Page 1 of A Touch of Spring Magic

Chapter One

Jessica Maye stoodin front of the full-length mirror of what had once been a nursery in her grandma Millie’s childhood farmhouse. The light-charcoal suit matched her serious mood—the firm was barreling into the height of tax season—but she’d swapped out the matching vest for one in dark mauve that made her complexion pop. She might work at a conservative firm dominated by male management, but a woman still wanted to look her best.

She tucked her wavy red hair in a sedate French twist, added the pearl drop earrings that had been a graduation gift from her grandma Millie, and the Lady-Datejust Oystersteel and white gold Rolex—no diamonds; that was for when she joined her father’s company—that had been her graduation gift from her parents. She looked down at the pink-toned watch face. The watch was pretty and elegant, but she knew she’d never receive the upgrade. Nervous tremors hit her stomach, and acid washed dangerously up her esophagus. She promised herself that she would pursue her life dreams on her own terms, and that didn’t include joining Maye Properties and Development.

She’d already put plans in motion, hadn’t she, by asking Grandma Millie’s permission to move into the Cramer family farmhouse that had been empty for years, save for a caretaker who’d retired this year. That was step one. Now gaining her sisters’ agreement was step two. And then…and then… She pressed her hand on her stomach, closed her eyes and deep-breathed through the nerves that clawed through her.

She was thirty-one years old. Long past time to crave her parents’ approval.

“That and everyone else’s,” she gently mocked herself.

Time to stop ruminating. She wanted to be the first associate in the office. Prove her worth—even if it was hopefully only for a few more months.

Jessica hurried down the worn wood stairs to the farmhouse kitchen to make her protein drink and tea for the drive into work.

“There’s no hopefully about it,” she told her reflection in the large oval mirror, patinaed with age, which had hung on the landing long before she’d been born. “I will be my own boss. I will launch Cramer-Maye Gardens and Nursery on my own. Not the most inspiring name, but it had survived a Google search, and her attorney sister, Meghan, could help her with the legal setup.

When I tell them.

Ask them.

Again, with the nerves. Why couldn’t she jump into everything with no plans or worries like her youngest sister, Chloe? She always had to overthink. Appease. Gain permission.

“Just Do It,” she muttered the Nike slogan inspired by the Greek goddess of victory. “And I always win,” she said and turned on the electric teakettle. She caught her reflection in the massive window over the farmhouse-style sink that looked out over the former English-themed gardens that were now overgrown, choked with years of debris and who knew what else?

Well, she was going to find out. But not now. In late February the sun wouldn’t rise for another hour, and she’d be ensconced at her desk looking over one of her boss’s accounts that had come into question. Even though he was in his early fifties and an avid cyclist, he was having hip replacement surgery, and his client had called with some questions.

It was still dark outside. All she could see was her own, worried expression. She stretched her mouth wide, trying to release tension. Goodness if she didn’t destress, she’d be at the dermatologist for Botox and fillers like her mother’s posse soon.

“Yuck,” she muttered, making her tea and then dumping in the prepared Tupperware container of cut fruit and vegetables and protein powder and making her morning smoothie.

Her computer bag was packed up. What would it be like to not bring work home?

Jessica smiled at that because when she had all her ‘ducks in a row,’ as Grandma Millie would say, her work would also be home.

She grabbed her prepared salad for lunch from the fridge and tucked it into her Parker Thatch slouch bag, which had been an extravagant Christmas gift from her mother last year. She slid the strap onto her shoulder, and that’s when she saw the book.

Jessica stared. Blinked. But the book still squatted ominously open near the stove.

It felt like all the air in the room was gone. Jessica gaped like a largemouth bass on the bank of the Catawba River. How did the book get here? She’d told Chloe—who’d found the book in Grandma Millie’s outdoor mini home library and had recklessly, of course, used it—that she didn’t want it.

No way.

No how.

Heart pounding so loud it echoed in her ears, she stared at the book and wanted it gone, but she didn’t want to touch it.

Southern Love Spells. Bound in worn leather, the book was a collection of handwritten recipes in different handwriting, likely passed down through several generations.

But not Cramer or Maye, she kept telling herself as her sisters had pondered the book’s origins and potential ‘power.’

She shuddered. Was the book truly… Jessica didn’t even want to think the word. Could thinking about it give it power like…like… She cast her mind about for something scary and remembered a week-long road trip she and her sisters had taken to Arizona and New Mexico when Chloe had graduated high school. Of course Chloe had become fascinated with Skinwalkers.

“Don’t say it.” Jessica scrunched her eyes shut, the terror of the stories they’d heard nearly ten years ago as fierce now as it had been then. “Don’t think the word or about them.”

How long she stood there, safe in her kitchen, she had no idea. She imagined her sisters would think she was being utterly ridiculous. It was a book. A book she’d used at Christmas to make a point that had become twisted and caused a riff—the first ever—between her and Chloe, and had of course infuriated Chloe’s now boyfriend, although chef Rustin Wildish was a million miles away from being a boy.

She caught the strap of her bag as it slipped off her shoulder before it splatted on the floor and fingered the cross on her gold necklace while she attempted to steady her breathing.

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