Page 1 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
Chapter 1
Willa
The bells over the heavy wooden door to my bookstore and coffee shop jingle as I finish pouring a maple leaf design onto a pumpkin spice latte in a cauldron-shaped mug. I've lost count of how many pumpkin spice lattes I’ve made all day, already sealing the sweet, warm scent of cinnamon and clove into every corner of the shop. Fall has moved into Wisteria Cove, and honestly, I couldn’t be happier. Sure, this means we’re swamped, and all our shops are jam-packed from open to close, but it’s my favorite time of year.
And what's better than a cozy bookstore and coffee shop in the fall? Absolutely nothing, that’s what.
Inside Wisteria Books & Brews, I’ve collected mismatched armchairs and carved out little comfy reading nooks, each softened with blankets, pillows, and cushions that invite everyone in to explore the new and old books. Tall shelves with a ladder hold my carefully curated collections, while other shelves hold paperbacks mixed with hardcovers, new finds, and dog-eared favorites. Warmly lit lamps illuminate every corner, and no overhead lights glare in here. This is the ultimate escape for anyone needing a place to call home and curl up with a warmmug and a good book. My shop is eclectic, warm, welcoming, and alive.
This morning, a small coven of incredible women gathered here, as they often do, to celebrate each other’s wins, sip coffee, and pull tarot cards between bursts of laughter and knowing nods. They’re a tight-knit, deep-soul group who loves fiercely, supports endlessly, and leaves the air humming with good energy. I can’t help but smile every time they’re in the shop.
Nothing makes me happier than pouring someone their favorite coffee or tea and watching them choose from murder mysteries, fairy tales, gardening guides, or our local Wisteria Cove seaside lore. And I may or may not be reading their futures while they are here in the shop. But I don’t tell them that. That’s for sure.
My mother, Lilith Maren, and my two sisters and I are all notoriously known as the Maren Witches of Wisteria Cove. People love to make up stories about us flying on brooms and wearing witch costumes. But that’s not true. But that’s alsonot not true,either. While we don’t fly on brooms or wear costumes, we all have unique gifts that we use in our day-to-day lives.
But life has been hard enough for all three of us. We don’t need to make it harder by over sharing the things that make us weird. Well,weirderto the outside world, but just normal to us. History has called witches weird as a negative connotation the past. But if being intuitive, helping others, and loving apothecary makes us witches, then I guess that’s what we are.
It wasn't always easy growing up as the daughter of Lilith Maren, the town sea witch, as the tourists like to call her. She's infamous around here. Nobody takes our gifts seriously until they need us for something, whether they need a spell from my mother, or something apothecary from my sister, Rowan. I have gifts of discernment and intuition, and Ivy has gifts of care and art. She paints and designs tarot cards and loves to write.
Every year, we host the annual Harvest Moon festival, which attracts even more tourists. Can I move things and fly on a broom?No.Can I manifest things into happening? Yeah, I’ve been known to do that and see things that are going to happen before other people do. But mostly, I just run my coffee shop and bookstore. I find beauty in the magic of everyday things. Like a steaming mug of tea, a conversation with a friend, and curling up with a great book. There’s magic in the small, everyday things, and I wish more people knew that.
In the back of my kitchen, my soup station bubbles away. Today’s special is butternut squash with sage and cream, served in to-go containers with a fresh sprig of thyme. And in the glass case, we have fresh sandwiches that people can grab and go. This week I was feeling roast turkey, savory brie, and cranberry relish. Their aroma from the neatly stacked sandwiches draws customers in off the street. By the end of the day, the customers will have bought everything. We sell out of everything constantly, and it’s been a good problem to have.
Across the shop, my sister Rowan emerges from the back, handing me a wooden box of precisely labeled apothecary jars. All clean line labels with: Ground, Clarity, and Calm. Rowan grew and cultivated all of them carefully from her garden and greenhouse.
“Another tea delivery?” I smile, relief washing over me. We’ve blown through nearly every blend this week, and my shelves are desperate for a restock. Rowan's tea is phenomenal, grown in her sun-drenched greenhouse and the little garden behind her cozy little cottage.
When she’s not teaching yoga classes down at the community center, she’s been pouring her heart into opening a yoga and apothecary shop in the vacant building right next door to Wisteria Books & Brews. I can already picture it, the warm scent of herbs against the red brick walls drifting through the doorthat will connect both of our shops, the hum of music from my shop mingling with her laughter.
Rowan’s already the go-to in town for everything from loose-leaf teas to lavender tinctures and magnesium sprays. If you can dream it, she can create it. Potions and remedies that seem to carry a little bit of Wisteria Cove’s magic in every drop.
“Not everyone can suffer through your pumpkin spice lattes,” she says dryly, her dark wavy hair that matches mine pulled back in a simple knot, her velvety brown eyes shining, silver rings clicking as she sets the jars in place. “But I’ll give you props…you sell out of everything, so there’s that. People love their pumpkin spice, but I'm not one of them. I’m more of a tea kind of girl.”
I theatrically roll my eyes. “And there’s nothing wrong with that. I love your teas, too.”
My younger sister Ivy bursts in through the front door, her reddish-brown hair wild under an askew knit cap, grinning at us. She’s walking dogs today, one of her many part-time jobs. The barking of the dogs has begun outside as they bark and look in the window, their leashes tied to the old iron lamppost out front. And there seem to be three extra loose dogs congregating with the ones tied up.
“Should I even ask, or do I just accept that you’re the town’s official puppy dealer now?” I grin.
“You guys, it’s an emergency.” Ivy’s infectious grin is bright. Leave it to Ivy to smile through an emergency.
“Mrs. Tourney’s golden retrievers escaped and fell into step behind me, so now I look like I'm running Wisteria Cove’s unofficial Golden Girls Club.”
I chuckle and reach for the phone to call Mrs. Tourney. This kind of thing happens often. Ivy’s basically the unofficial dog whisperer of Wisteria Cove—well, all animals, really. I swear there’s not a single pet within thirty miles that doesn’t know oradore her. She’s everyone’s go-to for dog walking, pet sitting, you name it, though that’s just one of her many gigs.
Ivy’s what I like to call a serial job holder. She’s worked just about everywhere in this town at least once, and somehow, she’s charmed everyone while doing it. If Wisteria Cove has a job, Ivy’s probably done it, quit it, and sometimes come back for another round. She always leaves on good terms, though. I'll give her that.
As I hang up the phone with Mrs. Tourney, who tells me she’s on her way, Rowan sighs. “Remind me why you prefer dog walking out in the cold and don’t want to teach yoga classes this week?”
“Because these dogs are adorable,” Ivy shoots back with a grin. “Maybe if you considered goat yoga like I suggested, I’d fill in more.”
I make Ivy’s favorite drink for her, a Moonrise mocha, pop a lid on it and slide it over to her. She smiles gratefully and takes it, immediately taking a sip. “Mmmm, thank you,” she says, closing her eyes.
We all turn and look as all the dogs she’s walking peer in the window at Ivy, tails wagging, waiting expectantly.
“Look at them. It’s like in Nordic countries where parents leave the babies in strollers outside in the fresh air to sleep,” she says proudly of her charges as she sips her coffee.
“Yeah, except they aren’t sleeping. They want their pup cups that you’ve taught them they get every time you come here,” Rowan says with a smirk.
