Vacations from Hell

Cecily shook off her melancholy and zipped her suitcase shut. Time to go meet the coven.



Of course, none of the men involved knew the annual Outer Banks trips had anything to do with witchcraft. They all believed that this was a reunion of “college friends”: six women who remained very close and wanted their families to know one another. So each year they rented a couple of North Carolina beach houses within walking distance of one another and split them between the families. The trips had begun before Cecily was born, so by now the six husbands were good friends too, and they liked to say that their kids were “growing up together.” Cecily could happily have skipped the experience of growing up with Kathleen Pruitt.



“We have a coven at home,” Cecily had complained last month when she’d asked to skip the Outer Banks for one summer. “Why can’t we just spend extra time with them instead of hanging with the witches you practiced with in college? I learn more that way.”



But her mother wouldn’t hear of it. She insisted that some covens had a special energy that made it worthwhile to keep in touch and someday Cecily would understand. When Cecily tried to explain that a week with Kathleen Pruitt was like six months in hell, Mom had said she was being dramatic. (Mom might have understood if Cecily had told her about that stunt the year before, when Kathleen had loudly claimed on the beach that Cecily’s tampon string was hanging from her swimsuit, which it so was not. But Cecily could never bring herself to speak of it.) So the Outer Banks. Again.



At least they were at the beach. Cecily, who loved swimming in the sunshine, thought that was every summer’s silver lining.



Except, of course, if it was raining.



“The weather report swore this front would stay south of here,” Dad said, turning up the windshield wipers of the rental car to top speed.



Theo kicked impatiently at the back of their mother’s seat. “You said I could swim as soon as I got there. You promised.”



“I’ll bet the storm blows over soon,” Mom said soothingly.



Theo would not be consoled. “We can’t even use the Jacuzzi tub if it’s raining!”



Cecily looked at the heavy dark clouds with foreboding. What could be worse than spending a week with your worst enemy? she thought. Being trapped inside with her and your whiny little brother because of the rain. That’s worse.



Then she reminded herself of her goals not to worry about Kathleen Pruitt and to be nicer to Theo, who was only eight years old and couldn’t be expected to have any perspective. “Hey, remember the foosball table in the front room?” She poked his shoulder. “Last year, you couldn’t beat me, but you’re bigger now. You should challenge me to a rematch.”



“I guess that would be okay.” Theo sighed, still pretending to pout. But Cecily could see the gleam of mischief in his eyes. When she threw the foosball game, he’d be thrilled.



When they reached the beach house, a couple of her mother’s friends rushed out to greet them, storm or no storm. Mrs. Silverberg, Ms. Giordano—they looked so ordinary, in their mom jeans and pastel-colored polo shirts. No man alive (nor most women) would ever guess the powers they taught to their daughters. Now they shouted hellos while raindrops softened the sheets of newspaper they’d tented over their heads, and there were big hugs for everyone. Cecily tried hard to look enthusiastic, though it was difficult while she was getting drenched.



While her father grabbed most of the luggage, Cecily glanced around warily for Kathleen. One year she’d met Cecily at the car—only to hit Cecily’s bag with an itching spell. Cecily’s mother hadn’t figured out the real problem for two whole days, during which Cecily had scratched her arms so raw that swimming in the ocean was impossible.



There was no sign of Kathleen, though. Slightly relieved, Cecily tugged the last suitcase—hers—from the trunk, grimacing at the weight and wondering if she’d really needed that autoclave. Then a strong hand reached past her to clasp the handle. “Let me get that.”



Cecily glanced over her shoulder at the most gorgeous guy she’d ever seen.



He had blond hair and blue eyes, so striking that she started thinking dorky things about golden sand and dark seas. He was perhaps a foot taller than Cecily, who normally preferred guys closer to her own height but felt she would make an exception in this case. His white T-shirt was rapidly becoming transparent as it got wet, which was the best reason Cecily could think of to stay outside in the rain.



“Heavy,” he said, lifting her bulging suitcase with no apparent effort. “You must have packed a lot.”