Page 33 of The Lone Wolf Café
Rowena shrugged again. “I changed my mind. I figured you’d be here for a while. Best for you to be comfortable.”
My face burned redder, this time with guilt instead of happiness. First, Adrian offered to help me renovate the cabin. Now, Rowena had bought me both a percolator and what looked like several months’ worth of coffee beans.
I bit my lip.Why are they all making it so hard for me to leave?
I swallowed, forcing my anxiety back down my throat, and instead focused on grinding the coffee beans. It took ten minutes, and I could still see chunks of beans mixed in with the grounds. But my arms were too tired to continue, so I decided it was good enough.
I picked up the interior parts of the percolator, rinsed them off, and put them back together inside the main kettle. I filled the metal strainer with my poorly-ground beans, poured two cups of water into the bottom, and set the percolator on top of the hot plate.
“Mavro?” I called out. The little fire elemental materialized in a puff of smoke, and I pulled a piece of charcoal out of the small bin Rowena kept under the counter.
“You know what to do, buddy.” I laughed. Mavro scurried underneath the hot plate with his prized charcoal clenched in his paws, settling into the burner like a child getting ready for bed. He took two loud, crunchy bites of the charcoal, squeaked once, and then exploded into a ball of flames.
Once the coffee finished, I poured myself a piping hot cup, savoring the familiar rich, nutty scent as it drifted around my nostrils. Rowena had Fritzi fetch creamer, and there was an earthenware jar of sugar next to the honey display. I cupped my hands around the mug, enjoying the way it warmed my palms, and took a seat by the fireplace next to Rowena.
I knew it was almost 5 a.m., and Ireallyneeded to get started on the day’s pastries. But I’d function better once I had caffeine in my system, and this was the first time I’d had access to a cup of coffee in a while. I lifted the mug to my lips and slurped some of the steaming-hot liquid.
I wanted to savor this.
In the high-backed chair next to me, Rowena sipped her tea in the same manner. I assumed it was Earl Grey based on the bergamot smell. On the end table, next to her tea plate,was a small leather-bound book titledAn Herbalist’s Guide to Foraging in Maine. I picked it up, thumbing through the brittle, yellowed pages and studying the detailed illustrations of dandelion greens, wild blueberries, and a variety of edible mushrooms. I recognized many of the plants from Rowena’s garden behind the café.
Rowena was silent as I flipped through the book, though her dark brown eyes remained curiously locked on me. Whenever I returned her eye contact, she quickly turned away, pretending to be enamored by her almost-empty cup of tea.
Rowena was an odd witch.
But I liked her. She was quiet, yet I found these moments oddly companionable. Her presence had a calming effect on me.
Once I finished my coffee, I rinsed the mug in the sink and stacked it in the upper cabinet with the others. Rowena was still sitting in her high-backed chair, her empty teacup perched on the end table.
“So, uh…” I cringed. My voice sounded awkward after such a long period of silence. “What would you like me to make today?”
“I have an idea,” Rowena replied. The chair squeaked as she stood up and walked toward the front counter. “Since it’s almost Halloween, I wanted to stock some pumpkin spice sweets. Does that sound good?”
“Pumpkin…spice?”
“Yes.”
“Uh…” My face burned at my lack of knowledge. “I mean, I can add pumpkin, but what sort of spices do you want me to use?”
Rowena’s face went blank, then she burst into giggles. “Wait a minute… you don’t know what pumpkin spice is?”
“Uh…”
Rowena could hardly contain her laughter. And as my embarrassment dissipated, I began laughing too. Not only wasthe situation funny, I loved seeing Rowena laugh. She was always so reserved – I’d never seen her let loose to this extent.
She had a pretty laugh, too. Melodic and sweet.
I wanted to hear it more often.
“You really were isolated on that island, weren’t you?” Rowena asked.
I lowered my head, the tomato color returning to my cheeks.
“Sorry,” Rowena shook her head. “That was insensitive of me. Anyway, ‘pumpkin spice’ is–” Rowena grunted as she reached for the upper shelves, pulling down a small glass canister full of a powdery brown mixture. “–just a blend of fall spices. Cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, cloves… stuff like that. It’s a popular flavor for baked goods during the fall season.”
“So… it doesn’t actually contain pumpkin?”
“Nope,” Rowena replied, handing me the pumpkin spice canister. “But feel free to add some. There’s a bunch of canned pumpkin in the kitchen.”
