Page 4 of Witching You Weren't Snowed In
A single bar appeared, and I refreshed the screen.
No new messages.
I scowled at my empty inbox. My calendar was also a tale of misery thanks to the agency’s reset initiative. In two weeks, I was supposed to be on my way to the small town of Wood Pine to weave my magic around a grumpy Christmas tree farmer and the local pastry chef, but my research file was locked, and if I didn’t meet the requirements listed in the handbook, it would be reassigned.
That wasnothappening.
I’d never had a case reassigned, and I wasn’t about to start now. I planned to fix my frozen curse as fast as possible andhigh-tail it back to the office to reclaim my position before someone else filled it. Because if I didn’t, I’d be stuck—unemployed—living my own personalGroundhog Daywith my past lurking around every corner.
An icy wind sailed into the vehicle. The driver flicked on the windshield wipers as fresh snow began to fall. Where there had been sun moments ago, there were now gray clouds gathering over the mountaintops. I winced, remembering too late I needed to control my emotions.
Outside the vehicle, flakes danced in the air, circling the wrought iron streetlamps and whizzing past brightly colored houses. If the snow had followed me here, the glistening rooftops and slush-covered cobblestone would keep my secret. At least for a little while.
It was a good thing I grew up in ski country and not in Florida. However, I would have given anything to trade in my parka for a swimsuit to avoid my impending family reunion.
Cold Spell might look like it had been plucked straight out of a holiday movie, but for me, the memories lurking here were less heartwarming and felt more like breaking one of my mother’s one-of-a-kind teacups—shameful, and no matter how hard you try, impossible to fix.
I eyed the single-story cottage that famously served the best high tea in town. A closed sign hung on the door with a little clock, reminding visitors to come back for their first seating around lunchtime. In the window, tea cups dangled from beaded strings, and cling-on snowflakes dotted the glass. Nextto the shop and separated by a narrow alley was my parents' small chalet.
It all looked exactly the same. A picture-perfect postcard that I would have preferred had gotten lost in the mail.
“Are you getting out, lady? I have an early pickup at the lodge.”
The driver met my gaze in the rearview mirror, and I almost offered to pay him double to take me back to the airport. Instead, I pulled down my ski hat and grabbed my luggage before climbing out of the vehicle. Buried inside my thick parka, I wheeled my bag across the frozen sidewalk, hoping to be as inconspicuous as possible.
A couple passed by with their morning coffee, and I waved meekly, perched on the stone step in front of my parents’ house. First, I rang the bell. Then knocked. So much for the welcoming party. No one was even home. After a call that went straight to my mother’s voicemail, I tried the door handle without any luck and cursed myself for losing track of my key.
My parents were notoriously social and could be anywhere in town. But thankfully, I knew where they kept a spare key.
I glanced next door, then down the alley leading to the back of the shop. The cottage windows were old, and one had a loose latch. If you maneuvered it just right, you could unlock it from the outside.
It didn’t open far thanks to the worn casing, so my parents had never bothered to fix it. That, and crime in town was rare—besides, who in their right mind wanted to steal mismatched tea cups? I could be in and out, huddled underthe covers in my old bedroom within minutes, or spend hours sitting in a busy coffee shop, trying to avoid familiar faces.
Breaking and entering for the win!
Leaving my luggage on the stoop, I walked to the back of the shop and found the window with the loose latch. Even though it didn’t face the street, the window casing was covered in a festive garland of pine needles and twinkling lights. My mother always believed it was as important to decorate the places people didn't see as the ones they do.
I moved some pallets underneath to give me more height, then peered through the glass. Morning light spilled over the stainless steel counters and illuminated the hanging racks of pots and pans.
From where I stood, I glimpsed the spare key hanging on a hook by a shelf of tea canisters. I removed my mittens and rubbed my hands together for warmth—okay, mostly courage. Was it still trespassing if your parents owned the place? The town might be low on crime, but leave it to me to commit a misdemeanor. With the luck I was having, I’d spend the holiday in handcuffs.
Bracing myself against the window, I wriggled the panes until the latch fell out of place, then put my shoulder into opening it as far as it would go. The casing screeched in protest and pine needles from the garland tickled my nose.
I tapped my boot on the wooden pallet, studying the gap in the window. I thought it would be wider. Then again, I also thought there’d be a banner outside the house celebrating my homecoming.
Looking over my shoulder, I made sure the alley was clear, then hoisted myself through the window. I grunted as my body contorted into a pretzel on the narrow windowsill and teetered precariously over the countertop. Regrets? I had a few—mostly my aversion to the gym and the idea I had any sort of balance. Window gymnastics was meant for people who regularly went to yoga.
And people wearing a less bulky coat.
Just as I made the transition to the other side of the window, my jacket snagged on a nail holding the garland. My momentum sent me reeling as the fabric ripped, and I toppled like one of those flying squirrels onto the counter. A flour canister tipped over in my wake and a poof of flour filled the air.
Ironically, the puffy coat that triggered the fall aided in the landing. Who knew sportswear was such a double-edged sword?
“Oh, come on!” I groaned as I inhaled a faceful of flour. The fine dust settled around me like one of my magical snowstorms—both of which were making my life miserable.
Happy homecoming, Sage Bennett! This relaxation retreat is really working.
The sound of footsteps creaked in the other room.