Page 2 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell (Wisteria Cove #1)

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’s ours. 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’s father 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 locals know 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.

“Thank you,” I mouth to her behind Donna.

Donna brightens and, luckily, moves on to that, telling everyone what happened.

Before I know it, Lilith Maren, my mother, sweeps in with all the dramatic flair she can possibly muster.

She’s a petite woman, barely five-three, though she carries herself like she’s towering over everyone in the room.

A velvet shawl drapes around her shoulders like she’s stepping onto a stage, and dried wisteria vines loop over one arm as if she’s bringing an offering.

Her wrists are stacked with silver bangles that clink and jangle with every gesture, punctuating her words like exclamation marks.

Her hair, long and wild, falls in loose waves the color of burnished copper streaked with silver.

She insists it’s “witch’s hair,” untamed and full of secrets, and she refuses to let anyone tame it with scissors.

Her eyes are storm-gray with flecks of green and have that mischievous spark that makes people wonder if she knows more than she lets on. Spoiler: she always does.

She’s not thin but not full-figured, either; she has that ageless, solid, earthy presence of a woman who’s lived fully and refuses to apologize for it.

There’s something both comforting and chaotic about her, like she could whip up soup to cure your cold while also casually working on a spell for your love life in the same afternoon.

Today she’s wearing a layered plum and midnight blue skirt, the hem brushing her boots, and a blouse patterned with tiny, embroidered moons and stars.

Rings glitter on nearly every finger, amethysts, garnets, and a chunky turquoise she swears is enchanted.

Everything about her says: I belong to this town, and I am at home here .

She’s timeless, a little eccentric, and entirely unforgettable.

“The vines signal love and renewal,” she says, planting them firmly on top of the counter as I wince. She doesn’t even notice the dried leaves that rattle onto the floor. “I’m sensing you have both on the horizon, Willa.”

“Mom, why are you bringing in outside things?” I wince, digging into my resilient politeness at her eccentricity. But this is what happens when you have a witchy mother. They know things.

My mom just smiles, hugs Rowan and then reaches to pull me into a hug, as well. “A little magic never hurts anyone, except the boring ones,” she winks at me.

“I am not boring,” I say as I swipe up the wisteria leaves into my hand.

Rowan arches a brow, her lips twitching. Before she can say anything, I shoot her a warning look, and she chuckles.

My mom laughs. “Not boring? Darling, you wouldn’t know fun if it hit you like a broomstick. You hide out in your bookstore and hardly ever leave. You practically have to schedule fun. If that isn’t boring, I don’t know what is.”

“Introverted,” I correct, brushing the dried petals into a neat pile. “It’s called being a homebody.”

“Mm-hm.” Lilith tilts her head, her hair spilling over one shoulder in a cascade of silver waves. “You’re becoming a spinster with cats.”

Rowan snorts. “She already has the tragic spinster vibe. Just missing the cats.”

“Excuse me?” I glare at both, though my lips threaten a smile.

Lilith plants her hands on her hips, rings glittering. “I am simply saying, my darling daughters, that life is short, and you should be living it as though it were dipped in honey and rolled in cinnamon sugar.”

Rowan leans against the counter, smirking. “You mean like Ivy? Trying out job after job?”

Lilith waves a hand as if brushing away a gnat. “She’s figuring out what makes her happy.” Her eyes sparkle with mischief as she looks between us.

Rowan rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “That’s one way of putting it.”

I try to hold firm, but Lilith’s infectious grin threatens to break me down. “You’re impossible,” I mutter.

“And you,” she counters, reaching out to tap my nose like I’m still a little girl, “are delicious when you’re ruffled. Don’t waste your life on order when chaos is so much more fun.”

This is exactly what it was like growing up in the Maren household. Chaos and comfort mixed into something like home. And I love it.

When the store finally clears out for the night and everyone is gone, I flip the closed sign, lock the door, and get my homemade chamomile tea. My good life doesn’t require much, just a steaming mug of tea, a good book, and some quiet solitude in my favorite place.

I pull a cracked wooden ladder from the shelf, flip open a hidden latch, and climb up to the small loft with windows catching the moonlight over the harbor.

Here is where my quiet solitude reigns. A plush armchair and worn quilt wait for me by a small reading lamp, as if ready for me and waiting for the day to end.

A cozy bed, stacks of books, a tiny kitchen, and a bathroom. It's all I need, and it’s mine.

This is also a perfect view of the Holloway place and the harbor just beyond it.

The dark shutters tug at me again. Is he really back?

I so badly wanted to ask Donna more, but Donna is not the one to ask.

Donna is wonderful, but a big matchmaker, and almost as bad as my mom.

Those two together are just about impossible when they get an idea.

I sip my tea and imagine what would happen if Tate showed up, knocked on the door.

What would I even say to him? Maybe we'd talk, and he’d be nice.

Maybe he’d be better and not the broody fisherman man he was when he left Wisteria Cove.

Maybe he’s changed. Or maybe he’s not even here at all, and Donna is mistaken.

The harbor outside is calm, the moon silver and reflecting across the dark water. A lone gull shrieks. My eyes seem to play tricks on me, as I think for a second I see a single upstairs light flare and fade. Maybe a coincidence, maybe not.

I feel mostly peaceful, other than the thought of Tate Holloway being back in town after all these years. I haven’t exactly been pining for him. However, it is hard when his house is still there and serves as a constant reminder.

I light a small candle on my table for hope, lay out a leaf for fall rootedness, and sea salt for openness.

Yes, my life is full. Cozy, fun, and I am happy. But deep down? I’m deeply lonely.

I miss him.