Gone. Long gone. Somehow that person had become a quiet, rather sedate woman who ran an inn with her elderly relative and did nothing more exciting than occasionally go out without wearing a bra.
But that was okay. Everyone had to grow up sometime.
âI like this costume better on you, anyway,â Gwen replied, not responding to Hildyâs remark. She gave her great-aunt a visual once-over, studying the spiked, shocking-pink wig, and the thigh-high white patent leather boots sticking to the skinniest pair of old lady legs this side of a refugee camp. Combined with the glitter makeup on the womanâs eyes, the red leather skirt, white spandex top and pink feather boa, Hildy made quite a picture. Seeing Aunt Hildy as a punk rocker had probably been more effective at giving kids nightmares than any chainsaw wielding maniac could ever have.
âSam seemed to like it,â Hildy said with a suggestive wag of the eyebrows.
Sam Winchester was Hildyâs eighty-seven-year-old gentleman friend. He and Hildy had been âstepping outâ together for a few months, which Gwen was glad about. Hildy might be too old to settle down, marry and have the children sheâd never had, but she certainly wasnât too old for a little romance, a little happiness. Heaven knows she hadnât had much of either one in her life.
âToldja no kids would recognize you as Glenda the Good Witch.â Aunt Hildy rolled her eyes as she again examined Gwenâs pink dress and the long ringlets sheâd curled into her hair.
âBut everybodyâs seen The Wizard of Oz.â
âBo-o-o-ring. You gotta stop playing it safe. Youâre a hot tomato, sugar lips. You just need to get back to normal, be daring like you used to be.â
She ignored the lecture on not playing it safeâlord knew, sheâd been hearing it almost daily for almost two years, since her parentsâ untimely death had shocked her into a life of safety and solitude. The ugly public breakup with her former fiancé had also made her âtuck up inside her shell like a pansy-ass turtle,â as her Aunt Hildy liked to say.
She didnât mean to play it safe. In fact, recently sheâd begun trying to do at least one spontaneous, risky thing each day, even if it was only wearing a darker shade of eye shadow, or a thin, filmy blouse on a windy October day. With a bra.
She could also admit, if only to herself, that it probably was the old Gwennie who had fallen crazy in love with this dark, gothic-looking house from the moment sheâd laid eyes on it.
âYou shouldâve dressed up as that singer Madonna,â Hildy added. âMoe says you coulda superglued some of them big, pointy ice cream cones over your ta-tas and looked just like her in oneâa her bustiers.â
Gwen also ignored the ta-ta remark. She didnât want to think about the possibility of supergluing anything to her breasts. Particularly since the suggestion had been made by Moe. Her great-auntâs best pal. The dead gangster whose ghost currently made his home in their basement.
She supposed there were worse ways Hildy could spend her golden years than talking to the ghosts from her past. She was just thankful Hildy had lived to see her golden years. And that Gwen was around to take care of her and share them with her.
Hildyâs family had disowned her when she was a disgraced teenager, having fallen in with a notorious gang of Chicago bank robbers back in the thirties. From what Gwen could gather, Hildyâs own parents had done nothing to help her when sheâd been thrown into jail, only grudgingly letting her come home after sheâd served her three-year prison sentence.
Aunt Hildyâs life hadnât gotten much easier once she was released. Never allowed to forget sheâd disgraced the family, her sadness had led to deep depression, and eventually a nervous breakdown. Sheâd spent years in and out of mental institutions. Something Gwen still had trouble fathoming, considering Aunt Hildy had been a smiling, gentle presence through her whole life.
She put her arm around her elderly auntâs frail shoulders and gave her a gentle squeeze. Gwen was too grateful to have the slightly zany, but deeply loving old woman around to quibble over trifling matters like talking to a dead gangster. Hildy was the only family she had left. And Gwen would do anything to make her final years happy, tranquil ones. Anything to help Hildy forget that her family had once betrayed her.
âHow would Moe know about Madonna?â she finally asked, knowing demonstrations of affection made Hildy uncomfortable.
âTV.â
She turned out all but one light in the foyer, partially to prevent her aunt from seeing her amusement. âOf course. Moe loves TV, I remember.â Personally, when she was in Moeâs position, Gwen hoped television would have no part of her existence. A world without TVâno reality shows, no WWF smack-downs and no Jerry Springerâsounded like heaven to her. Then remembering the Madonna bustier suggestion, she added, âYou know, those ice cream cones would break in no time flat.â
Hildy thought about it. Finally, her eyes narrowed and her brow pulled into a frown. âThat dirty old geezer. He always wasâ¦â
âNever mind, Aunt Hildy. Iâm sure he didnât mean anything.â No way did she want to get into a discussion about Aunt Hildyâs former associates tonight. Yes, sheâd loved the stories as a kidâ¦the gorier the better. Hildy used to call her Gruesome Gwen because sheâd been so fascinated by the wicked old days. Sheâd learned all anyone could know about prohibition, the benefits of a Tommy gun, how many men Pretty Boy Floyd had murdered and John Dillingerâs penis size before her eighteenth birthday.
The penis size thing was still pretty interesting.
But she hadnât had time for stories since theyâd moved here.
âAll the candy gone?â
âJust about. Iâm glad you insisted on buying so much.â Gwen lifted the nearly empty bowl, casting a rueful eye to one lone piece of bubble gum and a few forlorn-looking Tootsie Rolls. âI never knew there were so many kids in Derryville.â
Hildy tugged her wig off and patted a strand of white hair into her bun. âAnd every one of them had to come here.â
Gwen couldnât count the number of times a group of children had come to the door tonight, looking uniformly terrified but so excited they couldnât stand still. Each time, theyâd pushed forward one unlucky little soul to be their spokesman. The voice would tremble, the eyes would sparkle with fear. Eventually each would muster up the courage to whisper, âTrick or treat.â
Theyâd peer around her, trying to get a look inside the infamous house, which had cleaned up rather well after months of work. Well enough to open their inn before the end of the year, as she and Hildy had hoped when theyâd moved here last February.
âIâm bushed,â Hildy said, rubbing at her hip, visibly fatigued. âYou think you can close up for the night, sugar lips?â
Nodding, Gwen kissed the old womanâs forehead, wishing sheâd realized sooner that Hildy wasnât feeling well. âGo on.â Hugging her aunt again, she took care to be gentle with those fine, delicate old shoulders, on which Gwen had leaned more than once as a girl.
As Hildy walked away, she said, âDonât forget to thaw out the muffins so theyâll be ready for the morning.â
âI wonât forget.â
But, of course, she did.
JARED