Pumpkins, Potions, & Postcripts. Beginning

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 To all the girls that thought You’ve Got Mail needed a little more magic, or that Practical Magic needed a little more kissing, this one is for you.

Subject: Today was the perfect fall day for a walk

Plant Lovers New Message

To: Moss Maiden

From: Plant Daddy

9:12 PM

Have you been for a walk lately? I have to tell you I’ve been so busy, I hadn’t until today. I needed a minute. A little time to myself. My days recently have been…stressful. But the walk… oh, it was a good one. 

I passed this bench, and there was a small brass plaque on it. I was curious, so I sat and read it.

It said:

“Any day spent with you is my favorite day. So today is my new favorite day.”

It moved me more than I can put into words. And it made me think of you. I wished you were on the walk with me. The leaves were pumpkin orange, Meyer lemon yellow, and some are even turning the finest shade of crimson. I just reread that, and it’s quite possibly the most Anne-of-Green-Gables, unmanly sentence I have ever written. Don’t think the AoGG reference is helping to save it, either.

I blame autumn. It whispered poetry in my ear; I just wish it hadn’t been the poetry of a young girl.

All to say, I wish we could go for a walk together, and maybe we kind of can—without breaking the rules, of course.

But I know we’re in the same grow zone…so what if we both go for a walk around noon? We can admire the leaves together while apart?

What do you say?

P.S.

Please say yes. 

Subject: I love walks

Plant Lovers New Message 

To: Plant Daddy

From: Moss Maiden

6:33 AM

Let’s say 11:11 a.m. It’s the perfect time for a walk and to make a wish. 

P.S.

Have I ever said no yet?

Chapter 1: Lilian

My Aunt Jean always says to listen to the wind. “Mark my words, Lilian—it has secrets to tell and wisdom to give.”

A breeze blows my stray hairs that have escaped my braid. It’s the kind of fall wind that has both the lingering taste of summer to it, as well as the bite of winter to come. It smells of cinnamon and campfires. The leaves blow down the street, and all the wise wind is whispering to me is that my shoes are too tight, my braid is too loose, and I’m behind schedule. I spent too long on the computer this morning chatting.

Is that what it’s still called? Emailing? DMing?

In truth, I was rereading old messages and trying to think of something clever to write, but I landed on concise, which is so…me.

I’m not sure why the wind gets to have secrets and we’re not supposed to. That’s the other thing Aunt Jean always says: “Secrets are our family curse.”

Which isn’t true. Secrets aren’t our family curse. Love is. More specifically, everyone in my family who falls in love dies.

My sister Oakley thought I was being dramatic when I confessed this theory to her. Maggie agrees with me, though. Look at the evidence. Mom and Dad, madly in love and long-time deceased now. My grandparents, madly in love, or so I’m told; they died before I was even born. And my Great-Aunt Eva, freshly in love—or that’s what people thought anyway—and missing for over forty years.

Love and the Rosewood women do not mix.

The street is loud with clatters, people moving around, bustling really, getting ready for the Owen’s Hollow Fall Fair. It’s a mix of a summer send-off and a welcome to fall.

We have a tarot table this year. It was a surprise, honestly. Every year since I opened my shop, Rosewood Botanicals, I’ve done the pumpkin carving table. It’s been over ten years. Every year, pumpkins. It makes sense, since we sell mostly plants. And lotions and potions. But mostly plants.

This year, I was informed someone had already signed up for the carving table. I panicked and said I’d do a tarot table. It’s fine. It’ll be quick and easy, less mess than the pumpkins for sure. And while tarot isn’t my true talent, my baby sister is a natural and graciously offered to run it.

I have just enough time to stop for a latte before opening the store, then I need to mail out some orders, and of course, there’s our walk.

I inhale deeply, mentally rereading his letter. Then I shake my shoulders. Okay. No time to linger. I can think about it on the walk, which I am combining with errands, but it’s still romantic. Efficiency is romantic, right?

It’ll all fall into place, and it’ll be a great day for the store. It’ll get us in the black for this month, hopefully.

The smell of powdered sugar when I open the door is so overpowering I wonder if it’s one of Maggie’s spells.

“Lil!”

Think of the devil.

Although no one in their right mind would think of Maggie as the devil; she is all light and sweetness. With her long blonde hair framing her heart-shaped face in loose curls. A pale-pink apron tied over her flowing dress. A stranger looking at the two of us would never think we were sisters. I have dark hair to her light, tall to her petite, straight to her curvy, a frown to her smile. The only thing we share in common is our eyes. All the Rosewood sisters have green eyes, thanks to our late mother.

Maggie waves goodbye to the man who was standing at the counter, and I try to hide my shock.

“Was that Justin?”

She makes a face. “He’s been blocking the counter for a full ten minutes. For saving me, I’ll buy your coffee.”

Justin is Maggie’s ex. I thought he moved away—good riddance—but apparently he is back.

“Can I get my usual and some chocolatey thing for Oakley? To go.”

Her angelic face falls. “To go? I haven’t seen you all week.”

This is patently untrue. We live together. We see each other all the time.

“You saw me this morning. Will you add a dash of pumpkin spice to mine?” My usual is an Americano with a touch of soy, but this morning I’m craving something a little sweet.

Maggie stops mid-step. “Whoa. What’s that about?”

“It’s fall. There’s a wind of change in the air.”

She raises her eyebrows but doesn’t comment on the addition. “Come on. Stay a little bit. You have ten minutes to spare for your favorite sister.”

“Don’t let Hazel or Oakley hear you say that.” I check my watch. I really don’t have time.

Her eyes double in size, and she sticks her bottom lip out in a pout. She is only two years younger than me, thirty-five to my thirty-seven, but she can be such a baby. An endearing baby, though.

“Seven minutes.”

She claps and does a little heel click, which makes me laugh despite myself.

I grab a table by the window, and she brings over a latte in a to-go cup for me, and something with a lot of whipped cream on top for her. She has a wooden swizzle stick in her mug, twirling on its own, stirring the cream in.

My foul mood comes back in full force. When she sets the drinks on the table, I grab the stick and toss it over my shoulder. “Mags.”

“Lils.” She fixes me with what I can only assume is a mirror scowl to mine.

I motion to all the other customers in the bakery. Since Maggie opened Fairy Cakes last winter, it has been slammed all day, every day. “They could see,” I whisper.

“No one is paying attention.” She sips her drink, crossing her legs. “Honestly, I didn’t realize I was doing it.”

A slow ember of jealousy flares in my chest. I used to be able to so casually, thoughtlessly, do magic, too. Not anymore. Not that I miss it, really. I don’t need it. I’m a strong, capable woman. My little shop is doing fine, my daughter is thriving, even if half the time it seems like she hates me, but that’s true of all fifteen-year-olds, isn’t it? I’m doing great—without magic.

“I have to go.” I rise and give Maggie a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for the coffee. Pasta tonight?”

She smiles, a new swizzle stick in her mug stirring again. “I’ll make the bread. Hey, are you ever going to let me read your book?”

“My…”

“I heard you this morning holed up in your room, clacking away.”

“Right.” My book. My lie. Because I didn’t want anyone to know I’m having an online…what? Pen pal? Confidant? Soulmate?

“It’s not ready yet.” I wave as I head out the door, and her smile is a little too mischievous. I don’t think she buys the whole I’m-writing-a-book story.

* * *

I put a little pep in my step, speed walking past piles of yellow leaves. I should already be at the store setting up. I had Oakley open; she normally opens on Saturdays, but I should’ve done it today since it’s Fall Fair. She’s the second youngest of the family (twenty-nine now), but Oakley is perfectly capable. She is. Most days. All right, some days. Half the time.

Coffee in hand, I walk three doors over to my shop. The glass of the large front window needs a little love this morning. I take the edge of my coat and polish around the gold paint displaying the shop name prominently. When I open the door, the bells chime a friendly hello. The black-and-white tile floor is sparkling, and I’m glad I took the time after closing to mop.

I flick on the light switch, and the large crystal chandelier comes on, bathing the room in a warm glow. The familiar scent of lavender, rosemary, dusty books, and cedar wood fills my senses. I take off my coat and hang it on the coat rack by the door. The front table is filled with a small selection of books and crystals. There’s more in the back corner as well, but I’ve found they sell better if there’s a front display. I straighten Plants and Spells and The Green Witches Guide to Horticulture, then scan the shelves for any holes in stock.

The walls are lined with shelves and shelves of my lotions and, some might say, potions. But anything can be a potion if you believe it is. We need some more lavender soothing bath salts for Sunday scaries. And a couple more rose water love mists. It’s our best seller. People love love.

I touch a few of the hanging plants, saying hello on the way to the small seating area with a pair of burgundy velvet chairs. This shop is many things, but to me it will always be about the plants first. They’re what started it all. And what I use to make all the lotions. Not just these plants, but my garden at home, too. I fluff the shaggy alpaca pillows as Oakley walks out from the back, her long red hair tucked behind her ears.

“Hey.” She frowns, a spray bottle in one hand. “You’re late.”

“But I brought you coffee.” I motion to the counter where I set them.

“You’re forgiven. How much do I owe you?”

I wave her away. We both know full well she’d never pay me anyway.

“How’s the tarot table coming?”

She smiles, mischief practically sparking from her. “I thought of something even better.”

My stomach drops. Even better. No. No. No. “We had a plan.”

Oakley shrugs. “Plans are meant to be changed.”

I shake my head. “That’s not true at all. That’s the opposite of a plan.”

She comes over, her eyes wide, her lips in a pout. It reminds me of when she was five and tried to get me to give her a cookie for breakfast instead of oatmeal. It worked then, and it works now, goddess help me.

“What is it?”

She puts her hands together, her glittery nails shimmering in the light from the windows. “A manifestation station.”

I let out a long sigh.

She hops behind the counter and grabs a bag, shaking it. “I have pens and paper. We’ll have little bowls with vetiver and orange peels. Then at the end of the table, a small bonfire. People can write their deepest desires, then toss them in.”

I take one of the gel pens out of her bag and one of the scraps of paper. I run the ink over the thick smooth paper, and it glides effortlessly. For a second, the ink glows a bright fiery orange, then settles rich black. “Did you enchant this paper?”

Oakley shrugs, but her wide smile gives her away.

“We can’t do magic in public like that.” The bag is filled with small pieces of paper. Enchanted paper.

Oakley throws up her hands, then picks the spray bottle back up, walks away, and starts spritzing. “That’s what the fire is for. They’ll think it’s a reflection.”

I take a calming breath. “I don’t know, Oak.”

She bustles back over to me and plants a kiss on my cheek. “It’ll be fine. We are who we are. We do what we do. No one will ever know it was real magic, but some good people might get what they really want. Or closer to it, anyway.”

We are who we are, and the Rosewood sisters are witches. Have been for centuries and, apparently, always will be. But maybe we don’t have to be. Maybe it’s best just to live a normal life and blend in.

I want a normal life for my daughter.

“Oak, I just don’t want people to talk.”

She bustles away. “No one will bat an eyelash. Plus, I didn’t bring the cards, so there is no plan B. Don’t you have packages to mail?”

I check my watch, the ticking audible now that my attention is on it. “Time is not my friend today.” It’s already time for the walk. “This discussion isn’t over.”

“Yes, it is,” Oakley says as she spritzes a hanging fern.

I grab one of the tote bags with the store brand printed on the side and place some of the books I need to mail in there, but there are too many to fit. Also, I didn’t have enough of our bubble mailers, so I’ll have to grab some there and pack shipments at the counter. Taking the remaining stack in my arms, I shrug on my coat and head out into the crisp fall day.

* * *

Despite it only being a little after ten in the morning, the Owen’s Hollow Fall Fair is in full swing. The air smells of far-off fires, wet leaves, and caramel corn. Outside the antique store, kids are bobbing for apples in vintage metal washtubs, the sun sparkling on the sloshing water. The dance studio across the street is offering a free hip-hop class; the owner is in an oversize sweater draped on her shoulders, handing out flyers. She waves as I pass, and I nod, motioning to the mountain of books in my hands.

“Are you going to come to the class later?”

“I’ll try.” Which we both know is not true. I’ve always wanted to go, but I never have the time.

The toy store has gone all out. A giant skeleton sits crisscross on top of their roof; it’s tied down with ropes, but it’s so large I wonder how they got it up there. They have set up two tables in front of their store. The first with tiny bones; a boy is putting one together piece by piece to make a skeleton. The other table has brushes, paint, and little trick-or-treating buckets. Which reminds me, I haven’t gotten candy for the store yet. But Halloween is still over a month away. A little girl with big brown eyes and long blonde hair is dipping her brush in the black paint, but instead of daubing it on the bucket, she glides it over her cheeks like makeup.

I laugh and think about calling out to the adults nearby who must be her parents.

When I turn my attention back toward the street, a tall, dark and handsome man catches my eye. His dark-brown eyes, surrounded by even darker lashes, are staring right back at me. I’ve never seen him before, but something about him feels…familiar.

My attention is once again pulled in another direction. A crow lands on the giant skeleton’s arm on top of the toy store. Then another. Two crows—good luck to me. Then another lands. Then another and another. A murder. Many people think a murder of crows means death is coming, but often it just means change. Sometimes that change could be death. Mostly it just means growth.

At least that’s what I’m telling myself as the tenth one lands on the same arm.

The skeleton’s arm cracks and breaks off like a brittle tree limb in a windstorm.

My heart lodges in my throat. It could mean death this time.

The crows fly away with loud caws and distract everyone from the falling bones. The arm plummets toward the ground, directly toward the little girl using the paint as makeup.

I don’t think, I just act. Dropping the books, I wave two fingers, and the arm floats back to the body of the skeleton, reattaching itself to the shoulder. I make sure it’s extra tight with a swirl of my fingertips.

My panic deepens as it hits me.

I just used magic.