Page 24 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell (Wisteria Cove #1)

Tate

T he dock creaks beneath my boots as I settle on the edge, elbows resting on my knees, gaze fixed on the still, silvery reflection of the moon on the harbor.

It’s early, just past six. The sun’s barely thinking about rising, fog curling low around the boats like it’s trying to keep them tucked in a little longer.

I need the quiet. It’s been a few days since my mom and her family crashed the house, and I have nowhere to stay, so I’ve been staying at the bookstore. Not ideal, but better than being where I’m not wanted.

Need to breathe before I walk back into the house and deal with the circus inside.

Randy, my mom, and the two kids think screaming is a valid form of communication, and their grandmother, who flew in last night, thinks microwaving fish is fine at any hour.

She said, “When in Rome,” as if eating fish sticks was something that had something to do with the east coast. I didn’t bother explaining to her that frozen fish is eaten everywhere.

If she wanted a fresh fish experience, the frozen fish sticks aren’t it.

But whatever. She thought I was the maintenance man until one of Randy’s kids told her I was April’s brother. I politely explained that I was April’s son, and she looked like she didn’t believe me.

The water, at least, is calming and peaceful.

From the next dock over, I hear a grunt and the clatter of rope hitting deck.

Old Pete stands on the deck of his rusted-out trawler, squinting at me like I’m part of the landscape that doesn’t quite belong.

“If you’re gonna sit there all broody like some romance cover model,” he calls out, “you might as well come give me a hand, Fabio.”

I huff a laugh, standing. “I didn’t realize helping you was mandatory.”

“You’re within thirty feet of my boat. That’s consent.”

I jump down and make my way to his side. The deck’s still slick with dew, but Pete moves across it like a man twenty years younger.

“The lines are tangled,” he grumbles. “Damn fool college kid who helped me last week knew nothing. Nearly tied the boat to itself like a goddamn pretzel.”

Together we get to work. I fall into the rhythm without thinking, checking the pulleys, re-coiling the lines, tightening a few bolts. Pete watches without hovering, only offering a grunt or the occasional snarky mutter when I do something he likes.

“You always did know your way around a boat,” he says after a bit. “Even when you were a scrawny thing with a mop of hair and no idea how to keep your damn shoes tied.”

“Still have trouble with the laces,” I joke.

He smirks. “That checks out.”

We work in companionable silence for a while. It’s easy with Pete and always has been. He says exactly what he means, then shuts up about it. No games, passive aggression, or bullshit. I appreciate a straight shooter.

When we finish, he claps me on the back. “Now, I’d say that’s worth a coffee, wouldn’t you?”

I nod, following him down the dock. “As long as you’re buying.”

He snorts. “You wish.”

The Driftwood Diner is already buzzing when we get there, the usual blue-checkered curtains pulled open, the scent of bacon and fried blueberry muffins thick in the air.

We don’t stay, just grab two coffees to go and a couple of breakfast sandwiches that may or may not still be warm depending on how fast Old Pete walks back to his bench by the wharf.

And yes, it’s literally his bench. Has his name on it and everything.

This town doesn’t mess around when it comes to taking care of its own.

The town respects Old Pete, who has been the harbor master for a long time. He looks out for people, and he cares.

We sit, the wood damp beneath us, the harbor stretching out in front of us like a postcard.

He takes a sip, sighs. “You know…I’m proud of the man you’ve become.”

My grip on the coffee tightens slightly. I nod, but I say nothing.

“And I know your dad would be too,” Pete continues. “I know she’s your mom, but April wasn’t even nice to your pops when he was alive. It’s kinda hard for a zebra to change its stripes, son. I mean that in the most loving way. Sometimes we get dealt a hard hand.”

I stare straight ahead.

“You were young,” he says gently. “Probably don’t remember it all, but your dad put up with a lot from her.

She hated he went out fishing. Hated that he did that for a living.

Thought he should’ve worked someplace else and played it safe.

But he loved the water more than anything.

And she hated that most of all. Sometimes it didn’t seem like she even liked him much or wanted him to be happy. ”

The words hit somewhere deep, somewhere I’ve locked up and left dusty for years. I remember the fights. Not the words, but the tones. The volume. The way dishes would clatter in the sink, and doors would slam, and I’d sit at the table pretending to read a cereal box like I didn’t hear a damn thing.

I thought that was just life, and that everyone lived like that. Walking as if on eggshells, knowing silence wasn’t peace, just a pause between storms.

Thinking it was normal. And now I realize it’s not.

I don’t answer Pete right away, except to nod in agreement. I know he’s right.

Instead, I take a sip of coffee, watch the sun finally break through the fog, and think about the Maren house and how it wasn’t like that there.

It wasn’t quiet like someone was holding their breath.

It was warm, cluttered, full of half-finished projects and the smell of whatever Lilith was cooking in the oven and laughter coming from the next room.

Even when Willa and her sisters bickered, it never felt like the world was cracking apart.

It felt like…life. Normal. Messy, but good.

Sitting at their kitchen table while Willa scribbled in a notebook and Rowan braided her own hair and Ivy sang off-key in the other room…

I just breathed easier there. I remember their dad inviting me out to the garage with him while he worked on their cars.

He’d sneak me ice cream cups from the freezer out there before dinner and say in his thick New England accent, “Don’t tell your mother. ”

“Guess I thought that was normal,” I say finally, voice low. “The yelling and tension. Thought that’s just what family looked like.”

Pete shakes his head slowly. “Kid, that wasn’t normal.”

He’s right. It was survival. And I think I was living in survival mode for so long that I didn’t even recognize it for what it was. I just knew I didn’t want to live like that.

He lets it settle and doesn’t push. That’s the thing about Pete. He’ll call you out, sure, but he won’t push it.

“You ever think about what you want now?” he asks after a beat.

I glance over.

He’s not talking about boats. Or work. He’s talking about life.

About home. I think about Willa. About the way she sat in that armchair yesterday, blanket over her lap, hair a little damp, eyes soft as she watched the shop come alive with me and her sisters helping her.

The way she smiled when she thought no one was looking.

I think about the bookstore. And how it already feels more like home than the place I grew up in ever did.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m starting to.”

Pete grunts. “Good. ‘Bout time.”

We sit there a while longer, sipping coffee, watching the boats rock gently in their slips.

The fog burns off and everything turns slow and golden. Somewhere down the wharf, I hear someone playing a harmonica out of tune.

The town’s waking up. And for once, I’m not just watching it like an outsider. I’m part of it.

The bell over the bookstore door jingles, soft and familiar.

Feels a little like walking into a dream I didn’t know I wanted until I was living it.

I’m avoiding going back to the house as much as possible.

My mom has been sitting at the kitchen table over there poring over lists and things to sell.

It looks like she’s selling anything not nailed down.

She even asked me if I wanted to keep my bed or not.

Willa’s at the front table, sorting through a box of new books, hair pulled back, face a little flushed, but brighter.

Healthier. There’s color in her cheeks again.

Her eyes lift the second the door closes behind me and she grins.

“There you are. I was thinking about putting your face on a milk carton.”

I hold up the paper bag. “Brought you a breakfast sandwich. Pete made me stop at Driftwood. Pretty sure I’m part of the official old man morning coffee crew now.”

She walks toward me, arms still wrapped around herself, until she’s close enough to reach, and then she wraps her arms around my waist and presses her cheek to my chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

I blink and pull her in close, breathing in her shampoo or soap scent that smells really good.

“Thanks,” she murmurs. “For yesterday and…everything.”

“Of course,” I say into her hair. “Always.”

She pulls back but doesn’t go far. Just enough to meet my eyes. “You sleep okay?” she asks.

“Better than I would’ve at the house. Thanks for letting me crash here.”

Her brow furrows. “How’s it going with…them?”

I shrug. “As good as it’s gonna get.”

There’s a pause, heavy with unspoken things.

“Can I crash here again tonight?” I ask.

Her answer’s immediate. “Of course. Stay as long as you need to stay. Cobweb doesn’t mind.”

And I don’t miss it, how her eyes brighten at the idea. How her voice softens. How her hands fidget like she’s trying to tuck her excitement into the folds of her cardigan and pretend it’s not there.

“Just Cobweb won’t mind?” I tease.

“I don’t mind, either,” she says softly.

“Want help with those?” I nod to the open box beside her.

She nods, and just like that, we fall into step.

We unpack the books together, shoulder to shoulder, dust jackets brushing our knuckles every few minutes. She reads off titles, sorts them by genre, and passes me stacks to shelve.

It’s quiet work, but I like it. Cobweb naps on a windowsill. Somewhere outside, the wind knocks a few dried leaves against the glass.

“This really is the heartbeat of Wisteria Cove,” I murmur.

Willa glances over. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

She blushes, but she doesn’t argue.

We keep working.

“Ivy’s been around more,” Willa says after a bit, her voice dropping into something gentler. “She’s a realtor’s assistant now. She has to help them prep the house to sell.”

I slide a novel into its spot and pause. “Well, someone has to do it.”

“She hates it,” Willa admits. “Says she wishes she could just walk dogs for a living.”

I smirk. “Honestly? Same. What happened to the doggy daycare job she had?” I ask.

“They cut her hours, and she wanted to take the real estate job. Her stupid boyfriend made fun of the doggy daycare gig. He’s a piece of work,” she mutters.

I don’t like this guy. I’ve heard enough to know he’s a jerk.

“She’s good with animals, though. But real estate would be good for her, Ivy could charm the bark off a tree if she had to. She just feels bad that she’s selling your house.”

“Well…hopefully someone buys it who wants to make it an actual home,” I say quietly.

She softens, gives me a smile like it’s just for me. “She won’t say it, but she’s doing it for us,” Willa says. “We’re trying to get the building next door. She wants to maybe get her real estate license, but you know how she is. She’s had a lot of jobs.”

“The one right next door?” I ask, pointing to the left of the building.

She nods. “If we can buy it, Rowan will turn it into Salt & Root. We’d finally have enough space for an herbal workshop, a yoga studio on the top floor, and an apothecary shop. And maybe a little tea bar.”

I glance at the wall between the shops, trying to picture it. “That would be great.”

“I hope so,” she says, and there’s a flicker of hope in her voice. Fragile but determined.

I nod. “It will. The three of you make magic. Everyone in this town knows it.”

She looks at me, really looks at me, and for a second I feel like I’m the only man in the world.

“You always say the exact right thing,” she says.

I laugh. “I’ve said plenty of wrong ones.”

“Not to me. It only hurts me when you don’t say what you want to say and just leave.”

Later, Ivy shows up, hair in a ponytail, wearing a blazer that’s two sizes too big and sneakers with laces that don’t match. She drops her bag and slumps into the reading nook like a woman who has just finished hiking up a mountain.

“I swear to God,” she groans. “If I hear the words ‘charming curb appeal’ one more time, I will personally set the curb on fire.”

Willa laughs and slides her a cup of tea. “Rough day?”

“Someone made me explain what a water heater is. Another person asked if the ghosts were included with the house.” She lifts her head, sees me. “Hi, Tate. I see you’re still pretending not to live here.”

“I’m working my way up to full-time squatter,” I say.

She lifts the tea in salute. “Solid plan.”

“Any buyers seriously interested?”

Ivy sighs and nods. “Yup. Lucky me.”

“You’re good at it, Ivy,” Willa says. “You really are.”

“I want to be walking a golden retriever named Pretzel right now,” Ivy mutters.

“Still time,” I say, glancing at my watch.

She snorts. “That’s the dream.”

We chat for a bit, light stuff. Ivy rants about real estate. Willa teases her. I stay quiet and soak in the laughter, the teasing, the rhythm of this strange little trio of women who’ve seen more than their share of heartbreak and still show up, anyway.

Eventually, Ivy heads out, grumbling about back-to-back showings tomorrow. The shop is quiet again.

Willa slides another book into place, then looks at me. “Thanks for helping.”

I shrug. “I like it here.”

Her smile is slow, steady. “I do, too.”

“Do you think Ivy will ever find what makes her happy?” I ask.

She nods. “Yes, I do. She’s been stuck with bozo Derek, who has led her on, used her, and it’s been hard to watch. Everyone saw it but her.”

We stay after closing, sorting the last of the books in the quiet. At one point, she sits on the floor, and I sit beside her. Neither of us moves.

“It’s weird,” she says softly. “Letting someone in like this. Not just in the store. In the quiet moments. In the places I don’t usually share.”

I don’t speak. I just reach over, slide my hand into hers.

She lets me. And that’s all the answer I need.