Page 4 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
I miss him.
Chapter 2
Tate
The late-night salty sea air hits differently in Wisteria Cove. It’s almost sharper here and full of ghosts that I feel deep in my chest before I even hit the harbor.But deep down, it still feels like home. And I have missed it, despite the empty grief that fills me when I think about the memories here.
Wisteria Cove probably hasn’t changed. I would bet the same old crooked street signs are still there that the town refuses to update.The houses that line the coast are still sea-scarred and clinging to the edge of the cliffs like they’re just daring a storm to come for them.
I drag my duffel higher on my shoulder, pausing on the dark corner when I see my house sitting up ahead, dark, familiar, and weathered. The house looks as if it’s been holding its breath, waiting for me to step over the threshold again and bring her back to life. Like it's clinging on for life, like I feel like I have been for the past few years.
I had old Pete Delaney, the old, retired harbor master, checking in on the house in my absence. He made sure the yard was maintained for me. I was glad he agreed to help because he keeps to himself, and I knew he wouldn’t talk about me or tellanyone where I was. Still, he had no problems updating me on the comings and goings around Wisteria Cove. At first, I didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want to know. But then I got homesick and looked forward to his updates.
And I specifically looked forward to the updates on Willa Maren. Her bookstore took off, and it sounds like it’s been successful. Last he mentioned, she was ‘single and ready to mingle,’ which I hated hearing. I don’t want her to mingle with anyone. But I also realized that me being gone for two years and her not dating anyone wasn’t realistic.
But I don’t like it at all.
I stare down the dark street, and suddenly my shoulders feel lighter. I’m home, and while I thought it would feel heavy coming back here, it doesn’t. It feels like nothing has changed, yet somehow everything has changed.
Admittedly, I left without saying a word to almost anyone. I figured it was better that way. Easier. Okay, probably just easier for me, but I needed to do it. I needed to leave this place. I felt like every day I was drowning, and I kept having recurring dreams that if Willa and I stayed friends, she’d drown, too. The dream involved us on a boat during a storm. Now, a good therapist would say that is the trauma of losing our dads at the same time. But grief has a funny way of messing you up and putting you back together again when you’re ready. And I’m finally ready to come back. I just don’t know if I can call this place home anymore or if this is truly where I’m supposed to be.
I stayed and tried to make it work for a while after my dad died. For a long time, I told myself he was still out at sea fishing and just on a long trip. But after a few years, I knew he was never coming back. As I continued having to face the pitying looks, the whispers, and the way the salt air felt heavier in my lungs, it became too much. So, I left.
I took every deep-sea fishing job I could, one after another. Alaska. Nova Scotia. Even Iceland, once. The further I got from Wisteria Cove, the better.
Months went by, and before I knew it, years. The only things I focused on were the next haul and the next port. I lived for the salt on my skin, wind in my face, and calloused hands. Fishing made sense. Fishing didn’t ask me to explain why I couldn’t breathe in Wisteria Cove anymore. But I knew it would never be permanent. The sea could never be home.
And now I’m back because…well. There’s nowhere else to go. My mom is living down in Florida with her new husband and stepkids, and I’m not the biggest fan.
Pete called a few weeks ago and said the house was becoming too much and it needed repairs before the weather turned again, and that I needed to come back and take care of my own damn property. He means well, but I think he misses me, too. When my father died, he stepped in and was like a father to me. I love that guy. We’ve check in every week, and his updates have meant a lot.
At first, I told myself I’d only come back long enough to fix the place up, then go back out again. That was the plan. But the second I stepped off the fishing boat and set foot onshore, something shifted. I could feel the pull drawing me straight here.
Some call it a spell, or some other folklore witchy stuff. But there is a pull here. Wisteria Cove will pull you in. It’ll make you feel something for a place, even if you want to leave. But this time it’s not just Wisteria Cove. It’s her.
I glance over at the place I’ve thought about every day for years. Wisteria Books & Brews.
She had just opened it when I left. If I close my eyes, I can still feel and see the memory of her unpacking new books and stocking her shelves with a gleeful smile on her face. A smile Iloved to see and I’ve missed deep in my soul. There were some days I'd give anything to see that smile again.
I never called her. After a while, so much time had passed, I knew she was better off forgetting me. I could never be the person she deserved and needed me to be. But the longer I was away, the more I couldn't get her out of my memory.
It’s practically still in the middle of the night, and likely no one is awake in this town yet. But in a few hours, Wisteria Cove will hum with life. It’s like autumn itself has taken over the old storefront, and the bookstore and coffee shop look less like a business and more like an invitation into someone’s home.
But, then again, Willa did always have the gift of making everyone feel seen and welcome.
Steam has fogged the large front window of the store. A wreath of dried sage, oranges, rosemary, and lavender hangs over the door from a ribbon the color of burned copper, swaying gently in the harbor breeze. Tiny pumpkins dot the windowsills and fill mismatched baskets on the outdoor tables. Cornstalks lean against the weathered clapboard siding, and bundles of cinnamon sticks with twine hang from brass hooks under the window overhang. A bell hangs from the dark wood, worn smooth by time and hands, waiting to be jingled at every arrival like it knows it’s part of the ritual of coming here.
She really did it. She told me when we were kids she was going to open her own bookstore and coffee shop, and even had this place picked out. When it went up for sale, she grabbed it. I never doubted for a minute that she’d make this place what it is today.
A chalkboard sign sits off the stoop, its edges scuffed and smudged with chalk dust, reading in curvy handwriting:
Today’s special:
Butternut squash soup & turkey with brie, and cranberry
Apple cider scones
Pumpkin Spice & Everything Nice
