Page 101 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
Lilith stands at the head, lifting her glass. Her hair is wild, and her lipstick smudged from sipping her wine glass. She’s radiant.
“I want to say something,” she begins, and the room hushes. “This year has been a year of shifts. Of heartbreak. Of healing. And yet, we’re still here.”
Her eyes sweep across the table. “We’ve had losses, and our hearts have been cracked wide open. But what I’ve learned, and what this town has taught me, is that the heart always finds a way to keep beating. And real love sneaks in through the cracks to settle where it belongs.”
I feel Willa’s hand tighten in mine.
Lilith’s voice softens. “I’m thankful for each of you. For the old friendships and the new. For messy beginnings and unexpected second chances. And for chaos, magic, and the people who show up when it matters most, because we never know when a moment may be our last.”
She lifts her glass higher. “To the ones we love. And the ones who love us back.”
Then the sniffles start. Ivy wipes her eyes. Finn pretends he has allergies. Even Donna swipes a forefinger under her eye.
We raise our glasses, and we drink and feast.
Later, after too many helpings of everything, when the candles have melted halfway down, and Junie is asleep on Donna’s lap, I lean over and kiss Willa’s temple.
“You okay?” I whisper.
She nods, eyes shining. “More than okay.”
Outside, snow begins to fall again, and it’s a soft, quiet, like the town is sighing with contentment.
Willa reaches for my hand under the table and squeezes, and I squeeze back.
I don’t need to say it. It’s all right here in the way Lilith puts me to work and treats me like I’ve always been her son.
It’s all right here in the firelight flickering on Donna’s glasses as she types something into her phone, probably already dreaming up the next novel. And in the way Rowan pulls a soft blanket around Pete’s shoulders when he falls asleep snoring on the couch.
And in Willa’s hand, warm and sure in mine. Yeah.
This is what home feels like.
The harbor’s quiet after Thanksgiving. The water’s dark and slick, so dark that it makes you think too much if you stare at it too long.
I walk the dock alone, hands in my jacket pockets, boots scuffing along the damp planks. The scent of salt and cedar hangs in the air, and off in the distance, a gull cries like it’s mourning something it can’t name.
The old boat’s still there.
She’s still weathered now, with her paint chipped, ropes fraying at the edges as she leans into the dock like she’s tired. Like she’s waiting for permission to rest for good. There’s so much I wanted to do to bring her back to life and make my dad proud. But I think family is most important, and my dad would be proud to see me happy with the people who I love and who love me. I look around at this life that I’m building, and I can feel him. He would fit right in if he was still here.
I press a hand flat to the side of the hull. “Thanks for everything you taught me Dad,” I whisper.
The breeze kicks up, and I swear the boat groans in response, like she remembers everything, too.
I stand slowly, swallowing hard. “Goodbye, old girl.”
I’m about to turn away when I hear boots on the dock behind me.
“Figured I might find you down here,” Donna says, out of breath.
I blink and look over my shoulder. She’s in her usual long coat, scarf tucked in tight, hair swept back in a tight bun.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
She walks up beside me, slowly and carefully, like she knows this moment is heavier than it looks. “Well,” she said, “I came to give you something.”
She hands me a manila envelope.
