“Please don’t,” I beg, but I’m talking to a wall. Three walls, actually—all of them crackling with entrepreneurial baby fever.
“Judge-quality genetics,” Suze announces with the authority of a lunatic launching a campaign. “Guaranteed to produce honor roll students and future leaders of America!”
“Or Detective DNA,” Lily adds, getting into the twisted spirit of things. “Comes with built-in crime-solving instincts and an unhealthy attraction to danger.”
“We could go national!” Carlotta’s chest puffs with pride as her imagination runs wild in all fifty states. “Honey Hollow Heredity—where quality comes first, and satisfaction is guaranteed! And let’s not forget the bonus perks—strong jawlines, criminal magnetism, and emotional baggage included.”
The three of them dissolve into cackles that sound suspiciously close to witches stirring a particularly potent brew. Other customers are starting to stare, probably wondering if we’re planning some kind of genetic coup. And apparently, some of us are.
“You realize you’re discussing my husband and Lyla Nell’s daddy?” I point out, though my protest falls on deaf ears.
“Daddy!” Lyla Nell explodes in wild cheers. If only she knew.
“Think of the testimonials from the satisfied customers!” Suze wipes tears from her eyes. “‘Five stars,’” she says, pretending to read from an invisible card. “‘Exceeded expectations. Would absolutely recommend to a friend—with proper hydration and maybe a chiropractor on standby.’”
More explosive laughter ensues.
Suze leans in. “‘Better than therapy. Better than chocolate. Better than my first marriage—and that bar was low.’”
Wow. She does realize that Noah is her son, doesn’t she?
“We’ll need quality control measures,” Lily adds with far too much seriousness. “Background checks, genetic testing, maybe some kind of performance review.”
“Performance review?” Now I’m the one choking on my coffee. Decaf, as it were.
“Professional performance,” Carlotta clarifies with a wink that suggests she’s not talking about professional performance at all.”
Effie nods knowingly. “The real question is performance consistency. Can they deliver every time or just when they’re motivated? Because let’s be real, genetics aren’t the only thing those women are getting.”
Cackles break out. They’re unstoppable at this point.
“Come on, Lottie.” Lily gives me a stern look as if she were about to shake me. “Give us a real review. Something juicy we can sink our teeth into.”
“They’re both solid performers.” The words escape me before I can stop them.
They laugh so loud the windows rattle.
Carlotta slaps the table a few times. “That’s great, Lot. Though I suppose there could be other metrics. Think of the potential. We could call it Honey Hollow Hotties R Us!”
Before I can smack her, or smack all of them, a fresh wave of customers floods through the front door, creating a tide of holiday enthusiasm that requires immediate attention. Effie and Lily spring into action with the speed of women who know when duty calls.
“This conversation isn’t over, Lottie!” Suze calls over her shoulder as she rushes toward the counter. “We’ll need a full business plan by tomorrow!”
“With financial projections!” Lily adds, already pulling espresso shots with great efficiency because heaven knows she’s had years of practice dealing with Monday morning caffeine emergencies. She pauses mid-pour. “And we may need a few action shots.”
Good grief.
I turn to Carlotta, ready to deliver a lecture about appropriate conversation topics in public spaces, but before I can get a single word out, the air around us explodes in a spray of brilliant blue stars that sparkle and dance with all the subtlety of a cosmic light show.
And just like that, a lion materializes in the middle of my bakery. Not a house cat with delusions of grandeur, not a golden retriever having an identity crisis and wearing a bad Halloween costume, but a full-sized, magnificent, larger-than-life lion whose mane flows with the majesty of something that belongs on a nature documentary, and he happens to be standing between the pastry display and the coffee counter.
“GAAHHH!” Lyla Nell goes absolutely insane with delight. “MY LION!” she shrieks, clapping her tiny hands and bouncing in her high chair with the enthusiasm of a little girl who’s just discovered Christmas, Easter, and her birthday all rolled into one spectacular furry moment. “MINE! ALL MINE!”
Before the poor ghostly beast can figure out what’s happening, my daughter launches partially from her chair and grabs his tail with both hands, holding on with the determination of someone who’s found her very own supernatural pet and has zero intention of letting go.
The lion tries to back away, probably rethinking his decision to visit a bakery full of sugar-high toddlers, but Lyla Nell’s grip could rival industrial-strength superglue.
This is probably a good time to mention that Carlotta, myself, and Lyla Nell are something called transmundane, further classified as supersensual. The long and short of it—we can see the dead. There are other supernatural talents that come with being transmundane, and even though seeing the dead is a pretty serious deal, a part of me still thinks we got off easily.
