Page 27 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell (Wisteria Cove #1)
The house sits as it always has, on Main Street and back a bit, half-hidden behind overgrown hedges and a rusted iron fence that leans a little more each year. The house is a grand old thing if you squint. Victorian bones with peeling paint and too many windows that creak in the wind.
It was home for a long time.Until she showed back up with new kids, a new husband, and a real estate agent on speed dial.
I park on the street and sit in the truck for a beat too long, letting the engine tick and cool while my hands stay on the wheel.
My jaw’s tight. My stomach’s tighter. I don't want to go in there.I haven’t talked to her since she yelled at me in the town square.
I was shocked when Lilith and Willa stood up for me.
But I wasn’t surprised. With my mom, there's nothing I can ever seem to do to make things right with her.
The porch light’s already on even though the sun hasn’t finished setting, casting long shadows across the cracked steps.
I told myself I’d just crash at the bookstore until I figure things out.
One night. Maybe two.But stepping through the door is like stepping back into a version of my life I never want to remember.
The house smells like potpourri and lemon polish, like someone’s trying too hard to erase the ghosts. There are open suitcases spilling out by the hall table, shoes scattered like landmines, and voices upstairs, high-pitched and loud.
I head for the back staircase with a plan to avoid the noise and them .
My old room is at the top, small, tucked under the eaves, still painted that god-awful navy blue I picked out in middle school when I thought I was cool.
The walls are bare now, but the closet still holds the same busted door, and the window still overlooks the backyard where Willa used to throw pinecones at me when she wanted to get my attention to go do something fun.
I open the closet, searching for the flannel-lined sleeping bag I think I left behind years ago.
And that’s when I see it. A shoebox on the top shelf.
I pull it down without thinking; the cardboard is soft with age, its edges frayed.
Inside: photographs. Notes. Ticket stubs from the county fair.
A dried daisy tied with string.And near the bottom is apicture of us.
Me, Willa, Ivy, and Rowan, crammed together on the beach during one of those rare perfect fall days.
I was sixteen, maybe seventeen. Willa’s nose is sunburned.
My arm’s around her shoulders, and she’s holding my hand like it’s nothing.
But it was everything .My throat tightens.
This is what I’m fighting for.Not the house.
Not the boat. Her. I want to make her proud of me.
Before I can spiral any further, I hear footsteps on the stairs.
And then…her voice.“Really, Tate, what are you doing here?”
I exhale slowly and close the box. “Hi, Mom. Didn’t realize I couldn’t come home or be in my own room.”
She breezes in wearing a cream blouse and navy slacks with way too much perfume that enters the room even before she does. She's holding a clipboard as if it's practically a weapon.
“I made a list,” she says, handing it to me. “The realtor said the siding needs pressure washing. The front stairs should probably be repaired...again. And the faucet in the downstairs bathroom is still dripping. Honestly, I don’t know what you’ve been doing all these years.”
My jaw flexes.I take the paper, glance at it, then set it down on the desk. “Yeah, I’m not doing any of that.”
Her brows shoot up. “Excuse me?”
“I’m not your handyman, Mom. I’m your son.
And I’ve paid to maintain this house for five years.
Taxes, insurance, the plumber, the HVAC guy.
Every damn thing. And now you’re selling it.
With barely any notice, and certainly no reward or even a thank you.
So…yeah. I’m not doing that just so you can take everything away from me that Dad worked hard for. ”
She blinks as if she’s shocked at my response. Like she expected the quiet kid who always did what she told him to do, not the man who’s finally done playing polite.
“You knew this day would come,” she says coolly. “It’s not like this house was ever going to be yours.”
I turn and she follows me down the stairs and out onto the porch. I want to just leave and never come back, but I can’t.
“No, you’re right. I did know,” I say, standing, voice steady. “But I took care of it for you. But you didn’t care. You just come here with your new family and treat me like the guest.”
She opens her mouth to argue, but something behind me catches her attention.
I turn and look at the street.
Lilith Maren is walking by the front hedge, carrying a paper bag. She sees us and slows just a little, gaze landing on my mother like she’s surprised she's still here.
Lilith’s wearing a long cardigan the color of burned sugar and boots with a heel sharp enough to kill a man. Her hair’s pinned up, messy and perfect, and when she sees the look on my mother’s face—part confusion, part disdain—she smiles.
Not a kind smile.A beautifully terrifying one.“Well,” Lilith says lightly, stopping by the gate, staring up. “Good to see you, too, April.”
My mother narrows her eyes.
“You’re glowing,” Lilith adds sweetly. “Stress must suit you.”
I nearly choke.
Lilith tips her head toward me. “Tate, darling. I’m making pumpkin bread with sea salt caramel glaze. Come by if you need a snack or a place to hide.”
“Thanks,” I say, voice rough. “I might take you up on that.”
She nods once, then continues down the sidewalk, the scent of her passing, something warm and woodsy, lingering in the air like smoke after a spell.
My mother exhales sharply. “She’s always been so conniving.”
“She’s kind,” I correct.
April turns back to me, clipboard forgotten. “You always did like that family more.”
“I always enjoyed feeling seen and wanted ,” I shoot back.
It lands like a slap.She says nothing.
I tuck the box under my arm. I don’t need the house. I have a fresh start here.