Chapter 14
“Busy Sidewalks”
Small towns were charming, until they weren’t.
Soren called her several times after Greyson left, but she couldn’t bring herself to respond.
Her stomach churned and knotted every time another notification came through—each buzz like a tiny electric shock to her already frayed nerves—even when it came from Greyson calling.
This represented what she’d dreaded from the start. She never wanted to hurt any of them.
She had no clue what Greyson had told Soren. Embarrassed and confused, she feared Greyson might still have a change of heart, the weight of fifteen years of disappointment pressing against her chest.
A lifetime of experience warned her not to trust his mercurial moods, but her heart sang a different tune. Was it a mistake to trust him?
He’d done stuff like this before. Interfered in her love life, then disappeared like smoke on the wind. What if this was just another way to keep her like a bird in a cage?
Wren bounced between doubt and desperate hope. By the time she dressed, she figured nothing out, but felt motion sick with uncertainty.
Skipping over Soren’s thirteen texts that demanded she call him, she went right to the messages from her employees.
Freya ran out of valerian root, and Bodhi had a meltdown without his usual blend of calming tea for his daily cat summit.
River texted because the new shipment of eucalyptus oil smelled ‘off’ and he wasn’t comfortable using it, but he had a massage client scheduled for that afternoon who specifically requested the eucalyptus aromatherapy scalp massage.
Wren grabbed her keys and coat, needing to collect the supplies and return to The Haven before his client arrived.
But the requests didn’t stop there, piling on like autumn leaves, she could barely sift through the demands. When she parked in town, she had three more texts. Two from Soren and one from Lilly.
The printer at The Haven ran out of toner. That meant she also had to make a trip to Paper Moon, the stationery store in town. Hopefully, they had their brand in stock, because a delivery wouldn’t get there until next week.
As soon as her feet hit the pavement of Main Street, someone called her name like a siren’s song.
“Wren!”
Her shoulders hunched inward as the overwhelming scent of baby powder and flowers wafted on the breeze like a perfumed assault that made her want to hold her breath. Bracing for the gossip storm about to unleash on her, she pasted on a smile and turned. “Birdie, how are you?”
The old woman panted in her pastel joggers as she met Wren on the sidewalk, her chest heaving under the gold cross she somehow believed shielded her from sin. “Oh, well, you know… This weather and my arthritis.”
For someone as arthritic as Birdie Quinnley claimed to be, she sure jaywalked quickly.
“Where’s your coat?”
She waved a hand of half-painted fingernails like a dismissive queen. “I came from the salon when I saw you.”
Uh-oh.
Birdie clutched her cross with dramatic flair. “Everyone’s talking, dear, about you and that Hawthorne boy—the dark-haired one. Is there something going on?”
Wren panicked, her pulse stuttering as she quickly sewed together a lie. “Not that I know of.”
“Oh…” Birdie frowned, pursing her lips like a disappointed fish.
The woman gossiped so much her signature frosty pink lipstick never stayed put on her mouth.
“That’s not what Eileen said when I got my coffee this morning.
You know, it’s getting to the point that I can’t trust her sources anymore.
” Birdie tipped her head to look over the rims of her bedazzled glasses, her stare sharp and calculating.
“Did you hear about the ruckus they caused at Hidden Italy last night? These bachelor auctions are cropping up all over the place. At this rate, we’ll be erecting a whorehouse in Hideaway Harbor by New Year’s.
” More cross-clutching. “I swear, you kids don’t know how to woo each other the way my generation used to. ”
Wren smiled, the expression feeling brittle as glass. “You know me, Birdie. I mostly mind my own business.”
She arched a silver brow. “Well, it’s not gossip if it’s true, dear.”
“That’s one way to look at it,” Wren responded with little inflection as she walked.
“Have you heard about what Brody King did?”
“No.”
“Well, let me tell you…” Birdie went on and on. Every few words, Wren took another step, but the town gossip kept pace. If there was a way to harness the energy from Birdie Quinnley’s mouth, they could probably light the whole town for Christmas without the usual outages.
“I really would love to keep chatting, Birdie, but I have to be back at The Haven in less than an hour.”
She tsked like a disapproving mother. “How’s your father?”
“Bodhi’s great.”
She tipped her head and bobbed as if she’d said the opposite. “Poor thing. He never did recover after losing your mother.”
Wren frowned. “He’s okay. The cats keep him company.”
“Cats are not the same as human companionship, dear.” She covered her smeared lips. “Oh, what am I saying, you two are one and the same.”
“I…I have friends.”
“What you need,” she whispered behind her hand, “is a lover. Are you sure there’s nothing going on with you and that Hawthorne boy?”
Wren laughed nervously, the sound sharp and brittle. “I’m not sure what you heard, Birdie, but—“
“I heard quite a bit. That author friend of yours—what’s her name?”
“Jocelyn.”
“Yes, Jacqueline. She’s up to no good. Parading all those women into town with their phallic jewelry and selling sex toys and pornography.”
“Um, I wouldn’t know anything about that.”
“I know what’s in her books, dear. And now she’s trying to take over the public library so she can brainwash our youth.”
Wren hitched a thumb over her shoulder at the Wilde Kettle. “I really have to go, Birdie. Aunt Astrid’s expecting me.”
Birdie’s pruned face pursed as if she sucked on a particularly sour lemon. She and Astrid used to be bridge partners and the best of friends, until something happened a few years back. Now, they couldn’t stand in the same room without drawing blood.
“Oh. Well. I should get back to my appointment. They’ll probably have to repaint this finger.”
“Then you better go. It was nice seeing you.”
“You be careful out there, dear. And try to spend a little less time with those cats. Find a man.”
Wren’s fake smile started to feel like a plastic mask. “Bye.”
Rusted wind chimes clattered like old bones as she pulled open the door to the Wilde Kettle. The trail of baby powder and flowers vanished, overwhelmed by the potent scent of patchouli and herbs that wrapped around her like a comforting embrace.
“You look like you’re running from something, Wren,” Aunt Astrid greeted as she ground herbs into the old stone mortar on the counter with practiced precision.
“I just got accosted by Birdie Quinnley.”
“What does that old witch want?”
The warm aroma of dried lavender, cloves, and something vaguely medicinal wafted from under the pestle as she crushed the leaves and seeds into a fine powder. “Does anyone ever know?”
“Good point.” Aunt Astrid sniffed the concoction with a connoisseur’s appreciation and pulled an oil off the shelf to add a few drops. “So, are you just looking for sanctuary or did you come in for a reason? Perhaps some chamomile and ginger to soothe those inner muscles?”
She frowned, heat creeping up her neck. “Why would my inner muscles need soothing?”
“Oh, you know, in case you had a long night.”
Dust motes floated lazily in the golden sunbeams slanting through narrow windows, shifting as Wren blew out a frustrated breath. “What did you hear?”
Her aunt shrugged and nosed through the glass jars filled with loose tea leaves, curled roots, and brittle flower petals. “Me? Oh, sweetie, you know I’m not one for gossip.”
“Right.”
“But I will say this. If you’re going to start having a social life with the son of a man as formidable as Magnus Hawthorne, you should probably take something stronger than herbal tea. Don’t want a litter of little ones running around before you’re ready.”
She drew in a deep breath, her nose tingling with the hint of a sneeze from the dust dancing in the air. Did everyone feel entitled to the details of her sex life? If only they realized how non-existent it was.
Wren changed the subject. “Do you have any eucalyptus oil? The stuff we ordered for the spa smells off. I can’t use it on our clients.”
Astrid pulled down a jar with her faded handwriting on the label and dumped whatever herbs she’d been crushing inside. The wooden floor creaked like old joints. “You know better than to order off the internet, Wren. From now on, just come here.”
“We go through our supplies too fast.”
“You think I can’t keep up with your demands? All I’ve got is time on my hands.” She moved to the hutch on the back wall and pushed a sleeping cat off the shelf to open the cabinets. “I just made some the other day. Let me find it.” Glass bottles clinked like wind chimes. “Ah, here it is.”
“Thanks. What do I owe you?”
“It’s on the house.” She jotted down a note to make more. “Come by in a week and I’ll have a bigger order ready—one that isn’t rancid.”
“Okay.” Wren dropped the oil into a paper bag and stuffed it into her tote. “I also need more valerian root for Bodhi.”
Her aunt filled a bag and handed it to her. “Anything else?”
“That’s it.” Except it wasn’t. Curiosity ate at her like acid. “What are they really saying about me?”
Her aunt brushed a few crushed herbs onto the floor, which looked like it hadn’t been swept in a year. “Just that Magnus’s middle son kissed you hard enough to knock you up.”
Wren winced.
“But the big gossip’s about how much you paid to let him stick his tongue down your throat. Why would you pay him?”
“I didn’t.”
“That’s not what I heard. People are whispering something to the tune of five thousand dollars.”
She scoffed. “Yeah, right. More like two.”