Page 18 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
The bookstore smells like coffee and old paper when I climb down from my little loft above it. My hair’s still damp from my shower, and I’m tugging my cardigan tight around me when I stop short at the bottom step.
Rowan, Ivy, and my mom are all gathered at the front counter, huddled over something like it’s a precious artifact.
“Uh…what’s going on?” I ask cautiously, but my eyes are already zeroing in on a glass bottle, stoppered with a note inside.
Rowan looks up first, practically glowing with mischief. “You’ve got mail,” she says, tipping her chin toward the bottle.“It was on the front mat this morning. Just sitting out there, it looked like it floated up from the harbor.”
Ivy grins, crossing her arms. “Were you aware that you have a secret admirer?”
Lilith lifts the bottle gently, turning it in her hands. Her eyes gleam as she speaks softly, “Oh, I bet we all know who it’s from.”
My pulse stutters. Before I can reply, the memory rushes back, sharp and uninvited, of me standing in front of him just days ago, voice shaking as I hurled the accusation:“You left without saying anything. No calls, nothing. You could have sent a message in a bottle, Tate.”
God. Did he actually listen to that? Did he…?
Rowan's watching me closely now, her grin turning sly. “You okay, Willa? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I force a shrug, stepping forward and reaching for the bottle with careful fingers. “Maybe it’s just some tourist messing around.” But my heart knows better.
My mom's voice lowers, soft but strong. “Some people call us witches; I call us healers. Your father was my protector. He always was. He used to do romantic things like this, too,” she says, gesturing gently to the bottle. “Little gestures. Small magic touches. He believed healers need protectors…someone who stands between them and the wrong people. Someone who makes them feel safe enough to open their heart.”
I turn the clear bottle and look at the cream paper inside.
My mom's gaze catches mine, steady and piercing. “And that’s why Tate’s good people,” she adds quietly. “You might not want to hear it right now, but it’s true. He’s a protector, Willa.”
The words hit somewhere deeper than I’m ready to admit.
Ivy leans forward, eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Well? Are you going to open it, or should we all stand here dying of suspense?”
But my hands are trembling a little as I pull the cork free and slide out the note inside. The paper is soft, tied with twine that comes loose under my fingers almost too easily.
I unfold it carefully, reading first in silence as my throat tightens, then aloud, because I know they’re all emotionally invested, all leaning in, hanging on every word.
Some nights I wonder if I could have written just one letter to explain why I left, if it would have made any difference. Then I think: you deserved more than a letter. You deserved to have me to stay…and I couldn’t. I’m sorry. So now I'm going to show you.
-Tate
The shop falls silent. Even Rowan has nothing to say for once.
I stare down at the paper, heart pounding, because I do remember my dad doing little things for my mom like this, little gestures that spoke louder than words. Romantic, yes… but deeply intentional. Thoughtful in a way that hit right where it hurt. That’s when it hits me that Tate does remind me of our father. And I remember that he grew up alongside him, too. He probably misses him as much as we do. Just like we miss Phil.
Ivy exhales slowly, shaking her head. “That’s…kind of devastatingly romantic.”
Rowan hums in agreement under her breath. “It’s swoony, that’s what it is. He really just left you a message in a bottle.”
But I can’t say a word. Not yet. Because this is breaking through every wall I’ve carefully built around myself since Tate left, and before that, when my dad died.
I slip the note into my apron pocket quickly, too quickly, as if I can shove my feelings in there, too, and pretend they’re safe and contained.
My mom’s words echo in my mind:Healers need protectors.
And suddenly I’m wondering if that’s exactly what Tate always was. My protector. But then I think about how he’s gone through so much, too. And where was I? Maybe he needed a protector, too, and I wasn’t there for him enough, and that’s why he left.
Now I want to know. No, now Ineedto know. I need to talk to Tate.
Unfortunately, with the busy day of bustling tourists buzzing in and out of the store, I haven’t had the chance to go find Tate. He hasn’t come into the shop, not even to loiter at the counter like he has been, and between refilling coffee orders and helping leaf-peepers pick out paperbacks, I haven’t had a moment to even think about him… except, of course, I do think about him. Constantly. And I keep staring at that bottle behind the counter, and then my hand drags over the crinkle of the note in my apron. And I would never admit it to my sisters and mom, but yes, I have taken it out and re-read it several times when no one was looking.
And now, just as the sun’s setting and I’m locking the door, I’m dreading what’s next. The town meeting. The annual Harvest Moon Festival planning session, better known as a thinly veiled ambush where the most “available” locals get volun-told for everything. And it’s run by no other than my mother, so she thinks nothing of volunteering me and my sistersfor everything. She’s done it since we were toddlers, and it’s become a family event, so to speak.
