Page 28 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
I glance up one last time, smiling to myself.
Chapter 10
Tate
Iwake up before the sun, but just barely. Wisteria Cove is just beginning to stir. I close my eyes again, but my phone buzzes on the nightstand, vibrating with a stubborn urgency. I groan as I reach for it.
Mom.
I hesitate but swipe to answer, dragging the phone to my ear.
Before I can even say hello, she launches in. “Taters. Good, you’re awake,” she says briskly, her voice sharp and familiar in the worst way. “I wanted to let you know that I need to sell the house and boat. Randy and I are going to put an offer on that new vacation house, and we’re going to use that money.”
My gut twists hard and fast. I sit up slowly, rubbing a hand over my face. “Mom…” I say carefully, “I live here. I’m fixing up the boat. I was going to work at the harbor again next season.”
There’s a pause, but not the kind that suggests she’s thinking it over, more like she’s waiting for me to catch up. “Yeah, but they are mine, not yours,” she says, matter-of-fact. Like she’s discussing the weather. “Randy and I can’t pass this house up. It’s what we want for our family.”
What they want fortheirfamily. As if I'm not part of their family. Which I guess I'm not. I never was. My jaw clenches sotight it aches. It has always amazed me she just up and left after my dad died, like neither of us mattered.
“This was Dad's, too, Mom,” I say softly, still trying to process these blows that she's laying, one right after the other, without a thought of how this is landing.
“He's dead, Tate. And if he cared, he would still be here. He wouldn't have left us,” she says as if he had a choice in when his ship was going down, in whether he wanted to die or not.
“Mom, are you hearing yourself right now?” I ask, wondering if she's legitimately okay. This makes no sense. I just talked to her last week, and she never mentioned anything about selling anything. Why is she all of a sudden selling?
“Tate, you need to be ready. I'm selling them. They're in my name,” she clips, getting frustrated.
“Okay…so where am I supposed to go, Mom?” The words are bitter, raw. My throat feels tight, but I try to keep my voice even, like maybe that’ll keep me steady.
“It’s not my problem anymore,” she says. “It’s time you grew up and figured it out.”
And just like that, she hangs up. No goodbye, no 'I love you'…she just hangs up.
For a moment, I sit there, staring at the phone in my hand, listening to the soft creak of this old house that doesn’t even feel like mine anymore. My breath shudders as I exhale, pushing back the sting behind my eyes.
Time to grow up and figure it out.As if I haven’t spent the past five years doing that without my parents. One by choice and one by death. And that she insinuated my dad had a choice in that is just bullshit. I've always known my mother was selfish, but this takes the cake.
I've maintained the house and boat for the past five years since she left. I've paid for it all. She has paid nothing. And now she's going to take the two things that I have left of my dad.
By the time I’m out the door, the town is bathed in that early-morning glow. Wisteria Cove is beautiful right now, with boats bobbing and swaying gently in the harbor, gulls screaming overhead, the scent of salt, leaves, and morning fog hanging in the air. The water’s soft hush should feel calming. But right now, after talking to my mom, it only makes me feel more lost. Like I'm losing it all and Wisteria Cove, too.
Without thinking, my feet take me toward the one place that’s always felt like a safe space.Lilith Maren’s place.
Her garden is waking up, too, golden light glinting off dew-soaked wisteria vines, petals spilling over the trellises and winding through the gazebo where she sits as if she knew I was coming. A steaming mug that looks like tea rests between her hands, and her piercing gaze finds mine before I even reach the gate.
“Well, here you are, Mr. Tate Holloway,” she calls, smiling gently but knowingly. “Come sit.”
I don’t hesitate. My chest is tight, and my legs are heavy, but I walk straight to the gazebo, sinking into the chair across from her. I don’t even bother with pleasantries. “I need to talk.”
Lilith nods, setting her mug aside. Her silver hair glints in the light, and there’s a kindness in her eyes that undoes me a little.“Then talk, Tate.”
And so I do.
I tell her about the phone call. About my mother’s selfishness, about how she didn’t even hesitate to tell me to “figure it out” like this whole life I’m trying to build back here means nothing.
Lilith listens the way she always has, quietly, patiently, with no judgment, just presence and intuition.
When I finish, my shoulders sag with relief, and I feel better just being able to share it with someone.
