Page 96 of Jingle Spells

A Christmas to Forget

Driving out of Oak Haven, Jasper kept both hands at ten and two on the steering wheel. His allegiance to driver’s ed guidelines had never left him. Also, having something to hang on to felt both right and necessary at the moment. He glanced at Delilah in the passenger seat. “So once we get the spell, you’ll need to figure out exactly how to use it. Agnes wasn’t exactly forthcoming with details.”

“I’m assuming it will all be clear from the parchment,” Delilah replied, her voice tight. She hadn’t stopped fidgeting since they’d left town. “There’ll be some sort of instructions.”

“Like IKEA furniture, with fewer leftover screws. Hey, so, you remember your cover story, right?” Jasper had taken great pains to invent a story that his future self would deem at least glancingly plausible. “It may not be easy to get me to do what you want.”

She smiled, a bit weakly. “I remember. Don’t worry, I’ll get you to take me to your office.”

I don’t know, he thought suddenly. Seems awfully risky to drive to my office right now. Why are we even doing this? Something about a document? He frowned, trying to sort through the fog that seemed to be settling in his mind. He shook his head slightly, hoping that might dislodge the growing confusion.

“Jasper? Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he muttered, though he wasn’t. His thoughts were like papers scattered by a strong wind, and he was frantically trying to gather them before they blew away entirely.

They passed the Lost Fox Inn, then the local veterinary hospital, then the combination convenience store and gas station. Familiar landmarks, certainly. Yet somehow everything looked slightly wrong. Did he even know this place?

“We were talking about the spell,” Delilah prompted. “From Agnes Bartlett’s hiding place.”

“Oh sure, Agnes Bartlett.” He knew that name well; her portrait hung near the stairs that led to his office. But any context had disappeared from his mind. The who was clear enough, but the why . . . that was fading fast. “Agnes, yes, of course.”

He noticed Delilah watching him closely, her eyes filled with an emotion he couldn’t quite place. Worry? Sadness? Oh dear, he thought, why does she look so sad? What’s troubling her so much?

And more importantly . . .

Who is this person?

The question struck him with such force that he instinctively hit the brakes and pulled the car sharply onto the shoulder. His tires crunched on gravel as Jasper put it in park. His heart hammered in his chest.

“Jasper?” The strange woman reached for him.

He recoiled, pressing himself against the driver’s door. “I’m sorry, but I don’t . . . Who are you? What are you doing in my car?”

Her face crumpled for a split second, then recovered. “You don’t remember me.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Should I?” He adjusted his glasses nervously. Get it together, Jasper. People don’t just materialize in cars! Clearly you invited her in. “I mean, obviously I should, since you’re in my car, but I . . . I’m drawing a blank here.”

She took a deep breath. “My name is Delilah Melrose. I’m an archivist specializing in document preservation. You called me about a very unusual find.”

“I did?” This sounded plausible. He did occasionally consult with other archivists.

“Yes. Someone filed a liquor license for J&J, Incorporated at 278 West 113th Street. You were quite puzzled by it.”

Jasper blinked rapidly. The liquor license. Yes, that was real. He remembered seeing it, remembered being perplexed by the impossible address. But he definitely didn’t remember calling this woman. Clearly I must’ve, though.

“That’s right,” he said cautiously. “The address can’t exist.”

“Exactly. And when you drove out to investigate, you found some unusual things. You contacted me because of my expertise in historical document authentication.”

Oh yes, something was coming back. He could picture himself driving away from work, hoping to avoid the office Christmas party. But everything after that was a total blank. God, how embarrassing.

“And now we’re going to your office,” she continued gently, “because you believe you’ve found a historical document that might explain the discrepancy.”

“I see.” He didn’t, not really . . . but admitting total confusion seemed far worse than playing along. When one discovers a beautiful woman in one’s car, one tries one’s best to avoid looking like a complete idiot. “And this document is . . .”

“Behind Agnes Bartlett’s portrait. You noticed something unusual about the frame yesterday and wanted me to take a look.”