Page 42 of Starry with a Chance of Nightshade

The grease pencil marks on the cup were supposed to tell me what drink the customer ordered, but these were gibberish with a strange mix of runes. That hadn’t been my intention. If I went off the writing, which I had done in a panic, they’d be getting a nice cup of fertility and protection.

My money was on them not having asked for that.

It was my first day on the job and I couldn’t afford to get fired. Between the sounds of the endless door chimes going off, to the various conversations the patrons were having at anything but a low level, and the lingering thoughts of having to actually go into the old house tonight, I nearly succumbed to sensory overload.

Forty wasn’t what I thought it would be back in my twenties. Then again, not much in my life was as I’d dreamt. As much as I wanted to drown my sorrows in a glass of whiskey (okay, a bottle), I knew better than to bother. It wouldn’t get me anywhere and I’d wasted enough tears over the hand I’d been dealt.

“Is she all right?” someone asked. “Poor thing looks as if she’s going to faint.”

“If she faints, can I go back and get my own coffee?” asked a cantankerous older man.

“Put a lid on it, Shieber, or I’ll hex you,” snapped a woman, sounding serious.

“I’d listen to her, Shieber,” added another man with a laugh. “As the last man who got under Peggy’s skin and felt her wrath, I can safely say you don’t want to be on the bad side of one of her hexes. I had to sit on a hemorrhoid cushion for a week.”

“Your thoughts don’t count, Marvin,” snapped Mr. Shieber. “You’re married to her.”

“That means Imorethan know what she’s capable of, and don’t you go pretending you didn’t try to win her hand years ago,” said the other male.

“Fight over me later, boys,” interjected Peggy. “After I’ve had some caffeine.”

I nearly laughed. Whoever the woman was, she had spunk, which was something I used to possess. Life had robbed me of that trait, along with so many other things.

For as much as Grimm Cove had expanded over the years, it still had the same small-town charm it held when I’d attended university here.

The café itself was an interesting mix of colors. The walls varied. Some were deep blood red and others were orange. One was yellow. Oversize black leather chairs formed a circle at the far end of the long rectangular café. A huge gray stone fireplace was against the far wall, acting as a backdrop to the circle of chairs. In the center of the circle was an indoor firepit of sorts that looked beautiful and had a rimmed edge for drinks.

Various two-person tables dotted the space between the cushy chairs and the service counter, which was directly across from the entrance. The wall art was amazing and somewhat disturbing. I wasn’t totally sure, but one of the huge floor-to-ceiling oil paintings looked a lot like souls being dragged to hell.

Could have been my imagination though, since it was done in a modern style.

The menu itself had drinks with names that were extremely unique. I’d already made fourNordic Jötnarsso far—each time needing to read and then reread the recipe card. It was basically an iced latte with extra vanilla syrup and whipped cream on top. Another popular drink was theAdaro, which was a sea-salted coffee with a foamy cream top. At least that was what the photo and the beautiful sketch in the recipe book showed. What I’d made hadn’t looked anything like that.

The entire large recipe book that sat behind the counter reminded me of some sort of witch’s grimoire that had been handcrafted for the café.

Something beeped behind me, ripping my attention back to the chaos.

Opening my eyes, I found myself the center of attention in the small-town coffee shop. I patted my pendant and the ring on the chain that was under my loose-fitting, thin T-shirt, finding comfort knowing the items were close.

A woman with sandy-blonde hair was on the other side of the counter, near the pickup area, concern in her gaze as she stood next to another woman. This one with dark hair. Both were stunning and looked to be in their mid-to-late fifties. Yet something about their energy said they were older than that. That I was off by ten years or more.

Interesting.

I was normally fairly good with sensing ages.

“Should I call for help, Faye?” asked the woman with long dark hair.

Faye, the blonde, shook her head. “I don’t think so, Angela. I think she’s okay now.”

A tall woman with a head of stark-white hair that hung just past her ears pushed her way through the crowd of people and looked me up and down from the other side of the counter. She was in a bright pink T-shirt that declared her to be the World’s Best Grandmother and a pair of gray yoga pants. “You had anything to eat or drink this morning?”

I recognized her voice at once. This was Peggy.

I shook my head.

Before I could so much as utter a sentence, she was coming around the counter. She lifted the glass top off the muffin tray on the counter and used the tongs to place a baked good on a small plate.

An older man’s hand shot up from the mass of people waiting to place their orders. “How come Peggy can go back there to help herself, but I can’t?”

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