Page 3 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
“Thank you,” I mouth to her behind Donna.
Donna brightens and, luckily, moves on to that, telling everyone what happened. Before I know it, Lilith Maren, my mother, sweeps in with all the dramatic flair she can possibly muster. She’s a petite woman, barely five-three, though shecarries herself like she’s towering over everyone in the room. A velvet shawl drapes around her shoulders like she’s stepping onto a stage, and dried wisteria vines loop over one arm as if she’s bringing an offering. Her wrists are stacked with silver bangles that clink and jangle with every gesture, punctuating her words like exclamation marks.
Her hair, long and wild, falls in loose waves the color of burnished copper streaked with silver. She insists it’s “witch’s hair,” untamed and full of secrets, and she refuses to let anyone tame it with scissors. Her eyes are storm-gray with flecks of green and have that mischievous spark that makes people wonder if she knows more than she lets on. Spoiler: she always does.
She’s not thin but not full-figured, either; she has that ageless, solid, earthy presence of a woman who’s lived fully and refuses to apologize for it. There’s something both comforting and chaotic about her, like she could whip up soup to cure your cold while also casually working on a spell for your love life in the same afternoon.
Today she’s wearing a layered plum and midnight blue skirt, the hem brushing her boots, and a blouse patterned with tiny, embroidered moons and stars. Rings glitter on nearly every finger, amethysts, garnets, and a chunky turquoise she swears is enchanted. Everything about her says:I belong to this town, and I am at home here. She’s timeless, a little eccentric, and entirely unforgettable.
“The vines signal love and renewal,” she says, planting them firmly on top of the counter as I wince. She doesn’t even notice the dried leaves that rattle onto the floor. “I’m sensing you have both on the horizon, Willa.”
“Mom, why are you bringing in outside things?” I wince, digging into my resilient politeness at her eccentricity. But thisis what happens when you have a witchy mother. Theyknowthings.
My mom just smiles, hugs Rowan and then reaches to pull me into a hug, as well. “A little magic never hurts anyone, except the boring ones,” she winks at me.
“I am not boring,” I say as I swipe up the wisteria leaves into my hand.
Rowan arches a brow, her lips twitching. Before she can say anything, I shoot her a warning look, and she chuckles.
My mom laughs. “Not boring? Darling, you wouldn’t know fun if it hit you like a broomstick. You hide out in your bookstore and hardly ever leave. You practically have toschedulefun. If that isn’t boring, I don’t know what is.”
“Introverted,” I correct, brushing the dried petals into a neat pile. “It’s called being a homebody.”
“Mm-hm.” Lilith tilts her head, her hair spilling over one shoulder in a cascade of silver waves. “You’re becoming a spinster with cats.”
Rowan snorts. “She already has the tragic spinster vibe. Just missing the cats.”
“Excuse me?” I glare at both, though my lips threaten a smile.
Lilith plants her hands on her hips, rings glittering. “I am simply saying, my darling daughters, that life is short, and you should be living it as though it were dipped in honey and rolled in cinnamon sugar.”
Rowan leans against the counter, smirking. “You mean like Ivy? Trying out job after job?”
Lilith waves a hand as if brushing away a gnat. “She’s figuring out what makes her happy.” Her eyes sparkle with mischief as she looks between us.
Rowan rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “That’s one way of putting it.”
I try to hold firm, but Lilith’s infectious grin threatens to break me down. “You’re impossible,” I mutter.
“And you,” she counters, reaching out to tap my nose like I’m still a little girl, “are delicious when you’re ruffled. Don’t waste your life on order when chaos is so much more fun.”
This is exactly what it was like growing up in the Maren household. Chaos and comfort mixed into something like home. And I love it.
When the store finally clears out for the night and everyone is gone, I flip the closed sign, lock the door, and get my homemade chamomile tea. My good life doesn’t require much, just a steaming mug of tea, a good book, and some quiet solitude in my favorite place.
I pull a cracked wooden ladder from the shelf, flip open a hidden latch, and climb up to the small loft with windows catching the moonlight over the harbor. Here is where my quiet solitude reigns. A plush armchair and worn quilt wait for me by a small reading lamp, as if ready for me and waiting for the day to end. A cozy bed, stacks of books, a tiny kitchen, and a bathroom. It's all I need, and it’s mine.
This is also a perfect view of the Holloway place and the harbor just beyond it. The dark shutters tug at me again. Is he really back? I so badly wanted to ask Donna more, but Donna is not the one to ask. Donna is wonderful, but a big matchmaker, and almost as bad as my mom. Those two together are just about impossible when they get an idea.
I sip my tea and imagine what would happen if Tate showed up, knocked on the door. What would I even say to him? Maybe we'd talk, and he’d be nice. Maybe he’d be better and not the broody fisherman man he was when he left Wisteria Cove. Maybe he’s changed. Or maybe he’s not even here at all, and Donna is mistaken.
The harbor outside is calm, the moon silver and reflecting across the dark water. A lone gull shrieks. My eyes seem to play tricks on me, as I think for a second I see a single upstairs light flare and fade. Maybe a coincidence, maybe not.
I feel mostly peaceful, other than the thought of Tate Holloway being back in town after all these years. I haven’t exactly been pining for him. However, it is hard when his house is still there and serves as a constant reminder.
I light a small candle on my table for hope, lay out a leaf for fall rootedness, and sea salt for openness.
Yes, my life is full. Cozy, fun, and I am happy. But deep down? I’m deeply lonely.
