Chapter 39
The next few weeks are kind of a blur. Hunter continues construction on the bookstore unencumbered by a cantankerous poltergeist. I flit about the space, painting the office and placing orders and accepting packages and unpacking boxes.
Hunter watches nervously as I do the anti-dust spell I’ve already copied into my own grimoire, but it’s successful, and we both sneeze a lot less.
I order a sign, and Lindy brings me sketches for Maggie and Diana’s memorial mural.
Every day, it seems, a new family of witches shows up at the front door clutching empty journals and politely asking if it’s true that I’m willing to share my family’s you-know-what.
I go through gallons of sweet tea keeping them hydrated while they sit at my kitchen table and copy down spells that the Kirkwood witches have handed down for generations.
When they’re done, they hug me and pat my shoulders and thank me, and it feels like I’ve suddenly got all those cousins and aunts and uncles I always wanted, a growing family of people who see me for who I am and accept me into their community.
They share their thanks in quiet ways—a basket of late-summer zucchini on the shop’s doorstep, a well-memorized spell to keep bugs away, a permanent ten percent discount at Edie’s store, where I will eventually have to buy soaps and candles of my own.
At Craft Night, Edie teaches me how to make little animals out of clay.
My first one is a lumpy squirrel holding an acorn, and I couldn’t be more proud.
I do a better job of keeping my sisters informed of my progress, although Cait is annoyed that I just slapped her logo onto business cards and didn’t let her do a full design with color coordination and rounded corners.
Jemma begs to see how the store is coming along, but I tell her she has to wait until the grand opening, just like everyone else.
I order cute vintage-looking Halloween decorations and place an order with Shelby’s bakery for the ribbon cutting.
A reporter from the local paper stops by to do a story on the store, and I tell them we’ll be having a book-character costume contest on opening day.
All along, I keep expecting to hear Maggie’s voice in my head, but the Maggie I briefly knew is gone.
In her place, Doris reclaims her role as my sidekick.
She doesn’t have Maggie’s knowledge, as she has only ever lived with Hilda, Horace—briefly, unhappily, and bloodily—and me, but she loves watching movies and begs me to put on show tunes so she can dance around the apartment.
And she retains her cloaca control, which is nice for my cleaning efforts, as is Maggie’s ongoing anti-dust spell, which makes the bird dander much more manageable.
The storage room gets a good cleaning out, and I can feel a difference in the vibe, now that Abraham is just a normal ghost instead of a poltergeist. Farrah was right—Arcadia Falls is chock-full of ghosts.
I see them occasionally, strolling along a balcony or staring down from a second story window.
The dog at the inn even greets me sometimes, although I have to hide it from Nick and Nathan, who will never know all of the magic that swirls around them in our picturesque mountain town.
They tell people the inn is haunted as a folksy gimmick, but it’s probably better they don’t know about the blood-soaked soldier in the Camellia Room who’s always looking for his lost leg.
As the trees change color and the air turns bright and crisp, I really do feel like I’m living in a book as I stroll along the quaint downtown sidewalk after a bowl of butternut squash soup at Lindy’s, my heart full and my boots crunching on leaves, to see Hunter’s latest work.
He finished the shelves quickly but still had light fixtures to hang, floors to refinish, a bathroom to sharpen up, and a shelving system to create in the storage room.
Then one day when I open the front door, I’m greeted by yet more boxes of freshly delivered books—and Hunter holding a bottle of champagne.
“It’s done?” I ask.
He grins and nods. “Finally.”
I playfully roll my eyes. It’s looked fine to me for days, but he insists on getting every particular right.
“Here’s what I’ve been waiting for.” He points to the corner, where a rolling ladder waits with a big ribbon tied around a rung. “I’ve been working on it at home so you wouldn’t sneak down at night and see it first. Do you like it?”
My heart does a swoop. “ ‘I must learn to be content with being happier than I deserve,’ ” I tell him, running my hands greedily over the polished wood.
He laughs, his eyes doing that crinkly thing I love. “If you’re quoting Jane Austen, I know you’re truly happy.”
I hug him, and his arms close around me, and he smells like hard work and sawdust and whatever it is they put in men’s deodorant to make them smell like a mountain stream.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” he says. “Give it a try.”
All the books aren’t on the shelves yet, but he’s right—I have to try it.
I climb on the ladder, and he sets down the champagne and takes hold and pushes me across the longest wall of bookshelves.
The wood glows like amber in the sunshine as I zoom past it, and I throw back my head and laugh with feverish delight.
Hunter walks along beside me and catches me before the ladder reaches the end of its tracks. I hop down and turn to face him.
“I can’t believe how quickly you did all this. It really is everything I ever dreamed of.”
His chest rumbles against my cheek as he chuckles. “That’s the magic.”
I draw back to look up into his eyes. He has that tired-but-satisfied look people get when they’re exhausted from doing what they love best. “I think it’s also you.”
His head tilts down toward mine. “And maybe a little bit you. From the moment I met you, I found myself wanting to impress you.”
Warm lips land on mine, salty and sweet, and I forget about bookshelves and ladders and sweat as I lose myself in kissing him.
We’ve been taking it slow, but, well, this is a celebration.
All his hard work has come to fruition. Which gives me an idea.
“Have you seen the office lately? I finished decorating. And did the anti-dust spell.”
He knows exactly where I’m going with this. “Oh? So we should go check it out?”
I nod. “You should definitely take a look at my handiwork.”
Hunter takes my hand, lacing our fingers together. He walks backward, pulling me along. “So tomorrow, I’ll bring in the rolling shelves from the antiques market and get them cleaned up and in place.”
“You really know how to get a girl hot….”
We turn the corner toward the office, now hidden from the big plate-glass window out front. “Might even install some new sockets so you don’t get electrocuted making boiled peanuts….”
“Keep going, tiger.”
The office is in sight now, the door open and the light on.
It looks absolutely spotless, like a completely different room than when I saw it last. New paint, new carpet, new art on the walls, a sturdy new desk Hunter built from the excess wood, a desk that didn’t exist at the same time as Herbert Hoover and that has not been denuded by a ghost.
“If you’re a good girl, I might even build you some cabinets.”
“Those might be the best words a man can utter, besides, ‘I don’t need a list, I just know what needs to be done and will do it,’ ” I murmur.
“I don’t need a list—” he starts.
I put a finger against his lips, and his eyes crinkle up with amusement and…
something else. Something more. Something I feel, too.
He’s just so perfect—for me. This man who loves books, his dog, his family, his town, who can dream up things and then make them happen with his hands.
This man who is self-assured and self-sufficient, who cleans up after himself and cooks and—
I should stop thinking about how perfect he is and see what he looks like without his shirt.
Some time later, after I have discovered his first tattoo—of Smaug, no less—and likely scandalized the ghost of my great-uncle, I sit on the desk, dazed and sweaty.
“So I guess we christened the office,” I say.
“Shall we go to the apartment and get cleaned up? After we find our clothes, because that is a very large glass window.”
He stops, leaning against the door in a way that shows me all the muscles I’ve felt through his flannel but never actually seen before. “Oh, so the Terminator is good enough to be in that window for thirty years and I’m not?”
“I don’t give a shit about Arnold, but I want to keep you all for myself,” I tell him. “Actually, that’s not true. I like Arnold, especially when he’s hanging out with his miniature horse. But just as a friend.”
Once we’re both dressed, or at least Hunter has his jeans on, we head upstairs. He pauses at the top step and then laughs. “I keep waiting for a screaming cockatoo to fly at my face. I don’t want to be around an angry parrot when I’m half dressed.”
I hope he doesn’t see the sadness in my smile. “Yeah, that beak is sharp, and she loves things that dangle. But Doris likes you, so you should be fine.”
The kitchen is currently filled with boxes of business cards and stationery and manuals for my new cash register. There’s also a bag of supplies for the bathroom downstairs, which I need to paint….
“Good gravy, I still have a lot to do,” I mutter.
“Make me a list. Not because I don’t know what needs to be done, but because I don’t know which things you want to do exactly your own way.”
I go up on my tiptoes to peck him on the cheek, one hand on his chest. “One of these days, you’re going to have to take another job. I know you’re not charging me enough.”
His arm wraps around my waist. “It’s not my fault you get girlfriend prices.”
My heart stutters, and I keep my hand on his chest. His eyes are shining, so earnest. “Amazing sex and lower prices? That sounds like a pretty good deal, honestly.”
He puts his hand over mine, holding me to him. “To be clear, amazing sex and lower prices are in no way related. They’re just bonuses to putting up with me.”
I look directly into his eyes, and it’s just as electric as it was the first time I met him. “It is a pleasure to put up with you.”
He laughs, eyes dancing, and kisses me again. “I always hoped a woman would say something like that to me.”
With a jolly jingle, the front door opens. “Delivery!” someone shouts.
I look to Hunter, who nods. “Go on. It’s your bookstore,” he says. “And you’re the only one who’s wearing shoes.”
I want to dance as I run downstairs, calling, “A bookseller’s work is never done!”