Page 24 of Thistle Thorns

But Iris Hawthorne merely cocked a smug eyebrow. “The cherrywood?”

“I’ll show you, but wait just a minute.”

Aunt Hyacinth and I shared a look. Nobody told Grandmother to wait, just like nobody in town dared tell Ms. Charlotte Harris to wait.

Grandmother clasped her hands in front of her and raised both eyebrows expectantly. Challengingly.

“As a wood connoisseur yourself, you should know the oak, cherry, and ash are all local,” Cody explained. “The rowan is imported from the Northeast. That gonna be a problem?”

“Why would it be a problem?”

“Someone like you doesn’t come in here with a shopping list like that without taking their sources into account. You’re a green witch, like your granddaughter, after all. I would expect such things to matter to you.”

“They do. And it’s not a problem. Now, the cherrywood?”

The carpenter adjusted his suspenders again, like he was strapping in for a rollercoaster of a ride. “Misty Fields, you’ve got the shop,” he told me.

“I what now?”

“Oh come now. The boy isn’t here, and he’s smitten with you, so by the transitive property, you’re now my assistant. And my assistant does what I say. You’re helping anyone else who comes in here.” He swaggered up to my grandmother, offering his elbow with the confidence of a man who knew the lady would take it. “Miss Irene is going to have my complete and undivided attention for the duration of her visit. Got it?”

“The transitive property doesn’t work that way!”

“You heard him, Misty.” After a pointed glance at his proffered elbow, Grandmother smirked and turned on her heel. She was not so easily impressed, but that smirk had Cody hastening after her deeper into his workshop.

“Here.” Aunt Hyacinth sloughed her lintel off into my arms and quickened after her aunt. “Clearly I’m the fetcher. And chaperone.”

Not even knowing how to use the cash register, I slipped behind the counter and eased onto the stool, settling my foraging bag on the counter. Sawyer wiggled his head free of the canvas and watched as the carpenter and the witch picked this and that off the shelves, loading up Aunt Hyacinth’s arms. Overhead, more rain drummed on the tin roof. The little tomcat was quick to tuck his head back in when all three of them returned to the checkout counter and Cody shooed me aside.

“Just like the boy,” he chastised. “Thinking he can just look pretty and do nothing else around here.”

“There were literally no customers!”

He sniffed, his knobby fingers dancing over a calculator as he tallied the purchases. Then he paused, as if an idea had just occurred to him. Springing spryly to his feet, Cody strutted to where the salad bowls were and retrieved the big one with the olives carved into it and added it to the pile.

Grandmother was quick to protest. “I didn’t—”

“These other things are what you need, though I see no rhyme or reason to them.” Cody tapped the bowl. “But this is something you want. You looked twice at it. You didn’t give any other piece in here the same attention.”

“You’re very shrewd, Mr. Beecham. But—”

“Eh,” he interrupted. “It’s on the house. The least I could do for all your business.”

Indeed, Grandmother was about to drop over a thousand dollars for this seemingly random assortment of lintels, shillelaghs, and decorative carvings.

“You treat all your paying customers this way?”

“Never,” I mouthed to Aunt Hyacinth.

“Not a chance. They pay full price. I know my worth.”

“Hmm.” Grandmother traced one of the carved olives with her finger, considering. All of them were almond-shaped, clearly Kalamata olives if you knew what you were looking at, and they certainly were her favorite.

“Grandmother,” I said quietly. “Just accept it. Otherwise the Redbud Curse—”

“What curse?” she and Aunt Hyacinth demanded in the same shrill voice.

“Local superstition,” I informed quickly. “If you reject a gift given with a generous heart, you’ll be cursed with a year’s worth of bad luck.”

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