Witch of Key Lime Lane: A Paranormal Women's Fiction Novel (Dead & Breakfast Book 1) Read online

  DEAD & BREAKFAST #1

  Gabrielle Keyes

  Copyright © 2021 Gabrielle Keyes

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  ASIN: B097SVDY9L (eBook Edition)

  Characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by author.

  Copyright © 2021 Gabrielle Keyes

  Cover art copyright © 2021 by Curtis Sponsler

  Printed and bound in the United States of America

  First printing July 2021

  Published by Alienhead Press

  Miami, FL 33186

  Book 1 - Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Book 2 – CRONE OF COCONUT COURT

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  More Books by Gabrielle Keyes

  “Life is a series of hellos and goodbyes.

  I’m afraid it’s time for goodbye again.”

  - BILLY JOEL

  1

  I know what you’re thinking.

  You see that internet photo with the woman in her mid-40s, wearing an eerily zen smile and sweats, messy top bun, holding a glass of wine, grinning from ear-to-ear while setting fire to her ex’s belongings on the sidewalk, and you think: Lily Blanchett has lost her bananas.

  And you would be right.

  Bananas or marbles, it was not my finest moment.

  The headline is usually something like: Wife of Celebrity Chef Derek Blanchett Holds Breakup Bonfire (though sometimes they’re kind enough to use my name). And if you’re lucky, you might see the bonus image of me flipping a bird at Mrs. Napoli, my nosy neighbor who captured the moment and sold the photos to the tabloids.

  Ah, good times.

  I checked the time on the lasagna. Five more minutes. I poured another glass of pinot noir, as David Bowie wrapped his chonky white and ginger body around my leg, meowing like the world’s supply of tuna had ended.

  “I’ve fed you five times today, Bo. Go run a lap.”

  Nowhere did the articles ever mention how I found out about Derek’s secret-squirrel life. Nowhere did they explain how I had to listen in agony to my daughter Emily call from her dorm, crying her eyeballs out, all because she’d gone to dinner with friends and seen her father with another woman and two kids who looked like both of them. How she’d gone up to him, demanding to know who the hell the woman was, only for Derek to confess, in the middle of P.F. Chang’s, that she and her brother had half-siblings.

  They never showed my daughter’s tears. Or her therapy bills. Or the hole my son punched in his dorm wall that I had to pay for. No, they only showed Batshit Crazy Lily. Having a bonfire. On the sidewalk of her Long Island home.

  I’d held onto his stuff for a year—a year—naively wishing the nightmare would go away. Maybe I’d wake up and find Derek home one day, telling me it was all a joke. He never cheated, never fell in love with a redheaded yoga instructor. Things could go back to normal now. Or maybe if I worked hard enough, put in longer hours, more sweat and tears into the restaurant, my life would miraculously resolve itself.

  Dumb, I know.

  But then, Weasel’s marital settlement agreement finally arrived on my doorstep, decreeing several injustices. One, that he wouldn’t pay child support of any kind. The kids were adults now, and he had little ones to worry about. Weasel also declared his plan to take our restaurant, the career baby we’d both cultivated and poured our hearts into, on the idea that we wouldn’t be able to work in the same kitchen together anymore.

  And finally, because he’d bought this house fifteen years ago under his name only (I never thought I’d have to add my name to the deed—I thought our marriage was forever), he’d be taking the house as well.

  That was the final blow. I knew he was taking revenge for my getting a restraining order put against him, which made him lose his TV show, but what else was I supposed to do after he pinned me to the kitchen fridge in anger? All because I compared him to his violent father during an argument. Well, it was true. I’d never seen him act that way before. The agreement also said I should pay for the kids’ college tuition myself, since Emily and Chase had stopped talking to him anyway.

  So, to summarize: no restaurant, no house, no income, and only a three-month savings off which to live. As if any of this were my fault. Ask Derek, however, and he’d tell you it was me—my emotional (and physical) distance from him, my workaholic ways—that made him cheat.

  Of course. Everything was always my fault.

  So, yeah, I snapped. Burning the last of his shirts, TV awards, and boxers had been a bit dramatic, but damn did it feel good.

  Even then, it was hard to let go. As much as the world made it seem like getting over Weasel should be easy, or like my therapist said, it was unhealthy to keep giving him so much of my “energy,” I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Couldn’t stop engaging in text wars, couldn’t stop stalking him and his girlfriend on social media, couldn’t move on with my life.

  I mean, listen. For twenty-two years, Derek had been my life. I gave him everything. I hadn’t insisted my name go on the house, because I didn’t live in fear of losing him. That had been a mistake. I gave up my last name for him. I moved to New York City for him. I kept our restaurant in order for him, so he could have fun as the host of Blanchett’s BBQ Challenge. And for a passionate restauranteur like me, losing Chelsea Garden Grill was just as devastating.

  The oven timer buzzed. Bowie took a seat at the counter stool, and my phone rang—my mother—all at the same time. I groaned and took a long sip of wine. “Hi, Mom,” I answered.

  “Hi, Lily. It’s Mom.”

  “I know. I just said, ‘Hi, Mom.’”

  “Don’t be aggressive, darling.”

  “Mom, I’d know your voice in my sleep. You’re my mother.”

  “Good, I’m glad. Listen…your Aunt Sylvie said you can use her cottage.”

  “Cottage?”

  “Her house down in the Keys.”

  “In Florida?”

  “Yes, the only house she’s ever had. The one we used to stay at when you kids were little.”

  I knew which house she meant, but I didn’t know Aunt Sylvie still owned it. For the last thirteen years, my elderly aunt had lived in an assisted living facility in Tampa. Her tiny beachfront home we used to visit as a family off Islamorada had long become a foggy, sun-soaked memory. As an ambitious 12-year-old, I always imagined her house to be my very own home away from home.

  “I never asked if I could use her cottage, Mom.” I pulled a block of aged Parmigiano-Reggiano from the fridge.

  “I know that, Lily. I asked for you.”

  “Why would you do t
hat without asking me first?”

  Her sigh leaked into my ear. “Because you need to get away for a while, honey. I think the fresh ocean air will do you good.”

  “Mom, I’m not crazy. The tabloids are just making me seem that way. It’s called sensationalism. It sells magazines. You know this.”

  “It’s a cry for help, darling.”

  “No, Mom.” My blood boiled, an instant symptom of discussions with her sometimes. “Need I remind you that burning his stuff on the sidewalk was actually a bold and healthy move for me? He’s taken enough advantage of me. I had to send the signal that I won’t be bullied or humiliated anymore.”

  “Honey, a smoke signal was the only signal it sent. And the fire department was nice enough to let you off with a warning. You got lucky.”

  “Lucky?? Tell me why are you calling again?” I lifted the lasagna out of the oven and plopped it on the counter. Frozen Kirkland brand. I’d reached a new low.

  “I told you. Your Aunt Sylvie—”

  “Yes, got it.” I clipped fresh basil from the potted herbs by my window. It may have been frozen lasagna, but presentation is everything. “Aunt Sylvie said I could use her old house if I wanted.”

  “Right, and since you won’t be working at the Garden Grill anymore—”

  “I never said I won’t be working there anymore, Mom. That’s what Derek’s agreement proposed, but I don’t have to accept his terms. I can fight it, and I intend to.”

  “Why? Do you really want to work in the same kitchen space as your ex-husband who cheated on you with a woman he met on Limber—”

  “Tinder, Mom.”

  “Do you really want to see him every day? Bump into him constantly? While holding a chopping knife? With a meat grinder nearby? Lily, I’m a tad concerned.”

  “He won’t be there all the time, and it’s not just his restaurant, Mom.” I rolled up the basil for the chiffonade. “We built it from the ground up together. We became the #1 Debut Restaurant of Greenwich Village less than three years after Grand Opening.” I scraped the basil shreds aside and slammed the knife onto the cutting board. “We got a cooking show on the Cooking Network in less than five.”

  “He got a cooking show,” Mom reminded me.

  “Yes, because he’s the show pony of the relationship. Having an ego the size of Jupiter is Weasel’s job.”

  “Whose job?”

  “Derek, Mom.”

  “Oh, honey, don’t call him that. He’s still the children’s father.”

  “Would Dickwad or Fuckface be better?”

  “See? You’re angry. Sylvie’s cottage can take the edge off.”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Of course, I’m angry. Did you forget that he humiliated me, not the other way around? The only reason I didn’t get as much airtime on the show was because I was hard at work behind the scenes. I was the driving force in the background, the one keeping the restaurant running while he got all the credit. He owes his celebrity status to me.”

  “You don’t think I know that?”

  I swirled my wine as I seethed.

  “You don’t think I know how hard you worked, day and night, while raising kids and being a wife? Oh, Lily, we may not agree on everything, but honey, I know the daughter I raised. I have never known a more ambitious little girl in all my life!”

  Tears welled up in my eyes.

  “I don’t care who’s right or who’s wrong, whose fault it is, or anything. I only care about you. I know you’re not crazy, but I also recognize someone who needs a break when I see one.”

  I ran my thumb along my lashes. “Well, you could sound like you’re on my side more often.”

  “I am on your side. Why else would I have asked Aunt Sylvie if it’d be okay? She hasn’t set foot in her house in thirteen years, and she’s not getting out of her facility anytime soon. We both know she never will, darling.” Mom’s voice was starting to sound strained. “Honestly, she would be delighted for one of us to use it again.”

  Maybe my mother really was on my side.

  Maybe she always had been.

  Still, the Keys were too far; there was too much to do. I had to fight Weasel’s settlement agreement or accept it and start looking for new restaurant space in a cheaper part of town. My savings, after Weasel was done with me, would only carry me for three months. Leaving NYC wouldn’t solve my problems.

  “I’m not that person, Mom.” I fought back tears.

  “Which person, Lily?”

  “The kind who runs away.” I blotted my eyes with a cloth napkin and pried open the lasagna foil. “The kind who escapes responsibilities because it’s easier than dealing with life. That would be Derek.”

  “Easier than powering through the pain, you mean.”

  I stared at greasy, bubbling mozzarella. Suddenly, I’d lost my appetite. Was that what I was doing? Powering through pain? Pretending like none of it ever happened? Biting down, moving on? Wasn’t that what the world wanted from me? To get over it?

  The truth was: a vacation sounded amazing. To do nothing, for once. To lie on the beach, drink mojitos, and forget my life and feelings sounded like a dream, but life wasn’t a dream. The last two years had proven that.

  “There’s another reason,” Mom said hesitantly.

  “I was wondering when the ulterior motive would show up.”

  “It’s nothing like that. Don’t be dramatic. It’s just that Aunt Sylvie is considering selling the place. But she has no family to check it out for her. She needs to see what kind of condition it’s in, if it’s worth selling, keeping, renting, renovating, razing or what. You could report back to her on its condition.”

  “Why don’t you go then? You’re her last surviving sister.” I almost added or send Gary, but my brain had a hard time remembering that my brother died three years ago. In my mind, Gary was still alive somewhere and would’ve loved to go spend a week fishing in Florida.

  I carved out a square of lasagna and plated it. Instead of holding together nicely, it spread out like a disease.

  “And leave your father alone?” She snorted. “Lily, please, your father is lucky I’m there to file his toenails. Besides, I can’t fly anymore. My sciatic nerve flares up. You know that.”

  Yeah, I knew. I knew she was making excuses so that I would take a forced leave of absence is what I knew.

  “The kids are grown. They’re doing their own thing. Think of it as a transition. Now is the perfect time.” The sincerity in my mother’s voice made me want to curl up in her arms like I was nine again. “And when you’re all refreshed, you come home and start searching for a new kitchen space. Huh? What do you say?”

  Nothing disgruntled me more than having to agree with my mother. I did need a break. I did need to get out of my head, but I would have preferred to do it with family, not alone like an old hag.

  Bowie jumped onto the counter, squinted his one-green, one-blue eyes, and pressed his cold nose into my forehead. I was going on a trip. “I say you’re a stubborn woman,” I said, scratching Big Bo between the ears.

  “Takes one to know one.” A smile crept into Mom’s voice. “I’ll let Aunt Sylvie know you’d be happy to check things out for her.”

  “I didn’t say yes.”

  “You didn’t say no either.” She hung up.

  I stood at my kitchen island inside my soul-empty home that used to be a showpiece of pride and joy, a haven filled with laughter. Had it all been an illusion? Not the kids, they were real, obviously. So was their love and dedication, and I thanked the universe every day for them.

  But my marriage to Weasel? If I thought about it too much, it would drive me insane. Time away would be good, from these walls, these framed photos of family vacations that would never happen again, the wines we’d collected over the years, the pool we’d built together, the furniture we’d shopped for. The damned granite countertop we’d chosen when we designed our home kitchen, the one featured by Cooking Network Magazine.

  Our marriage had
been purely for show—like one of Chase’s video game worlds. Getting away was a good idea. Sea and sand. Fresh seafood. Sunsets. A temporary prescription. Sure, why not. Plus, helping out Aunt Sylvie would ease some of the guilt I’d held onto the last couple of years for not visiting her in Tampa.

  It was done, then. After dinner, I would search flights and a rental car. New latitude, new attitude, here I come.

  2

  Arriving at Miami International Airport gave me flashbacks of the South Beach Food & Wine Festival. For years, Weasel and I flew down together. For a week, we’d hop from booth to booth of all our Cooking Network chef friends, visiting their restaurants in the evening, doing interviews, getting buzzed under the sun, and having a great time. Well, Weasel would get drunk and have fun. I’d worry about Chelsea Garden Grill without us there to run it.

  Was everything running smoothly? Was our manager, Carmen Figueras, buying the freshest fish from the market in our absence? I knew she was—Carmen was the best we’d ever had—but she was new at the time, and I still worried. Were our sous-chefs keeping everything organized and our servers making sure our customers were happy?

  After a while, I started skipping trips and started staying behind to keep an eye on the restaurant, while Weasel went without me. It just seemed that every time we returned, we’d spend more time catching up on work than if one of us had stayed behind to supervise. The kids were teens at that point; I didn’t want to leave them alone for a week and risk them throwing parties while we were gone. As usual, I’d held down the fort while Derek had all the fun.

  Another mistake.

  Yesterday, I’d passed by the restaurant, pulled Carmen aside, and told her I’d be gone for a while. The divorce and all. At first, she couldn’t process how the restaurant would ever run without me there.

  “Are you going to do the Halloween thing? The restaurant?” she’d whispered in case anyone could hear.

  In the past, I’d confided in her that I wanted to open a Halloween-themed restaurant someday. It just sounded like fun, and lots of business owners were opening fun, themed establishments.