Page 4 of Vengefully Matched

She was thinking of her ex, the horrible one who had embarrassed her at Evelyn’s failed wedding. She simply refused to even think of Councilwoman Priscilla Hart in that context, not to absolve her of her sins in bolting, but rather because her rage at the thought of her nemesis was too consuming. Hart jilting her bride had rippled into Agatha’s own life, prompting Jonathan to do likewise to her.

That bitch.

“Agatha Chrysanthemum, I would never bore you like that. I had quite enough of your young Jonathan, with the god-awful series he made us sit through last Christmas. What did he call it?”

“ ‘Selfie-Exploration: A New Transcendental American Moment.’ ”

“Absolute trash—pictures of himself blocking views of beautiful places. He can get wrecked.”

“Some of it was decent,” she protested, but a genuine smile crept up her face at her mother’s shared anger, nonetheless. She glanced at the pile of paperwork she absolutely had to review before the end of the day.

“He fosters husky puppies!” Tiffany exclaimed, as though little Adam had won a Nobel Peace Prize. And sure, she had to admit, Adam had never been terrible-looking, and husky puppies sounded definitely cute enough to be tempting.

“That is adorable,” she conceded. And much more aligned with her interests than foot pics, but she didn’t want to encourage her mother.

“So you’ll come around for brunch? I’ll make my famous mimosas and invite Louise and Adam to stop by.”

Her mom’s mimosas were delightful. The obvious ploy to set her up was not. Her love life was the absolute last thing she wanted her mom involved in. She’d take fashion recommendations and health-care suggestions. All good advice. She’d take the majority of it.

Just not dating tips.

“I’m really behind on work, Mom.” She hesitated, weighing the consequences of a little bit more honesty. “And I’m not looking to jump into anything new right now.”

“Now listen, Agatha Peach. That’s exactly what your father said when I first met him.”

The Drs. Vanderbilt Voisin had met in med school, and the words of that initial exchange had been lost to history, subject to Tiffany’s modification and tweaking in the retelling.

The facts were these: Vincent Voisin and Tiffany Vanderbilt were an unlikely pair. He was a wealthy and standoffish French witch who had visited through NACoW’s foreign exchange program in college, fallen in love with New England, and returned for further postsecondary studies. She was a bubbling, effervescent, first-generation witch daughter of a human waitress who left her preacher husband when they somehow produced a magical child. Grandma Vanderbilt was scrappy and rough around the edges, and one of Agatha’s absolute favorite people. She would never offer advice about dating. Though, had she done so, Agatha would have taken it in a heartbeat. If there was anyone a clinically anxious thirty-seven-year-old semicloseted bisexual could trust, it was a woman willing to start from scratch rather than suffer a bigoted fool who was cruel to their daughter.

And so Tiffany Vanderbilt came to be a confident, audacious product of watching her mother pull her through childhood using sheer force of will and luck, and that drive had landed her a spot in a top school, and thus brought her to the fateful night in a diner when she had been waiting tables, like Agatha’s Granny Vanderbilt before her, to pay rent. The future love of her life had been crying into a plate of apple pie over his latest heartbreak.

Tiffany gave him extra pie, pulled over a chair, and doled out her absolute favorite thing in the world to give: dating advice. She had even gone so far as to suggest he lose the bow tie he was wearing; her mother never was above blending the sartorial with the emotional. They had just celebrated their fortieth anniversary.

“I tell you what, Agatha May. You visit and I’ll make that peach pie you love so much.”

No one, absolutely no one, not even Granny Vanderbilt, made peach pie like her mother.

“I’ll check my schedule. But leave it alone with Adam. I don’t want you hanging mistletoe or shoving us into a dark corner or anything.”

“Agatha Marine.” Her mother sounded scandalized. “I would never hang mistletoe in May. It’s far too early. And an affront to the summer solstice.”

She smiled, wondering what the metaphorical stand-in for mistletoe would be.

“I have to go, but I’ll see you soon.”

“Can I expect to hear from you about specifics promptly?”

“Yes, Mom. Love you. Give Dad my love too.”

“Love you too, Agatha Dorothy.”

She hung up and noticed the three additional blinking lights on the phone.

She pressed the intercom button for the front desk. “Kevin?”

“President Voisin?”

“I see I have several calls. I also still have the permits to get to, and then after I wrap on the phone we can talk agenda.”