wait to get out of there, they all rose as one. Sinclair gave them each an air kiss before waving goodbye. Of course, she couldn’t resist a bit of magic as a parting gift. Before receiving her walking papers, she’d heard rumors that production was looking to bankroll a new cooking show helmed by a pair of YouTubers barely out of high school. Supposedly, the wet-behind-the-ears foodies were Dix’s flunky nephews.
“So you depen’ on de phones,” she uttered in Gullah, the language of her ancestors. “Phones brek. Depen’ on no mo’.”
As she waved her hand, Sinclair felt a surge of energy in her fingertips. Wiggling them, freeing any excess magic, she sat back to enjoy the show.
“Hello…hello…hellooo?” Dix shouted into his android.
To his left, Jill yelped as a tiny mushroom cloud of smoke billowed from her iPhone.
Chris and Paulette, also ex-executive producers, had similar problems with their cells. One shot colored flames rivaling a Fourth of July sparkler. The other made a piercing squeal before Paulette pitched it into a nearby wall.
Sinclair smiled. She could’ve done more but what she’d done sure felt good.
Chapter One
Two years later, Savannah, Georgia
“Soldier boy’s still out there waiting on his date.” Grimacing, Mickey slammed her serving tray down on a prep table.
“He’s actually a sailor,” Archie, Sinclair’s prep cook, corrected. “He’s wearing his service dress khakis.”
Sinclair glanced at the clock above the deep fryer. At a half past nine, the man at the center of their conversation had arrived at seven for a seven fifteen reservation.
Normally, to obtain a table at Too Sinful to Burn, you didn’t need a reservation. On par with Roscoe’s Chicken and Waffles, minus the waffles and chicken, but with shrimp and grits it was first come, first serve. But the hectic St. Patrick’s Day holiday and the reported quarter of a million visitors in town, made a reservation system a temporary necessity or the line to get in would’ve stretch all the way down to the Savannah River.
“Have you taken his order?” Sinclair asked.
“I tried three times,” Mickey drawled, drawing out “time”. The leggy waitress talked slower than molasses. “Appears he’s an officer and a gentleman. He doesn’t want to order until his date arrives.”
“Did you tell him the kitchen closes in a half hour?”
Mickey sighed as she leaned up against the prep station. She was waiting on Sinclair to fill table ten’s order. “He knows, boss. In light of the peculiar circumstances, he seems perfectly content to nurse the Jack Daniels a customer bought him.”
A wave of pity knotted Sinclair’s stomach. Poor guy couldn’t face the fact he’d been stood up by some heartless hood rat or medal chaser. At least he wasn’t giving up in the face of adversity, no matter the cost to his pride or ego. Left up to her, she would’ve deserted her post two hours ago.
“And get this…when I suggested he move to the bar since he wasn’t eating, soldier boy claimed he couldn’t sit in there while in uniform.” Mickey’s frown deepened. “Too bad Con’s gone home sick. He’d charm that guy right out of his seat and out the door.”
Sinclair didn’t doubt it. Con had a special way with people. His gregarious personality was one of the reasons why the former bar owner and father of two had won the job as both her head bartender and assistant manager.
“Doubt it,” Archie replied while he spooned two bowls of shrimp gumbo. “You know Con’s kind nature and his soft spot for the military.”
Sinclair doubted Mickey could remember anything past her own self-centered nose. She, on the other hand, couldn’t forget how much of a trooper Con was, despite having no family left. His wife had died of breast cancer thirty years ago, leaving him with two small children, a son and a daughter, who’d gone on to serve in the military. Both had died while on active duty, his son in Desert Storm and his daughter in Iraq.
“Maybe if you went out there and chatted him up a bit, boss, he’d change his mind about not sampling your famous shrimp and grits with gravy.”
Sinclair didn’t even bat a lash as she slowly spun a plate of blackened tilapia around to clean off the residual specks of gravy. Unable to afford an expeditor, Sinclair garnished and prepped all the dishes. Plus, Mickey had tried this ploy more than once in her tenuous tenure as a part of Sinclair’s small staff. But it never worked. Sinclair never, ever stepped a foot outside the kitchen during restaurant hours.
If she did, all hell would break loose.
Still shouldering her secret, Sinclair had been unable to ignore her and Aunt Bernie’s dream after all. Four months after she’d wrapped up her last episode of Cooking with Sin, the mercantile shop owner in Aunt Bernie’s building had decided to retire. As one of three heirs of her aunt’s estate, she suddenly had an empty storefront to fill. Instead of renting the bottom floor to another business, she sold her condo in a short sale, packed up her belongings, and moved to Savannah, Georgia.
In six weeks, Sinclair had turned the bottom floor of the brick building into the cozy restaurant she and Aunt Bernie had envisioned. To save money, she sold her BMW and moved into one of the apartments on the top floor.
She’d also enrolled in a couple of basic cooking classes, but, too busy with the opening, marketing, and promotion of a new restaurant, Sinclair hadn’t finished any of them. But that hadn’t kept Too Sinful to Burn from landing in the black fourteen months after opening, or from becoming the toast of the City by the Sea.
Sinclair credited fifty percent of the restaurant’s good fortune to her former show’s reputation. Thirty percent was based on Aunt Bernie’s southern recipes, which gave homage to their Gullah roots in South Carolina’s Low Country. The remaining twenty percent was a little-known family secret Sinclair would take to her grave.
Sinclair and Aunt Bernie shared more than a love for cooking. They also shared a common ancestor. All their fans knew her Gullah recipes originated from Sinclair’s great- grandmother and Aunt Bernie’s grandmother, Trudy Gateau. No one had a clue that she’d dabbled in herbs and potions and even authored a book she’d titled Ms. Trudy’s Book of Cure-alls.
One particular spell would prove to be profitable over the years. According to family lore, Trudy loved her husband Albert so strongly she grew tired of him straying into the arms of other women. Fed up, she fixed up a potion, blended it into a cake to satisfy his sweet tooth, and served it to him on their first anniversary. From that day on, her great-grandfather never parked his shoes under any woman’s bed except Trudy’s.
Seeing firsthand the fruits of her labor, Trudy decided to fuse her love for cooking and her cure-alls into a profitable business, making wedding cakes for other people. Over the years, her cakes developed a reputation of their own. Not only were they delicious, but they guaranteed happy marriages.
The business was still going strong back in Beaufort, South Carolina. Although decorating cakes made Sinclair’s eyes glaze over, her sister Rosalind Fletcher—now Benedict, after marrying a hunk of a wedding planner four years ago—had taken over the business from their mother. Under her control, Forever, I Do Cakes had blossomed. The clientele had doubled, dozens of news articles had been written, and the shop had even been featured on several episodes of Southern Weddings.
Tweaking the original spell so the results were only temporary, Sinclair had mixed her great-grandmother’s recipe with the powdered sugar that she alone sprinkled on the complimentary corn fritters every guest received with their meals. This little kick made people not only like her cooking but practically fall in love with it.
Unfortunately, the spell had an awful side effect. It made her patrons fall in love with her as well. Although the effect only lasted temporarily, Sinclair never stepped outside her kitchen during operating hours, and her employees were forbidden from eating anything while on the clock.
Yes, it was wrong. And yes, guilt had eaten at her so badly she’d even reenrolled at the Academy of Culinary Arts of Savannah last spring, but she was too knee-deep in her own shit and too much of a coward to take a single class, much less close her doors for good. To say she was between a rock and a hard place was making light of her problems.
Her hot mess of a life was one of the reasons she also had a nonexistent sex life. Adding any kind of intimacy would just complicate matters further. Plus, who would want a relationship with someone not only was living a big, fat lie but also a witch?
Just once, Sinclair wished she could meet some stranger and they’d just go at it. No strings attached—only mutual gratification. Wham bam, thank you, ma’am. Of course, that would never happen, since she had an awful habit of second-guessing her decisions.
“So what are you going to do about it?”
Sinclair ignored Mickey’s question. The younger woman had more bark than bite.
Once, she and Archie had to practically scrape Mickey off the sidewalk out front after she’d mouthed off to her boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend, who showed up one day to confront her about not allowing him to spend time with their son. The ex-girlfriend doled out a little tough love, and after that, she had no more issues with either Mickey or the boyfriend’s lack of involvement.
“I hate to say this, but he has to go.”
“What do you mean?” Sinclair asked, keeping her voice surprisingly level. In order to deal with Mickey and to prevent her famous temper tantrums, one needed to tread lightly. Even though she wanted to put said tread on the other woman’s backside permanently.
“He’s messing up my tips, Sin. I’d planned out my budget this month around the money I’d make on St. Patrick’s Day weekend. And he’s messing with my bottom line.”
Archie snorted, and Gladys, his partner in crime and Sinclair’s most dependable waitress, mumbled under her breath, neither of them directly addressing Mickey’s insanity. It wasn’t their place, since they were employees. Instead, they pretended not to be listening while they went about their normal duties, filling orders and cleaning up the prep stations.
Sinclair sighed. One of the biggest downsides of being the owner of your own business—you had to deal with the bullshit.
“And what’s your bottom line?”
“I was hoping to clear an extra seven hundred dollars this week. My boyfriend wants to go on a cruise for our one-year anniversary.”
Obviously unable to hold his tongue any longer, Archie spoke up. “What’s he getting you, sugar momma?”
Mickey looked down at her nails, intricately designed with tiny shamrocks for tomorrow’s holiday. “I don’t want anything. Just some one-on-one time.”
“And you’re paying?” Sinclair asked.
“I don’t mind paying.” Mickey straightened her skinny shoulders and lifted her chin. “He’s does plenty for me.”
“Ha!” Gladys laughed. “Name one thing he’s done for you except for laying some pipe every now and then.” The seventy-year-old grandmother glanced at Archie. “Sorry about that, Arch.”
Archie’s lips widened into a lopsided grin, and he winked. Under the kitchen’s fluorescent lighting, his two front teeth, plated with simulated gold, seemed to twinkle. “No offense taken.”
During their exchange, Mickey’s tall, lanky frame seemed to quake with anger. “I’ll have you know he watches my kid every night while I slave around here for crumbs.”
“I guess live-in babysitters need a break every now and then.”
Cackling at Archie’s joke, Gladys shuffled over to the salad station and fixed four bowls for one of her tables. “You know she’s simply repaying him for all he does around the house, Arch. Even though he doesn’t have a job and lives with her for free.”
“So what if he does? There’s nothing wrong with being a stay-at-home dad,” Mickey sniffed.
“That would be true if he were really contributing,” Sinclair piped in. She’d had it up to here with Mickey and her putting her boyfriend before her job and sometimes her own child. “And if I had a dime for every time you complained about doing all the cooking and cleaning, I wouldn’t need a loan to refinish the bar.”
Mickey’s cheeks turned Macintosh apple red, and she balled her fists so tightly the knuckles blanched. “What’s this, jump-on-Mickey hour?” The younger woman looked pointedly at Sinclair. “If…if you’re not going to clear that table, then I will!”
Before Sinclair could talk some sense into her or fire her, Mickey slammed through the kitchen’s swinging doors.
“She wouldn’t would she?”
“Oh yes, she would!” Gladys and Archie chorused. Sinclair vacillated. She should have been more professional and held her tongue, but Mickey always had a way of rubbing her the wrong way. The younger woman was downright selfish.
Throwing in the towel, literally, Sinclair tossed the prep towel in her hand aside as she rounded the kitchen line.
A familiar purr made her steps falter.
On the other side of the kitchen’s outer screen door, her cat Mr. Nancy rested on the fire escape leading to her second-floor walk-up. Seeing her, he waved his tail and meowed. Out of habit, Sinclair clicked her tongue at the black Maine Coon who possessed more compassion than most humans. Her waitress included.
Still with each step, Sinclair’s feet felt leaden. If she went out there, all hell was going to break loose. If she didn’t, Mickey would make sure it would.
Can’t Eat Just One Corn Fritters
1 package Jiffy cornbread mix
1 can of creamed corn
2 eggs, beaten
Powdered sugar
Cooking oil
Combine cornbread mix, creamed corn, and eggs in a bowl. Mix well. Drop batter from a tablespoon into hot oil. Fry until golden brown, then turn and brown other side. Drain fritters on paper towels and allow them to cool, then sprinkle with powdered sugar.
Want to read the entire story?
Buy a copy of Something Witchy This Way Comes at the following retailers!
