5 Birdie
BIRDIE
Standing on the sidewalk’s edge, I gaze up at Salt & Sage.
It’s a narrow, two-story building. The brick walls are painted white, chipped in places by time and weather.
The panes of glass in each window look antique, likely original to the building.
Following behind Phoebe, I step under the shade of the front window’s blue and white–striped awning.
The window display features a set of verdant plants in pots.
On a spindly-legged stool sits a chintzy tea set.
Under the stool, curled on a little pillow, is a black cat wearing a green leather collar.
Phoebe taps a finger on the glass as she walks past. “Hey, Pickles.”
The cat opens one eye, peeking his head up. He looks first at Phoebe, dismissing her with a yawn. Then his bright yellow gaze settles on me. I swear he rolls his eyes before going back to sleep.
“Did you see that?”
Phoebe is busy digging in her purse for the keys. “See what?”
“I think the cat just rolled his eyes at me. That can’t be a good sign, can it?”
“Just ignore him. Pickles doesn’t like anyone.
Ooo, here—” She shoves the bag of canned cat food at me.
“Feed him this fancy paté, and you’ll earn some goodwill.
Then he’ll only bring you a dead bird and not a dead mouse.
Or worse, a dead snake. Ugh! He’s such a good little hunter.
But I don’t need to see it every time, you know? ”
Pulling my gaze from the snoozing cat, I glance up. An old wooden sign hangs on a chain above the door. It’s also a deep blue, framed in black, with gold painted into the letters.
MESSRS. PRESCOTT & PRESCOTT
APOTHECARY
EST. 1633
The history nerd in me can’t help but be impressed. “Your family has run this shop since 1633?”
“Hmm?” Phoebe is still jingling her keys in the lock.
“Is that what the sign says? I’m terrible with dates.
” Working the door open at last, she pushes on it with her shoulder.
A bell dings as I follow her inside. “I do know that this particular building only dates back to the Victorian Era. Mom found a few letters in a desk written between Archie Prescott and the building foreman. Old Archie had to oversee final construction from England because he was attending Queen Victoria’s Jubilee. Pretty cool, huh?”
“Which one?”
“Which what?”
“Which Jubilee?”
She shrugs. “I’m not a historian, Birds.” Grinning, she gestures around at the jungle of plants engulfing the store. “But can I interest you in an epipremnum aureum?”
My eyes go wide as I look around too. “Whoa.”
“Right?” She holds both arms out wide. “Welcome to Salt & Sage!”
Okay, this shop is so freaking cool. It’s equal parts tea shop, bookstore, soap emporium, and botanical garden.
Plants in every size and variety creep up the walls and hang from the ceiling in cutesy macrame holders.
The shop is narrow but deep. Every window is blooming with flowers and vines.
In the front of the shop, there’s a maze of little tables and chairs meant for tea tastings.
There’s also a small bar-like counter for brewing the tea.
Behind the counter, a wall of glass jars containing every blend of tea you can imagine goes up to the ceiling.
The back left corner of the shop hosts a long row of floor-to-ceiling shelves, overflowing with candles, lotions, and other bath products. Off to the right, the shop continues into a second, smaller room that looks like a sort of library. That must be the tarot section.
Dotted around the space are little shelves and stands for all manner of witchy paraphernalia—crystals, incense, smudge sticks. I point to a row of shiny silver daggers displayed on the wall. “Pheebs, are those . . .”
She looks that way with a wince. “Athamés? Yeah. Sorry, is this weird for you? I never actually asked where you fall on the Supe-o-meter.”
“The Supe-o-meter?”
“Yeah, you know, supernatural stuff.” She waves at the decorative daggers. “Like, were you a Buffy girl growing up? Or was it strictly Gilmore Girls and lights out by ten?”
I smile. “Well, as my friendship with you can attest, I’m pretty good with weird.”
“Oh, you’ll get plenty of that here.” Her own smile falls a little as she steps closer. “But if anyone ever gets too weird, just smile, nod, and call Jasper, okay?”
“I’m sure I can handle it.”
“Do you believe in witchcraft, Birdie?”
Her blunt question takes me back. In three years of friendship, we’ve never had the religion talk.
“Honestly, I’m not sure I believe in anything anymore.
My faith in Christ was ruined by Christians long ago.
And the gender historian in me just sees things like witch trials as one more form of violent patriarchy meant to control freethinking women. ”
She raises a hand in the air. “A-freaking-men.” Lowering her hand, she starts fussing with a display of crystals, re-sorting a few of the colorful stones into their little dishes.
“You know, Ezra thinks the Puritan witch trials might have started here. You’ll have to check out the exhibit over at the historical society.
Gruesome stuff. No one deserves to die like that. ”
“Do women ever deserve the persecution we face just for living?”
She pauses in her sorting. “Yeah, you’re right. And look, sorry for the heavy,” she adds. “I’m just a little overprotective of the family business. You’re actually the first person from WU I’ve ever brought out to the island.”
“Really?” I don’t know why, but that surprises me. It also makes me grateful to have earned Phoebe’s trust.
“Burr Island is a special place, Birds. As much as the tourists come to enjoy shopping and hiking the trails, the real heart of this place is the people. When you’re here, you’re home.”
I feel warmed by her words. “I’m glad you had a place like this to grow up. Honestly, it makes me jealous. You know my own situation was . . . well, shitty.”
And that’s pretty much the understatement of the century. No kid grows up in a happy home where there’s a “prayer closet” used for regular punishments. I fight a shiver, pushing the memories down.
Phoebe gives me an appraising look. “Maybe that’s why I knew you were the right person for this job.”
“What do you mean?”
Her smile is warm. No artifice. No guile. “When you find a home on Burr Island, you have a home for life. I think if anyone can appreciate that, it’s you. Like I said, you’re good people.”
Okay, well now I think I might cry. “Thanks, Phoebe.”
Blinking back her own tears, she clears her throat and shoos me away. “Well, now don’t let me stop you. Go, go! Get a good look around before Jas gets here.”
Laughing, I weave through the tables, going to check out the wall of teas. There must be at least sixty varieties in the glass jars. “Do you have all these memorized?”
She follows, dropping her bag down on the counter.
“Yeah. But most tourists only ask for the basics. Bottom rows are for your staples like English breakfast and Earl Grey. We’ve got Darjeeling, a few types of chai.
Then you got your chamomile, your matcha, your rooibos.
” She ticks off the names, tapping each labeled glass jar.
“But my favorite is the peppermint tea.” She pulls a near-empty jar off the shelf, hugging it to herself with a wistful sigh.
“I don’t know what Jas puts in it, but it’s freaking magic. ”
I do a half turn, looking all around. “It’s a big shop. Between the tea counter, doing the tarot reading stuff, and running the register . . . I mean, can one person really handle all this?”
She sets the jar back on the shelf with a soft clink. “Well, Jasper is here most days, so you won’t be totally alone. And my auntie Hortense helps out a bit.”
“Hortense?”
She grimaces. “I know, right? Family names are a curse. She’s, like, eighty.
And hilarious. She’s always busting Jasper’s chops and driving him crazy.
Also, she’s arthritic and pretty much blind, which makes her a little useless around the shop.
But she still makes Jasper let her work a few hours every week so she can gossip and steal his lavender honey hand cream. ”
“So, it’s me, Jasper, and sometimes Hortense? That’s the whole staff?”
“Well, and Pickles.” She points at the black cat slinking away through the shop.
At hearing his name, he stops. Those bright yellow eyes lock on me. Okay, why do I feel so judged by this freaking cat?
Phoebe nudges me. “Ooo, quick, show him the goods!”
Remembering what I hold in my hand, I hold out the bag of cat food.
“Say something,” she urges. “First impressions are super important around here.”
Feeling silly, I drop down to one knee. “Uhh . . . here, kitty kitty. You want some yummy food?” Shaking the paper bag a little, I rattle the cans. Phoebe snorts and the cat just stares. I glance over my shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
She stands behind me with her hands on her hips. “Is this your first time talking to a cat? Honestly, you’re embarrassing me in front of Pickles.”
I launch back to my feet. “Well, what the heck am I supposed to say? It’s just a cat—”
Pickles hisses and Phoebe laughs.
I look down at the cat. He waits, as if this really is some kind of test that I’m failing.
God, I can’t lose my chance at this job because a freaking cat doesn’t like me.
Feeling even sillier, I drop back down to one knee.
Opening the bag, I pull out one of the cans of fancy tuna paté.
“Uhh . . . Pickles? Can I call you Mr. Pickles?”
He perks up at this, his yellow eyes narrowing as his tail swishes.
“Ooo, he likes that,” Phoebe chimes. “Such a regal little gentleman.”
Ignoring her, I peel the lid off the can of tuna. “Here you go, Mr. Pickles. Full disclosure, Phoebe bought this food for you—”
“With Uncle Jasper’s credit card,” she adds.
“But she said I could offer it to you. You know, as a gesture of my friendship.”
“Servitude,” she corrects.
Okay, now I feel freaking ridiculous. Setting the can on the floor, I slide it forward. “My name is Birdie, by the way. I’m hoping to be a shop girl here this summer . . . so long as you’re okay with it, Mr. Pickles.”
Keeping his eyes narrowed, he slinks silently forward, inspecting the can of tuna with a sniff.
Then he trots a little closer and, I swear to god, I think he’s checking the stamped label on the side of the bag.
Satisfied, he walks back over to the can, plops his butt down, and starts to eat.
After a moment, a low rumbling purr comes from him.
“Okay,” Phoebe says in a sing-song voice.
“Now, back away slowly.” Reaching down, she pulls on my arm, helping me stand.
“That’s right, Pickles. We’ll just leave you to your brunch.
Such a good pretty kitty.” She keeps a hand on my arm, pulling me away as she lowers her voice.
“Come on. Let me show you the storeroom before Jasper gets here.”
She leads me through the narrow book room, stacked from floor to ceiling with all manner of titles.
I spy everything from nature books on tide pooling and identifying mushrooms of the Northeast to books with titles like Tipping the Scales: Life as a Liberal Libra and The Green Witch Guide to Spell-Safe Composting.
The shelves that aren’t full of books are stacked with neat little rows of tarot card sets, oracle decks, and dream journals.
Phoebe leads me right past all the books, pulling me through a narrow doorway in the corner marked Employees Only. She clicks on the light and the old fluorescents hum to life. The storeroom is small, made smaller by the industrial shelves stacked with replenishment stock.
“If Uncle Jasper had his way, he’d spend every moment the shop is open hiding back here.
You’ll usually find him sitting over there.
” She points to the corner, where I can just see the soft glow of a computer screen.
“He’ll say he’s doing inventory, but if you check his screen tabs, he’s likely just ordering more tools he doesn’t need for his woodshop. Or rewatching The Sopranos.”
“Okay . . .”
“But if he gets too reclusive, just change the Wi-Fi password on him. That’ll buy you a day or two until he figures it out and changes it back.
Oh—and the password right now is ‘PicklesPrescottPicksPrettyPears.’ Don’t give it out to any customers,” she adds, pointing a finger in my face.
“He’ll flip his freaking lid. The Wi-Fi should work for you upstairs too. ”
“Good to know.” I do another half turn, distracted by all the curious items lining the shelves.
“Now, if Jas isn’t physically on the premises, try not to bother him too much, okay? There’s nothing he hates more than having to drive into town to deal with a problem that’s not actually a problem. Know what I mean?”
“I’m supposed to do what then? Close up shop?”
“I mean, use your best judgment. But yeah, probably.”
I stifle an incredulous laugh. “Seriously? You’re saying your uncle would rather I close up his shop and do no business than dare to bother him with a question while he’s at home?”
She shrugs. “Pretty much. Once you know Jasper, it’ll make more sense.”
“That’s assuming I want to know him.”
“What?”
“Honestly, Pheebs, your uncle sounds like kind of an asshole.”
“Oh, trust me, he is.”
I stiffen. That wasn’t Phoebe who just said that. She’s standing in front of me, eyes wide. And it definitely wasn’t the cat. No, those words were spoken from behind me by someone with a deep voice. Slowly, I turn, looking up into the handsome face of Phoebe’s uncle.
The man is tall, well over six feet, with broad shoulders and a chiseled jaw, dusted with a five o’clock shadow.
His dark chocolate hair has a slight curl to it, longer on top, trimmed shorter on the sides.
The sprinkling of silver at his temples, paired with the tanned weathering on his face?
I’m guessing he’s mid-forties, active outdoorsman, never heard of sunscreen.
God help me, this man is arresting. I don’t think I’ve ever used that word to describe a person before, but I feel like I’m chained to this spot, unable to move, unable to breathe. He smirks, his smoky grey eyes intense as he takes me in.
My own gaze trails down, noting his checked green flannel worn open over a fitted T-shirt. The lumbersnack look is completed with faded jeans and a pair of scuffed tan work boots. I let my gaze settle on the hand he holds outstretched towards me.
“Jasper Prescott. I’m the asshole in question. Who the hell are you?”