Chapter 16
Sixteen
Swayze
Mind Your Beeswax occupied a little clapboard house painted a moody grayish purple that shouldn’t have been cheerful, but somehow was.
An array of fanciful wind chimes lined the porch.
Their soft tinkling greeted me as I climbed the steps, weaving around pots full of cheerful pansies that didn’t seem to care one bit that the air held the bite of coming snow.
The windows were draped in fresh evergreen garlands and twined with white twinkle lights, giving the whole place a cozy, enchanted vibe that made my chest loosen just a little.
I needed this. Needed to be somewhere that felt intentional and curated and entirely separate from anything to do with my next-door neighbor.
The door opened with the gentle ring of a bell, and I stepped into warmth.
The quiet sound of Celtic pipes drifted from speakers hidden somewhere, the melody haunting and peaceful all at once.
The air was scented with beeswax and dried flowers, with an undertone of green and earthy things I couldn’t quite place.
A small room led off the entryway to the left, and I found myself drawn to it, curiosity overriding my residual irritation.
The Dutch door stood half open, revealing racks lining the ceiling.
Tied to those racks were bundles of drying herbs—lavender, rosemary, sage, and dozens of others I didn’t immediately recognize.
The scent was stronger here, concentrated and complex.
Worktables formed a U along the walls, their surfaces worn smooth from years of use.
I stepped closer, noting the collection of mortars and pestles in varying sizes, some ceramic, some stone.
Knives and scissors hung from magnetic strips, their blades clean and sharp.
Other tools I couldn’t name but that clearly served specific purposes sat in neat rows—strainers, funnels, measuring spoons marked with symbols rather than standard measurements.
This was a workspace that belonged to someone who knew exactly what they were doing, someone who’d spent years honing their craft.
The room off to the right must have been a parlor once, back when this house was someone’s home.
Now it held a clever array of shabby chic furniture—a distressed white cabinet with chicken wire doors, a vintage hutch painted soft sage green, floating shelves made from reclaimed barn wood.
They displayed an array of beeswax candles in every shape and size, jars of honey ranging from pale gold to deep amber, soaps wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine, and an assortment of hand creams in small glass jars with illustrated labels that I’d have sworn were hand drawn.
More evergreen boughs had been tucked along the tops of shelves and draped across the mantel of what looked like the original fireplace.
White lights were woven through them, and someone had added sprigs of red berries and dried orange slices.
A small collection of vintage ornaments hung from satin ribbons at varying heights in one corner, catching the light.
I drifted deeper into the room, drawn by the sheer coziness of it all, the sense that every item had been chosen with care. My fingers trailed along the edge of a shelf, and then I spotted it—an old apothecary’s chest tucked against the far wall, its many small drawers labeled in elegant script.
Loose leaf teas.
I crossed to it, already smiling. Each drawer had a tiny sachet attached to its front with a ribbon, presumably so customers could sniff before committing. I brought one to my nose. Something floral and bright with an undertone of citrus.
“You made it!”
I turned to find Tana emerging from the back, her dark hair pulled into a messy bun, her smile wide and genuine.
“I did. Sorry it wasn’t sooner.” I gestured around the space, the sachet still clutched in my hand. “Your shop is wonderful!”
“Thanks.” She wiped her hands on the apron tied around her waist. “I was just finishing up a batch of salve. Perfect timing, actually. I can give you the full tour without feeling like I’m abandoning something on the stove.”
“I don’t want to interrupt if you’re busy.”
“You’re not. Promise.” She moved closer, eyeing the tea chest. “Find anything you like?”
“Oh, I can assure you I will be leaving here with a lot of things I like today. I’m a fiend for tea, so I’ll absolutely be taking some of that. I suspect you’re going to be solving all my Christmas shopping woes.”
Tana beamed. “We aim to please. How about I give you the tour and then make you a fresh cup you can try?”
“That sounds perfect.”
Tana led me through the rest of the shop, pointing out the vintage shelving units she’d salvaged from an old pharmacy in Asheville.
They held what could only be described as treasure—rows upon rows of small glass jars with handwritten labels that looked like they’d been plucked straight from the nineteenth century.
I leaned in, reading. Comfrey salve for bruises. Plantain poultice for bee stings. Elderberry syrup for winter colds. Chickweed cream for itchy skin.
“These are incredible.” I picked up a jar labeled Goldenrod tincture—allergies & inflammation, turning it to catch the light. The liquid inside glowed amber. “Do people actually use all of this?”
“More than you’d think.” Tana opened a drawer beneath the shelving, revealing more stock.
“Folks around here remember when this was all we had. My great-grandmother started this place out of her kitchen back when Gibson Hollow was barely more than the trading post. She was what the old-timers called a wise woman. A healer. People came from three counties over when they were sick or hurt or just needed help.”
I set the jar down carefully, reverence settling over me. “She taught your grandmother?”
“Who taught my mama, who taught me.” Tana’s smile softened. “Four generations of Shepherd women, making the same recipes, using the same methods. Some of it sounds like folklore until you try it and realize it actually works.”
“That’s amazing.” I moved along the shelves, taking in remedies for everything from acne to warts to arthritis. Mullein oil for earaches. Jewelweed for poison ivy. Yarrow for bleeding.
“Gran used to say that the mountain provides everything we need if we know where to look and how to listen.”
The weight of that history, the legacy of women passing down knowledge and skill and care, warmed me. This was the kind of story that mattered, the kind of business that deserved to be celebrated and preserved. It was exactly the kind of business I loved working with and drawing attention to.
I might not be able to bring the kind of awareness to it I once might have, but I still had skills.
I turned to Tana. “How can I help?”
“Let’s go back to the kitchen. I’ll make that tea and tell you.”
She led me through a curtain, back to a tiny kitchen that definitely wasn’t officially a public part of the shop.
Not with the inevitable disarray that went along with making products from scratch.
I saw a large double boiler on the stove with some kind of semi opaque substance cooling inside.
Even here there were plants. A massive philodendron was twined along strings mounted near the ceiling, making a sort of living crown molding.
Tana filled an old-fashioned copper kettle and set it on the stove. “Do you want to pick your own tea or let me choose one for you?”
“I’m not fussy. Surprise me.”
“Any allergies?”
“Nope.”
She gave me a long study before turning to open a series of jars, sniffing before putting each back, as if she couldn’t quite decide what to give me.
Then at last she hit on one she liked and filled a couple of clear glass French presses.
I took a seat at the scarred kitchen table, content to absorb the comfort of this place while she worked.
Just being here was smoothing out some of this morning’s edges.
Once the kettle whistled, she added the water and topped the presses, setting a little timer in the shape of a chicken before joining me.
Tana folded her hands on the table, her expression shifting from welcoming to something more serious.
“So here’s the thing. Business has been.
.. well, it’s been rough since the flood.
I didn’t lose the building, thank God, but a lot of my customer base?
They’re still rebuilding. They’ve got bigger priorities than fancy soaps and tinctures, you know? ”
I nodded, the pieces clicking into place. The flood had devastated this town in ways I was only beginning to understand.
“I’ve been thinking about expanding online.
Reaching beyond Gibson Hollow. But every time I look into it, I get overwhelmed.
There are a million platforms, and I don’t know which one makes sense, and the idea of managing inventory across physical and digital.
..” She blew out a breath. “It makes my head spin.”
The chicken timer chose that moment to chirp, a cheerful sound that broke the tension. Tana rose, pressing down the plungers on both French presses before pouring the amber liquid into mismatched vintage teacups. She slid one across to me, and I wrapped my hands around it, breathing in the steam.
Floral, yes, but complex. Layers of it.
“To answer your question,” I said, taking a careful sip, “absolutely there’s interest. People are hungry for authentic, handmade goods.
Especially ones with real history and actual efficacy behind them.
Your great-grandmother’s recipes? The four generations of knowledge?
That’s a story people want to be part of. ”
Tana sank back into her chair, cradling her own cup. “Do you really think so?”
“I know so.” The tea was perfect—soothing without being boring, bright without being sharp. I tasted chamomile and something citrusy, maybe lemon balm, and underneath it all a floral note I couldn’t quite place. “What is this?”
“It’s what you needed.” Her smile turned knowing.
I paused mid-sip. “Am I that transparent?”
“Doesn’t take a witch to read that something upset you before you got here.” She tilted her head. “Feel better?”
I did. The knot between my shoulder blades had loosened, and the tight band around my chest had eased. “Yeah. I do.”
“Good.” She took a long drink from her own cup. “So where would we even start? With the online thing?”
“First, we nail down your brand voice. You’ve already got the aesthetic—vintage, handcrafted, rooted in tradition.
We lean into that hard. Then we pick a platform.
Shopify’s probably your best bet for what you’re doing.
It integrates well with inventory management, and you can add features as you grow without having to rebuild from scratch. ”
Tana pulled a notebook from a drawer and started jotting notes.
“We’ll need good product photography. Natural light, simple backgrounds that let the products shine.
I can help you with that—basic setup isn’t complicated once you know what you’re doing.
Then it’s about storytelling. Every product gets a description that’s not just what it does, but the history behind it.
Where the ingredients come from. Why your great-grandmother originally made it. ”
“People actually care about that?”
“People crave that. Connection. Authenticity. A sense that they’re supporting something real, not just buying from some faceless corporation.”
The tea had cooled enough that I could drink more freely, and I did, feeling the warmth spread through me. We talked through inventory systems, shipping logistics, and how to handle seasonal surges. It wasn’t complicated, just methodical. Breaking it into manageable pieces.
By the time my cup was empty, Tana was grinning.
“I can do this.”
“You absolutely can.”
She stood, moving to the front room, and I followed. She pulled items from shelves—the tea I’d been drinking, a jar of honey, a bar of soap scented with pine and mint, a tin of salve.
“Consider this a thank you and a bribe to keep helping me.”
“I was planning to buy half this store anyway.”
“Then consider it a down payment.”
I left with a bag stuffed full, the weight of it solid against my hip, and for the first time since this morning, I felt like myself again.