Page 34 of A Love Like Pumpkin Spice
She taps a perfectly manicured nail against the top of the table—once, twice—and Lauren and I stop in place, like puppets with their strings yanked.
“The cards?” Lauren whispers in awe, the tension falling from her as she pulls me toward the table. Seriously? She didn’t believe in my ghost cat, but cards talking makes sense to her?
Myeyes dart around the room. We might as well have walked into a witch’s coven, one that hoards antiques and souls. The entire wall behind the woman is covered in picture frames, hung so close to each other the wallpaper barely peeks through. Each frame holds a black-and-white portrait, printed or drawn on gilded paper, their expressions solemn. A few faces appear to be stretched into strange, unsettling frowns, and I swear their eyes are following us.
Is this store the Wayward Hollow version of the wardrobe to get to Narnia? I certainly feel as if we’ve stepped into some kind of parallel world.
“Thank you,” Lauren says cheerily, accepting the cup that the woman slides across the table to her.
“I can see you’re apprehensive,” she says to me, and I flinch as if she caught me pocketing a cursed amulet or something. “My name is Amanda,” she continues, her tone softening, “and I’ve been running this little antique store for … oh, nearly forty years now,” she says. Her eyes go distant, her expression becoming dreamy. “A long time to be in one place. Even the walls are asking for change.”
“What?” Lauren asks, surprised. “Why?”
“My body isn’t what it once was. Lifting the furniture is becoming impossible.” Her left hand drifts to her right shoulder subconsciously. She gives us a sentimental smile. “Times are changing. People don’t appreciate the beauty of antiques anymore. The items are piling up, and the store has become untamable.”
She exhales slowly.
“And, between the three of us, I’d rather run this store into the ground than have another DIYer hot-glue seashells onto a beautiful three-hundred-year-old frame.”
“Oh,” Lauren lets out a nervous giggle, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning.
“Don’t worry,” Amanda says, leaning forward to take Lauren’s hands in hers. “The mirror waiting for you is perfect as it is.”
“Waiting for me?” Lauren shakes her head softly. “How do you—?”
“I know things, child.” Amanda grins, revealing her perfectly straight, pearly white teeth. “Now let me show you the furniture.” Her eyes flick to me, and a knowing smile curls her lips, like a ghost whispered something in her ear about us.
“I think we officially met a witch,” Lauren whispers, shielding her words behind her hand, though something tells me Amanda already knows exactly what we’re saying.
“I’m not sure whether to be scared or impressed,” I whisper back, equally as softly. But as we turn the corner and Amanda flicks on a light switch, my breath catches.
“Holy shitballs,” I mutter, staring wide-eyed at the room. I thought maybe the entrance had been decorated this packed, maybe to make a lasting first impression, but no, it turns out the entire store is committed to the chaos. Furniture is stacked high with only the tiniest paths in between to walk through, like a labyrinth of Jenga towers made of chairs, lamps, and what appear to be treasure chests.
Amanda leads us straight to the mirrors, and Lauren starts giggling beside me.
“How did she know?” she asks, eyes darting around the room, with more awe in her eyes than a child in Disneyland. “Do you really think she knew we were coming?”
I can only shrug. “It could have been an educated guess?” I offer, but the words already taste more bitter than a lie on my tongue.
Amanda has this aura about her. Honestly, if she told me that the sky was green, I’d probably nod and thank her for the enlightenment.
I trail my eyes along the closest furniture tower.
It’s a shame. There must be hundreds of beautiful pieces in here—for example a picture frame near the bottom, its golden frame alive with intricately carved vines and cherubs caught mid-flight.
Do I need more furniture? Absolutely not. But if this frame mysteriously appeared in my living room, I’d hire a painter and get a portrait of Pumpkin done for it—my home’s aesthetic be damned.
“Have a look around, girls.” Amanda points toward a far corner. Through the legs of a probably hundred-year-old armchair I see mirrors hanging on a wall and a stack of them leaning against a cabinet. “Do me a favor though, be careful.”
“Hey, Amanda,” I say cautiously, eyeing the obstacle course it would take to reach them, “I hope this isn’t overstepping, but … how would you feel about Lauren and me helping you tame the store a bit?”
She’s right. Hiding these beauties behind hot-glued seashells, cheap paint, or rhinestones would be a crime. But my heart aches even more thinking that these amazing pieces will remain here, hidden from the world, instead of being displayed in a way they deserve. I might as well go along with this Mother Hulda kind of interaction and lean into being Goldmarie.
“Right!” Lauren jumps in eagerly, already pulling up the sleeves of her sweatshirt.
“That would be wonderful,” Amanda says with a knowing smile, “but you really don’t have to.”
“No, no, we want to,” I assure her, eyes darting around the room. “You have so many amazing pieces here that must have been incredibly hard to find. They deserve to be seen, and bought—in one piece without falling down.”
