Page 57 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
“What just happened,” she says flatly, “was a crime.”
I laugh, but it’s hollow. “You think the ghost of Wisteria Cove could haunt them a little?”
“Oh, she’s already brewing something,” Rowan mutters, grabbing the broom. “You good?”
“Yeah.” I sweep a handful of bookmarks back into their basket, picking up the soggy one and putting it in the trash. “Just tired.”
“You’re too nice, you know that?”
“I didn’tdoanything.”
“Exactly.”
I give her a look.
She sighs. “You shouldn’t have to put up with that in your own shop.”
I don’t say anything, because if I do, I might say something I’ll regret. Like how I saw April watching me while I cleaned up after her kids. Or how I swear there was a flicker of satisfaction in her eyes. I know that kind of silent cruelty too well. I saw her do that to Tate for years. And it got worse after our dads went missing.
I just keep working. Because that’s what I do.
Rowan steps over and rests a hand on my arm. “You want me to ward the doorway with salt, rosemary, and lavender?”
I crack a real smile this time. “Tempting.”
She grins. “One day, people are gonna understand this place isn’t just some cozy Instagram backdrop. This shop means something. And you? You’re the reason it runs. You make it magic.”
I glance around at the soft lamplight glowing over shelves, the candle still flickering at the register, the little jar of fresh mums by the scone samples.
Yeah. This placedoesmean something. Even if people like April don’t see it. Even if they never will.
“Thanks, Row,” I whisper.
She nods, stepping back and grabbing the now slightly soggy “Autumn Staff Picks” sign. “Let’s make this look cute again.”
I grab the cinnamon broom hanging on the wall and sweep up the muddy bootprints with one long exhale.
Tomorrow will be better. It always is.
The weather’s perfect in that golden, early-fall way when the sun is warm on my shoulders, the air crisp with just a whisper of cinnamon in the breeze. Wisteria Cove glows in September and October. Main Street is all pumpkins and dried cornstalks, little scarecrows guarding doorways, tables draped in plaid tablecloths. It should feel peaceful.
But I’m fuming. Not at my mom, who’s currently chatting with the florist about eucalyptus bundles for her to dry. Not at Ivy, who offered to cover the shop this morning so I could spend time with my mom.
But atthem.
I spot them from halfway down the street. Randy in that green fleece pullover, hands shoved in his pockets like he owns the sidewalk, walking two steps ahead like the world should keep pace. April’s behind him, phone in one hand, gesturing like she’s recapping some dramatic episode of her life for an audience. And their kids trail behind, looking bored, loud, and wild as ever, chewing gum and swatting at each other like no one’s watching.
They remind me of the Wormwoods fromMatilda.
They pass right by Tate, who’s standing near Remy’s truck, talking to Finn and unloading wooden items that Finn makes to sell. He pauses, glances up when they pass, and for just a second, I see it.
The flicker in his expression and the way his posture shifts. I don’t miss the way he tries not to show it hurts. But I see it. Hell, I can even feel it for him from over here.
April barely even glances at him and doesn’t acknowledge him. Randy glances at him and then off again as if he doesn’t even know him. Nothing more. And that?That’s it.Something inside me snaps. Because he’s right there. Solid and good and quietly trying his best. And they don’t see it. Or worse, theydo, and they ignore him anyway.
No. Absolutely not.
“Mom,” I say, setting down the eucalyptus bundle. “I’ll be right back.”
