Page 2 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
I pull out my small paper cups and fill them with whipped cream. Rowan, Ivy, and I carry them out and hand them out since they waited patiently like the good doggies that they are. I pet them and scratch their ears, grateful for the break from the busy day. One of them jumps up to sniff Ivy’s coffee, and the outdoor table trembles, the glass lanterns shaking. It’s theperfect friendly chaos that I crave in the shop. Magic in everyday moments.
Later, I go back to my cozy, cluttered peace. I glance around, grateful for the magic in the mid-morning mundane. The shop is empty of customers right now, but I’m sure we’ll get another rush.
I love this street and always have. From the window of the shop, I can see the way Wisteria Cove folds in on itself, part fishing village, part small-town postcard. Shops like mine, tucked snug between weathered clapboard houses painted in shades of white, gray, and seafoam, line the cobbled street like they’ve been here forever. The air carries salt and woodsmoke, crisp with the warm autumn air.
Further down, the barber’s striped pole spins lazily, bright against the red brick. A gull swoops overhead, its cry louder than the occasional car rumbling by, reminding me that here, the sea always has more presence than traffic. It’s the rhythm of this place with the harbor bells, the rustle of dry leaves scraping along the stone, the quiet hum of neighbors calling out hellos.
It’s not perfect in a shiny Hallmark way. It’s better. Quirky, weathered, stubbornly itself. The shingles are faded from salt wind, the paint peels here and there, and the whole town smells faintly of fish no matter how many pies the bakery turns out. But it’sours.And I wouldn’t trade it for anywhere else.
My gaze drifts down the street to the Holloway place. The windows stare back at me like eyes that have seen too much. It’s different now with overgrown hedges, a porch in need of repair. When I was a girl, I used to run across that yard and lose whole afternoons in their backyard. Just seeing it now sends a wave of nostalgia washing over me, bittersweet as the bite of sea air. The house feels like a ghost of another time, one that’s tethered itself to me whether I like it or not.
The Holloway house has sat empty for so long that it almost feels like part of the scenery now, with weathered shingles, faded paint, and a crooked mailbox with “Holloway” still scrawled across it in peeling black letters.
For a long time after Tate Holloway left, I would glance out, expecting to see a light in a window. Watching for a shape moving past the curtains. Or him stepping out onto that porch like no time had passed at all. But that hope faded years ago when he left and disappeared without a word. People around town said that he took a job offshore somewhere doing deep-sea fishing. And eventually, I stopped watching and waiting for him. But part of me wonders—if the old Holloway house could speak, what stories would it tell? Stories of sadness, grief, and a family robbed of time and memories.
I've poured myself into this place instead, focusing on the dried orange slices hanging from the windows, the books stacked just so, and every cinnamon-sugar swirl on the foam of a latte. I try to romanticize everything in my life and make every day count. That's the only romance I have these days. Wisteria Cove isn't exactly full of eligible bachelors, and even if it were, I'm not sure how many would want to date a sad and lonely witch. I live above my shop in a tiny studio apartment, and this is as exciting as it gets, boys and girls.
The bookstore witch is boring.
I built this life…this sanctuary…this shop filled with the hum of conversation and the scent of coffee, books, and pumpkin spice.
And most of the time, it’s enough. But lately it just feels lonely. There has to be more than this, I just don't know what.
About five years ago, a severe storm destroyed my father’s fishing boat. There were no survivors, and the boat was never found. My family and this town have never been the same. There were seven people, including our neighbor, Phil Holloway, Tate’sfather on the Salty Siren that night. That was one of the worst storms in New England history. And that night changed the course of both of our families’ lives forever.
The Holloways and Marens were like family to each other once upon a time. We shared family dinners and holidays—even our mothers were friends. My sisters and I and Tate grew up together. Everything changed after that night, though. I have always suspected that the Holloways blamed my father for the boat sinking. He was the captain, and people still talk about it occasionally, whispering that they held him responsible. But nobody will ever know what really happened, because they’re gone.
Watching my mother, Lilith, wait out on the widow’s peak for him to come home for weeks after the storm was awful. She refused to believe he was gone. She said she could still feel him out there. Part of her died that night with him. The mother that we had after that night wasn’t the same mother that we had before the storm, with him gone. He left a crater-sized hole in all our lives. Losing a parent is the worst, and not a club anyone wants a membership to.
April, Tate’s mother, moved to Florida right after they declared Phil legally dead. She left the house for Tate, and he stayed for a few years, fishing locally. But then, without warning, he was just gone. Things were never the same between us after the accident. We still talked, but our friendship and closeness took a hit.
I move behind the counter, wiping my hands and brewing a fresh batch of coffee for customers while keeping an eye on the simmering soup. Donna Bennett, the town's self-appointed fairy godmother and my mother's best friend, appears at the counter. Donna is also a famous author who has penned over a hundred romance novels in the past several decades. Most of the localsknow her, and it's not a big deal, but she keeps a low profile for the rest of the world.
“Hi, Willa, I need five pumpkin spice scones to go for Remy and Junie,” she declares cheerfully, plopping her purse down on the counter.
“Hey, Donna, how are you doing?” I smile as I wash my hands and dry them.
“I’m good, sweetie. Just left a meeting about the upcoming Harvest Moon Festival. It’s going to be amazing this year,” she says. “Also, why didn't you tell me that Tate’s coming back?”
I drop a scone on the floor that I was scooping into the bag.
What did she just say?
My chest tightens, and my hands shake.
“I didn’t know about Tate,” I say.
“Oh, I figured you knew since you two were always so close,” she says, raising her eyebrows.
“Nope,” I hand her the bag of scones and head to the register to ring up her order.
“Well, keep me updated. It’ll be nice to have him home,” she says as she hands me her card to pay.
I nod, even though my outside reaction is not even close to my inside reaction. I am freaking out and trying to keep my hands from shaking right now.
“Gossip is as hot a commodity here as the coffee, but I’m trying to reign in my chaotic emotions, so I give Rowan a nudge, who's sitting at the coffee bar, reading a book.
“Donna, tell me about your tarot session with Lilith,” Rowan asks sweetly, getting her to change the subject.
