Page 135 of Dream House
The whole crew is in Nanna’s dining room, prepping for Pen’s big dinner. All eyes flick from Maisy to Pen, who is clearly bristling.
“I’ma real witch,” she declares, chin high.
“No—” Maisy shakes her head. “Afamousone!”
Clearly offended, my best friend looks to me for explanation.
I bite my lip. “It’s true. You know the dance studio on the corner?” I point my thumb over my shoulder. Everyone nods except Pen. She just seethes. “That girl fromHexedwas giving out candy on the front porch.”
Pen’s jaw drops.“Iris Adams?”
I nod, and Pen breaks into a run for the front door.
“Hang on!” I call after her. “They aren’t there anymore. The crowds got too big.”
Pen wheels on me. “You mean to tell me Raven Blackwell—Netflix’s most famous witch—isdown the street handing out candyand you didn’t text me?”
I bite my lip.
Her eyes bug. “What happened? I know you weren’t star-struck.”
I shrug. “You didn’t see her boyfriend,” I confess in a whisper.
And I don’t miss Lark’s stiffening spine.
“Apparently, he’s a local,” I say, smiling at the memory of the gorgeous guy with his arm wrapped around Iris Adams.
A rumble comes from across the room. Everyone looks at Lark.
Livy claps her hands, startling all of us. “Time for the feast.”
Feastis rather a strong word, but since Livy and Nina did most of the cooking and I did none, I’m not about to argue.
It’s while the two of them are serving our plates that I realize Nina, Livy, and I are all wearing orange while Tyler, Pen, and Lark are in black.
It also isn’t lost on me that Pen’s tailoring talents and artistic eye have outdone themselves. Although our outfits look similar, like part of a set, they are distinct with personal touches. Nina’s neckline is the highest, but also the most adorned—with shiny, applique marigolds on the bodice. She is elegant. Stunning, even. When she leans in to set Tyler’s plate in front of him, his eyes don’t even glimpse the food. They are locked on her the entire time.
When she steps away, she’s blushing, but she looks nothing like the girl who turned up on our doorstep seven weeks ago with nothing but a black eye to her name.
Her whole bearing is lighter, lifted. Her smile is not just happy; it’s proud.
I look to Pen across the table to acknowledge this transformation—her magic—but, of course, her eyes are on Livy, whose dress is cut to celebrate each of her sensual, hour-glass curves. Unlike mine and Nina’s, her skirt and bodice are pleated, and the lines draw the eye down from Livy’s ample bosom to her surprisingly tiny waist before cascading down her full hips.
Livy’s hemline petals out and dances around her plump calves. I could be imagining it, but Livy seems to twirl left to right—maybe more than is strictly necessary—as she serves us. The look in her eyes and her smile are unusually soft. Maybe that’s because she’s bending her own rule tonight, and sipping from the mulled wine Pen made. Or maybe it’s something else.
I sweep my gaze around the table and beam. As Pen has dictated, we are seated black-orange-black along one side of the table with Pen, Livy, and Lark, and orange-black-orange with Nina, Tyler, and me on the other. Maisy, with her flame orange wig and black necktie, sits at the head.
Candles span the center of the table, flickering light off our blood red punch glasses of mulled wine, or, in Maisy’s case, cranberry juice. The warmth and joy in the room has tears pricking my eyes.
Laughing instead, I can’t help but raise my glass.
“Pen, this is truly amazing.” I swallow hard because I don’t want my voice to wobble now, but when my best friend meets my gaze, I know she sees. “Nanna would have loved this. You’ve made this house a home again.”
“Me?!”Pen looks scandalised. “Nuh-uh. You did this. This isyourdream house.”
Before I can argue, glasses shoot up around the table.
“Truth,” Livy says.
