Page 9 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell (Wisteria Cove #1)
Willa
Some nights I wonder if I could have written just one letter to explain why I left, if it would have made any difference. Then I think: you deserved more than a letter. You deserved to have me to stay…and I couldn’t. I’m sorry. So now I'm going to show you.
-Tate
T he bookstore smells like coffee and old paper when I climb down from my little loft above it. My hair’s still damp from my shower, and I’m tugging my cardigan tight around me when I stop short at the bottom step.
Rowan, Ivy, and my mom are all gathered at the front counter, huddled over something like it’s a precious artifact.
“Uh…what’s going on?” I ask cautiously, but my eyes are already zeroing in on a glass bottle, stoppered with a note inside.
Rowan looks up first, practically glowing with mischief. “You’ve got mail,” she says, tipping her chin toward the bottle. “It was on the front mat this morning. Just sitting out there, it looked like it floated up from the harbor.”
Ivy grins, crossing her arms. “Were you aware that you have a secret admirer?”
Lilith lifts the bottle gently, turning it in her hands. Her eyes gleam as she speaks softly, “Oh, I bet we all know who it’s from.”
My pulse stutters. Before I can reply, the memory rushes back, sharp and uninvited, of me standing in front of him just days ago, voice shaking as I hurled the accusation: “You left without saying anything. No calls, nothing. You could have sent a message in a bottle, Tate.”
God. Did he actually listen to that? Did he…?
Rowan's watching me closely now, her grin turning sly. “You okay, Willa? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I force a shrug, stepping forward and reaching for the bottle with careful fingers. “Maybe it’s just some tourist messing around.” But my heart knows better.
My mom's voice lowers, soft but strong. “Some people call us witches; I call us healers. Your father was my protector. He always was. He used to do romantic things like this, too,” she says, gesturing gently to the bottle.
“Little gestures. Small magic touches. He believed healers need protectors…someone who stands between them and the wrong people. Someone who makes them feel safe enough to open their heart.”
I turn the clear bottle and look at the cream paper inside.
My mom's gaze catches mine, steady and piercing. “And that’s why Tate’s good people,” she adds quietly. “You might not want to hear it right now, but it’s true. He’s a protector, Willa.”
The words hit somewhere deeper than I’m ready to admit.
Ivy leans forward, eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Well? Are you going to open it, or should we all stand here dying of suspense?”
But my hands are trembling a little as I pull the cork free and slide out the note inside. The paper is soft, tied with twine that comes loose under my fingers almost too easily.
I unfold it carefully, reading first in silence as my throat tightens, then aloud, because I know they’re all emotionally invested, all leaning in, hanging on every word.
Some nights I wonder if I could have written just one letter to explain why I left, if it would have made any difference. Then I think: you deserved more than a letter. You deserved to have me to stay…and I couldn’t. I’m sorry. So now I'm going to show you.
-Tate
The shop falls silent. Even Rowan has nothing to say for once.
I stare down at the paper, heart pounding, because I do remember my dad doing little things for my mom like this, little gestures that spoke louder than words.
Romantic, yes… but deeply intentional. Thoughtful in a way that hit right where it hurt.
That’s when it hits me that Tate does remind me of our father.
And I remember that he grew up alongside him, too.
He probably misses him as much as we do. Just like we miss Phil.
Ivy exhales slowly, shaking her head. “That’s…kind of devastatingly romantic.”
Rowan hums in agreement under her breath. “It’s swoony, that’s what it is. He really just left you a message in a bottle.”
But I can’t say a word. Not yet. Because this is breaking through every wall I’ve carefully built around myself since Tate left, and before that, when my dad died.
I slip the note into my apron pocket quickly, too quickly, as if I can shove my feelings in there, too, and pretend they’re safe and contained.
My mom’s words echo in my mind: Healers need protectors.
And suddenly I’m wondering if that’s exactly what Tate always was. My protector. But then I think about how he’s gone through so much, too. And where was I? Maybe he needed a protector, too, and I wasn’t there for him enough, and that’s why he left.
Now I want to know. No, now I need to know. I need to talk to Tate.
Unfortunately, with the busy day of bustling tourists buzzing in and out of the store, I haven’t had the chance to go find Tate.
He hasn’t come into the shop, not even to loiter at the counter like he has been, and between refilling coffee orders and helping leaf-peepers pick out paperbacks, I haven’t had a moment to even think about him…
except, of course, I do think about him.
Constantly. And I keep staring at that bottle behind the counter, and then my hand drags over the crinkle of the note in my apron.
And I would never admit it to my sisters and mom, but yes, I have taken it out and re-read it several times when no one was looking.
And now, just as the sun’s setting and I’m locking the door, I’m dreading what’s next.
The town meeting. The annual Harvest Moon Festival planning session, better known as a thinly veiled ambush where the most “available” locals get volun-told for everything.
And it’s run by no other than my mother, so she thinks nothing of volunteering me and my sisters for everything.
She’s done it since we were toddlers, and it’s become a family event, so to speak.
I step into Town Hall and immediately feel trapped: every folding chair full, every town elder ready with clipboards, and the unmistakable scent of coffee, cinnamon cookies, and muffins on a folding table, and impending obligation hanging heavy in the air.
Rowan and Ivy are already here, seated in the back row, with matching smirks when they spot me. They know exactly what’s about to happen. We’re going to be helping in any way my mom needs us.
At the front of the room, Donna and my mom, Wisteria Cove’s unofficial queens of community organization and small-town guilt trips, wave me up front. “Willa, darling! There you are! Come sit right here next to us.”
Oh shit. No.
I must look like a deer trapped in someone’s headlights, and I hesitate for half a second before Donna pats the empty seat beside her again pointedly and I know that I'm not getting out of this. I sigh and weave through the crowd to sit beside her, smoothing my cardigan over and bracing myself.
I’m saying no this year. No volunteering. No getting dragged into this madness.I have a bookstore and coffee shop to run and an emotional mess with a broody fisherman I am trying very hard to ignore.
And then, because this is just how my luck works, Tate walks in.
Late. Ball cap pulled low. His faded jeans are worn and perfect.
His sleeves are shoved up, and forearms casually flex as he leans against the back wall, arms crossed with another of his worn and soft-looking flannels over a white T-shirt.
His gaze flicks to me immediately and lingers for just a second too long, sending an irritating and completely involuntary flutter straight to my chest and down my body. I force myself to move, turning to sit reluctantly by Donna, unsure of what my punishment is about to be.
The moment I lower myself into the chair, a shiver ripples through me.
Not from the draft sneaking under the door, but deeper, stranger, like someone just brushed cold fingers along my spine.
The air thickens, scented with the faintest trace of woodsmoke and something sharper, metallic, like the snap before lightning strikes.
It prickles across my skin and makes the tiny hairs on my arms lift.
My senses sharpen, as if every whisper, every shuffle of paper and creak of a chair echo louder than they should.
I’ve felt this before. It’s my gift tugging at me, my own private weathervane.
Something is coming. Change, big and unshakable.
The kind that rearranges more than just calendars and agendas.
Donna claps her hands cheerfully, the sound bright and oblivious against the hush of my nerves. “Now that we’re all here, let’s begin!”
She breezes through a few updates, shares reports about town traffic and tourism (up twelve percent thanks to the changing leaves, apparently), her voice rising and falling in a rhythm that doesn’t match the pulse in my chest. By the time she clears her throat dramatically and reaches the agenda item labeled Harvest Moon Festival Chairperson, the tingling sensation is nearly humming through my bones.
I don’t need her to say it aloud. I already know. This is where everything shifts.
“Of course,” Donna says with a bright smile, “we have a very special situation this year! Our dear Lilith, who usually chairs the festival, has unfortunately decided she’s not able to chair this year.”
A murmur of sympathy ripples through the room. My mom, who wears a smirk on her face, nods.
“So,” Donna continues, her smile widening as her gaze settles right on me, “we’ll need capable hands to take the lead. And I am so delighted to announce that our Lilith has gotten Willa Maren and Tate Holloway to co-chair this year’s festival!”
What the hell.
The entire room erupts into applause. Actual applause and a few whistles. My stomach drops.
Rowan claps loudly from the back row… traitor . And Ivy follows it up with a sharp wolf whistle. Even my mom nods approvingly, her expression smug and witchy, like the mastermind she is behind all of this.
I’m frozen for a beat before I scramble to recover. “Donna, wait—I didn’t agree to?—”