Chapter 2 #3
“She’s our treasure,” Marigold told him, before glaring at her companion, lace vibrating with annoyance. “And a draft doesn’t turn off the espresso machine at exactly three thirty-three every afternoon, Earl.”
“Your coffee machine goes off because the breaker trips. The breaker trips because you’ve got seventeen appliances plugged in at once,” Earl told Marigold, his face reflecting the grim determination of a man who’d fought this war before.
He looked around. “And, since there are only locals in the shop right now, you’ve got to stop telling tourists the ghost likes oat milk. ”
“Are you a local?” Wren asked Dane in a whisper.
“Sort of, I’m here for a summer break,” he replied. “Taking an extended vacation.”
“Me, too. I mean, I am a local originally, but I’m also only here for the summer.”
Marigold slapped her hands on her hips, affronted. “Effie does like oat milk! She told me so in a dream.”
“Yeah, and I dreamed I was married to Dolly Parton,” Earl muttered. “Doesn’t make it true.”
Wren looked up at him, rolled her eyes, and smiled.
Dane’s heart nearly stopped. That had never happened before.
“What you are witnessing is one of the many battles that happen daily in Halloween Town between members of our two tribes,” she explained, keeping her voice low. The couple didn’t notice.
Marigold crossed her arms, the beads on her bracelets clinking like tiny, disapproving ghosts. “You have no poetry in your soul, Earl Turner. You think this town runs on logic? It does not! It runs on wonder! On mystery!”
“Two tribes?” Dane asked, fascinated.
Wren gestured to Marigold. “A True Believer.” She opened her hand to Earl. “A paranormal skeptic. Think: paranormal turf war meets tourism board drama.”
Dane fought the urge to laugh.
“This town runs on your overpriced lattes and gullible weekenders,” Earl shot back, not backing down. “All this ghost nonsense is just good business. You don’t believe half of it.”
Marigold’s eyes flashed. “I believe enough to respect the veil between worlds.”
Earl gave her a flat stare. “I believe in John Deere, good bourbon, church on Sundays, and my God-given right to common sense.”
Wren choked on her drink, trying not to laugh. The espresso machine hissed dramatically—right on cue—and Marigold threw her hands in the air.
“There! You see? She hears you, and she’s offended!”
Earl rolled his eyes so hard that Dane was worried he’d give himself a traumatic brain injury. “What I see and hear is steam, Marigold. Steam and, frankly, bullshit.”
Dane grinned. This town was a circus, and its performers were unfiltered, industrial-grade crazy. It was going to be a very interesting vacation.
* * *
Hot Exercise Guy opened the door for her, and Wren thanked him, a little mesmerized by his observant blue eyes and those big biceps shown off by his sleeveless workout shirt.
He’d been impressive from a distance, but up close…
Wow, he was quite the package: super masculine and outrageously hot, with a slightly rough, wholly sexy voice.
She hadn’t had this reaction to anyone in …
God, years. If ever. The urge to go up on her tiptoes, just to taste him, was stupidly strong—so strong it made her grit her teeth and swear under her breath.
Okay, Dunlop, calm the freak down. You’re a woman in your late twenties, not a horny teenager with no self-control.
She took a sip of her coffee and immediately grimaced.
It was hot and black … ugh. Right, this was Hayes’s cup.
She looked around for her old friend and saw him sitting on a bench outside The Veil Between, where Madame Calliope (real name Glynis Smith) conducted her psychic readings, steadily working through her absurdly long waiting list.
Madame Calliope, who had the deepest, brownest, most luminous skin she’d ever seen and piercing obsidian-black eyes, had both terrified and fascinated her as a child.
As teenagers, and on a dare, she and Poppy had visited Madame, and Madame had said something about Wren chasing the wind and the wild—but finding a harbor in an unexpected place.
Vague enough for it to mean nothing. And also anything and everything.
Typical psychic muddying and bullshit.
Behind Hayes, stretched out on the wall, lay Morrigan, Madame’s ridiculously enormous Maine Coon cat—blacker than a winter’s night and a bona fide H-Town A-lister.
Like Reggie, Morrigan was equal parts local celebrity and unapologetic tourist trap.
Visitors stood in line for selfies with him like he was the eighth wonder of the world, while he lounged with the serene arrogance of a cult leader who expected nothing less than absolute and unflinching adoration.
She thought about stroking Morrigan to say hello, but he gave her a try it and die look.
Hayes stood up, ambled over to her, and snatched his coffee from her hand. “Thanks, Bird,” he said, and turned to the stranger. He held out his hand. “You’re the new doc in town, right?”
He was a doctor? Had old Dr. Morris retired? The man shook his still damp head. “I’m a disaster-response surgeon—basically the guy with a scalpel running toward the mess. Dane Trafford.”
Whoa, impressive. But, yeah, she could see it. He radiated an everything-under-control vibe. Cool, reserved, unflappable. Which made her itch to see if she could rattle him…
Bad girl, Wren! You’re having a man-free summer, remember? What is wrong with you?
“Hayes Wellington,” Hayes replied. “I build custom bikes and restore vintage cars and bikes.” He slung his hand around Wren’s shoulder. “Have you met Wren? She’s a dancer and back in town for a couple of months this summer. Just like old times, right, Wren?”
Wren lifted her eyebrows, surprised at Hayes’s chattiness.
He was usually a man of few words. He either instantly felt super comfortable with the doc, or he’d turned over a forest of new leaves.
She sipped her coffee—perfect—and met Dane’s penetrating gaze.
“I was an H-Town native,” she explained.
“Hayes here used to tease me mercilessly.”
Hayes tugged on a curl. “And I always will.”
Dane smiled, and Wren felt her ovaries flip over. She started to play with her hair and froze. Hair-tugging? Seriously? How old was she, thirteen? Then he gestured to Hayes’s 1950s truck, an appreciative expression on his face. “That yours?” he asked Hayes.
“Mmm. You like cars?”
“I love cars.”
“Come by my shop sometime,” Hayes said, and Wren’s eyebrows flew up. Hayes never invited anybody into his sacred space. Ever. “Head up this street, at the stop sign, hook a right. Carry on straight for a bit, and I’m on the left.”
“I’ll do that,” Hot Doc—Dane—said. He darted a look through the bow window, and Wren followed his gaze. Earl and Marigold were still arguing.
“You do know that ghosts can literally communicate through Spotify shuffle, right?”
Wren, Dane, and Hayes all turned as three teenage girls—short shorts, bikini tops under baggy tank tops, ballcaps on back to front, sipping bubble tea—exited Spirited Grounds. They stopped a yard from them, oblivious to their presence. High on woo-woo energy by the sounds of it.
“Oh, this is premium-grade bullshit,” Hayes whispered. “I gotta hear this.”
“Ghosts can’t talk, obvs, so they hop on electricity and signals. Music apps are perfect—because of the algorithms and patterns. So you ask a question, and they nudge the shuffle … and then comes the message.”
Hayes rolled his eyes and Wren grinned.
“Shut up. That’s insane.”
“No, but seriously—so a friend of a friend tried it, okay? She asked if her gran was, like, okay? And then she got three—three—songs in a row about hell. Tell me that’s not a sign. I mean … kinda tracks, though. Apparently, she was low-key a nightmare.”
Wren sucked hard on her straw to keep from sniggering, and when she looked at Dane, his eyebrows were raised, obviously amused.
“But the trick is, you have to do it at night. Full moon is like, elite, and you cannot skip songs, that’s like interrupting them mid-message. So rude, honestly.”
Dane rubbed his hand over his short, messy brown hair as they ambled away. He blinked and shook his head. “Apart from using my Spotify account to communicate with spirits, what else should I know about this place?”
“How do you explain H-Town to a stranger?” Hayes mused.
“Hell if I know,” Wren replied. “You live here full-time, you give it a shot.”
Hayes mock scowled at her. “Thanks, Bird.” He sipped his coffee and nodded to the mismatched couple. “Earl and Marigold are married, by the way.”
Wren grinned at the shock on Dane’s face. She knew what he was thinking: Earl and Marigold’s home had to be a battlefield. If it was, they were used to it, because they’d recently celebrated forty-five years together, with Earl often declaring that divorce wasn’t an option, but murder was.
“Maybe it would help if we gave you some history,” said Hayes. “So, over a decade ago, Wren’s godmother—”
“Who’s a part-time-when-it-suits-her white witch,” Wren interrupted.
“—was elected mayor of this town. Her ancestors were one of the first families to settle here. The mural inside is of Jeremiah Blackwood and Constance Merriweather, the two Puritan leaders who led them here after they were kicked out of Salem.”
“For what?” Dane asked, fascinated.
“History is a bit murky on that,” Wren replied. “Luna says it was because they were a bit too dramatic, whatever that means. Carry on, Hayes.”
“Short story. Luna was elected mayor and launched the first Halloween festival. Every year since, she’s added some Halloween-related event to the calendar, so we’re mostly now known as Halloween Town and not Solstice Springs.
” He scowled at Wren. “Do you know that she wants to Halloweenify the Thanksgiving football match? She wants a zombie marching band and Halloween-themed food carts! That’s going too far, Wren! ”