Trouble's Brewing (Stirring Up Trouble Trilogy 2)

I couldn’t speak at first. How had Dr. Finnegan and my mother ended up cooking dinner together? “Uh,” I said. “Hi.”

“Zoe, you are going to love this dinner.” Mom smiled at me, not with her usual smile, but with her all-is-right-with-the-world smile, an expression I hadn’t seen in over a year.

Dr. Finnegan must have noticed my hesitation, because he said, “I was contemplating yet another warmed-over meal, alone in my apartment, when your mother telephoned and invited me to join the two of you. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Why would she mind?” Mom waved away his concern as she walked over to check on his progress with the salad. “Looks delicious.”

“Hope you’re hungry, Zoe,” Finn said.

“Um, yeah.”

“Give me a minute upstairs and I’ll be back.”

“Ten minutes,” Mom said.

She must have correctly interpreted my ten minutes upstairs as meaning I needed to check my email and Facebook. I was trying not to panic about the whole Mom and Finn situation. If only I had someone to talk to about this! No one would understand. A ninety-five-year-old man in the body of a college kid. Milo knew about Dr. Finnegan but would never be able to interpret this for me. I didn’t want to embarrass my mother for no reason. What I needed to figure out was if there was a reason.

I needed a diary that would talk back. Maybe an interactive app designed by a combination of Dear Abby and a licensed therapist. Something stand-alone with a great firewall so nobody would ever know what I was asking for help with. Maybe the witch world could come up with something. Regardless, it wasn’t going to help me now. I had a problem and no one to talk to.

Taking a few deep breaths in pseudo-yoga style, I willed myself to chill out. Mom knew that Finn was probably lonely. She had changed clothes and done her hair because Mom would do that with any company. No big deal. Tonight would be fun. Spending time with Finn and Mom could be fun. I’d like to hear more about Dr. Finnegan anyway, and he had been so focused on my tutoring lately that there hasn’t been much time for asking him questions.

“Ohm,” I chanted to myself. “Ohm.”

Ten minutes later, I bounded back down the stairs.

Dinner turned out to be great. We ate in the dining room on the good dishes, and Finn’s salad was the best I’d ever eaten.

“Finn was telling me about life in the fifties and sixties.”

Oh yeah. “That reminds me. I wanted to ask you what it was like brewing potions before the margarine substitution. How could you stand working with dead man’s toe?”

Finn choked on the bite of salad he’d put in his mouth. He coughed and coughed.

“Should I get you some water?” Mom asked.

Finn held up his hand to indicate that she didn’t need to go after water. He held up his wine glass and after another cough, took a long sip.

He set the glass down, patted his mouth with the cloth napkin, and sighed. “I apologize. I guess that bite went down the wrong pipe.”

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I’m fine, dear. I guess this new, young throat doesn’t function as well as the rest of the body.” He took another sip of wine then used the napkin again. “Now what was it you were asking? About brewing potions with dead man’s toe, was it?”

“Yes. I guess maybe it isn’t a good topic for the dinner table.”

“I’m sure it was much worse in reality than it sounds in theory, Zoe.” Mom refilled her wine and offered more to Finn who indicated that he was not ready for a refill.

For all appearances, Finn was underage, and yet, he sat here sipping wine while I dutifully drank my ice water. Of course, he drank wine like a ninety-five-year-old man. No college guy would drink that slowly, casually swirl the wine in the glass, or wipe at his mouth so much. Well, maybe a European who was used to drinking at dinner. Here in the US, us kids were strictly milk with dinner.

Finn hadn’t answered my question, and after my mother’s interjection, I thought he wasn’t going to, but he surprised me.

“Zoe, you should know about the history of potion brewing. The challenges involved in working with dead man’s toe, the ethical considerations, even the events leading to the discovery of fat-free margarine as a substitution. You will need to know all of it, understand the significance, and evaluate the impact this history has or should have, on your own expectations for your future.”

Impact on, huh? Yeah, that wasn’t what I wanted to hear. I wanted to know about the nitty-gritty. I didn’t want a bunch of gobbledy-gook about ethics and history. I’d been hoping for something interesting and not for a homework assignment. Was I going to have to write a thesis on this? “How did you get the dead man’s toe? Did people donate their toes to science, er, magic?”

“Some did,” Finn answered. “Some still do, in fact. There is ongoing research as well as quality control testing. The need for dead man’s toe isn’t great anymore, but the donations continue.”

“Before margarine, they used a lot of them right?”

“Indeed.”

“Did they have that many donations?”

“Sadly, no.”

“So they had to steal toes?”

“Had to?’ Interesting turn of phrase.”

“Well they did have to, right? If they were going to brew an important potion?”

“How do you define ‘important?’”

“Um. Maybe life or death?”

“Sounds reasonable. Life or death. What about preventing people from being hurt? Not death, but maiming?”

“I guess you’d want to stop that too.”

“You see where my line of questioning is headed, young Zoe,” the old man in the teen’s body asked. “Where do you draw the line? And who determines where the line is drawn?”

I shifted in my chair as I realized that I didn’t know the right answer.

“You don’t have to answer now, Zoe,” he said. “I want you to start thinking about the issue. I don’t expect to fully cover the topic with you until January. However, I can answer your questions to some degree. You want to know about the daily grind in the time of dead man’s toe.

“First you must remember that we are talking about the late 1800’s and early 1900’s until 1946. We are talking about a time before air conditioning. I don’t remember much of it, but a time before refrigerators. A time when you had to keep things underground to keep them cool. And I’m certain you have read that the dead man’s toe would not work if dried?” He shook his head. “If only dried dead man’s toe would have worked, we probably could have covered the demand with donors.”

“As passionate as Zoe gets about her potions, I’d never sleep at night for fear she’d be scavenging through graveyards for fresh toes,” Mom said in a tone that indicated she was totally serious.

Crossing my arms, I snapped, “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mom.”

“I’m not being mean, honey. It’s the truth. You get a little… nuts when you’re working on something.”

“Kind of like you when you’re working on a room? Like that time you didn’t sleep before the shoot because you drove to Charleston and back to pick up that art piece that got lost in shipping?”

“Like that, but for much longer periods of time.”

“Passion and dedication are vital and praiseworthy traits in a scientist!”

“Yes, Zoe,” Finn said. “But where do you draw the line between passion and obsession, between doing whatever is necessary and going too far.”

Chapter Seven

How had the dinner conversation gotten so heavy and deep? I wanted to know about the old days. “I guess Charleston wasn’t too far because Mom got there and back in twelve hours.”

Mom chuckled.

Finn did not look amused.

“I understand, Dr. Finnegan. I promise. I get it.”

“We know you do, Zoe. Right, Finn? She’s a good girl. She was making a joke.”

“Of course,” Finn said, nodding stiffly.

I had the strangest suspicion that he was disappointed in me, but I didn’t have a clue what I’d done.

“You guys are going to love dessert,” Mom said in her most cheerful voice. “I have quite a treat. I saw it in a magazine.”

“Would you like some help, dear?” Finn asked.

“No thanks.” Mom gathered up each of our plates. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Finn and I sat in uncomfortable silence until she returned with a pie and a tub of whipped topping.

“You made a pie?” I asked. She never baked.

“Pumpkin,” Mom said. “It was a practice run for Thanksgiving.”

“Annie, this looks scrumptious,” Finn said.

“Mom! You always said you couldn’t bake a pie.”

Mom placed a slice on a dish and handed it to me. “I have to admit I’m proud of this.”

“You should be,” Finn said. He took a small bite, the bite of an elderly man, and chewed it a couple of times before swallowing. “Delicious.” And another pat pat with the napkin.

“Yummy, Mom.”

Mom cut off a bite with her fork and tasted it. With a bright smile, she said, “Not bad.”

“You really did this on your first try?” I asked. “I’m impressed.”

“I didn’t say anything about it being my first try,” Mom admitted.