Chapter 4 Ivy
The bell of The Enchanted Quill chimes as Margie bursts in, bringing a gust of late February wind that sends loose papers flying off my counter. Snow dusts her wild red curls, and she's bundled in what looks like three different scarves.
"Sweet baby Jesus, it's freezing out there." She unwraps herself while I chase down a runaway receipt. "Only in Hallow's End do we get a blizzard warning right after a warm spell."
Winter in Hallow's End has always been my favorite. The whole town hibernates together, swapping soup recipes and emergency candles between neighbors. Just another cold season in our little corner of nowhere.
"At least your guests are getting the full New England experience," I say, retrieving the last paper from under a shelf. Margie has been running Willow Cottage B&B since before I opened my shop, and her envy-inducing little place usually gets booked months in advance.
"How's Ana doing with that sleep tea?" I ask, thinking of her six-year-old who's been having nightmares lately.
"Finally sleeping through the night." Margie leans against the counter, her smile warm. "Though now she's insisting the lavender gives her magical dreams. I blame you entirely for that, by the way."
"Better magical dreams than no sleep." I laugh, passing her another batch of Before Midnight tea. "The Murder Chronicles is killing me. Let's finish binging the last episodes this weekend?"
"Yes! I'll bring wine, and Vinnie better show up with those muffins she promised last time." Margie checks the time. "Shit, gotta run. Got a family checking into the cottage in twenty."
After she leaves, I return to restocking the display of locally sourced crystals near the window. Zara's perched behind the register, her dark curls falling into her face as she studies for her Art History midterm.
"So, what are your big birthday plans for Saturday?" she asks suddenly, closing her textbook.
"Shouldn't you be learning about . . . whatever dead artist you're covering?
" I dodge, but Zara's already grinning. When Katie cut back her hours for her senior thesis last month, I got lucky finding Zara.
She might be new, but she's picked up the shop's rhythm faster than I expected.
Plus, she definitely keeps things interesting around here.
"Botticelli can wait. Come on, spill. Twenty-six is like your quarter-life-crisis year.
" Zara's eyes sparkle with mischief. "You're supposed to have some sort of existential breakdown, quit your job, and move abroad to find yourself.
Though . . ." She glances around the shop, with its crystals and tarot cards, "I guess you kind of skipped straight to the spiritual awakening part. "
"First of all, rude." I toss a price tag at her.
"Second, I own this place, so no dramatic job-quitting for me.
And third, Amelia and Vinnie are dragging me to dinner, but I'll probably be in bed by nine," I say, like that's just who I am now.
Not someone who used to make themed playlists and wear a tiara on her birthday.
"Are your parents flying in from wherever they are now?"
"Bali. They're studying with some spiritual community there, teaching philosophy workshops or something." I shrug. "They offered, but I told them not to worry about it."
"Your parents are so on brand with their Zen-master thing. But you're turning twenty-six, not sixty," Zara hops off her stool to head for the cart of new books.
"Birthdays are different these days." I start organizing receipts. "Like, remember when turning thirteen was this massive deal? Now it's just another reminder that I'm not where I thought I'd be yet."
"Where did you think you'd be?"
"Oh, you know . . ." I trail off. "I had this whole vision. The cute little house with the white picket fence, maybe some kids running around in the backyard, a garden full of herbs . . ." I snort softly.
The truth is, I could've been dating. Should've been, probably. But every time Amelia and Vinnie try to set me up with a perfectly nice guy, I find some reason why it's not quite right. Not quite . . . enough.
Which is ridiculous, because the alternative is what? Waiting around for some mythical perfect person who probably doesn't exist? Or worse, waiting for someone who does exist, but isn't ready to be who I need him to be. Someone who still thinks love is a punchline.
"Instead, I'm living alone with Salem. The other day, I seriously caught myself watching baby duck videos at two a.m., wondering if I could turn my tiny backyard into some sort of mini farm sanctuary."
"Wait, are we talking about those adorable ducklings in rain boots?" Zara perks up. "Because I saw those, and honestly? You should totally get ducks. Or chickens! Fresh eggs, built-in pest control! Plus they're basically tiny dinosaurs."
"You're supposed to talk me out of my quarter-life crisis farming dreams," I chuckle, but I'm already picturing it. "Though Salem would love having some feathered siblings."
"Please get ducks," Zara begs. "We could dress them up for the shop's Instagram. Think of the marketing potential!"
"I'll think about it," I make a note to research what I would need to raise tiny little ducklings.
"Oh, can you get more of that face cream from your Grams when you see her? I swear my skin's gotten so much better since I started using it," Zara says, adjusting a display of romance novels.
I stifle a laugh. The cream she's obsessing over is literally just rose water and basic moisturizer that Grams whips up while bingeing Golden Girls. But looking at Zara's warm brown skin dotted with freckles, I doubt she needs any help in that department.
"Sure, I'll ask her when I visit her next. Though you could just splash some water on that face and call it a day."
"Shut up," she grins, tucking a curl behind her ear.
"How's that art project going? The one you were stressed about?"
"Done!" She brightens. "Professor loved my concept. Incorporating tarot imagery in modern photography. She said it was, and I quote, 'delightfully subversive.'"
"Translation: you actually studied instead of scrolling on your phone all shift?"
"Hey! I multitask!"
I retreat behind the counter to finish blending my Love Actually tea.
A bestseller, ironically enough. I measure chamomile, rose, and lavender with practiced ease, letting my mind drift.
There's a kind of peace in this. The gentle click of dried petals hitting glass, the way certain herbs just know they belong together, like they've been waiting to create something greater than their parts.
The bell chimes and Zara goes rigid next to me. I glance up to see a guy around her age hovering by the crystal display, trying way too hard to seem interested. Dark, messy hair falls into his eyes as he pretends not to glance in our direction.
"Who's that?" I whisper as Zara attempts to disappear behind the stock list. He sneaks another glance at her.
"Just some guy from my class," she mumbles.
"Uh huh." I hide my smile as he picks up a sage bundle like it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen. "And he just happened to drive twenty minutes from Brookside to browse in Hallow's End?"
"Shut up," she hisses, but her cheeks pink. "Jacob probably just needed . . . something."
"Oh, he needs something alright," I murmur, noting him hold a romance novel upside down. "Zara, he hasn't looked at a single item for more than three seconds since he came in. Except you."
"He has not—"
"Hey!" I call out, making them both jump. "Need any help?"
"I, uh . . ." He quickly flips the book right side up. "Actually, yeah. Looking for some . . . books?"
"Zara can help you with that," I say sweetly, ignoring her death glare. "She's our resident expert on the romance section."
She slides off her stool. "I didn't know you worked here," Jacob says, fumbling with the book he's still holding.
"Really?" Zara raises an eyebrow. "I've only mentioned it like, every time we talk."
Jacob's face goes red. "Oh, right. I guess I . . . forgot?"
I bite back a grin as they stand there, both pretending this is some cosmic coincidence and not the world's least subtle attempt at flirting. Young love might be adorable, but watching these two dance around each other is going to give me secondhand anxiety.
"So . . . what kind of books are you into?" Zara asks.
"Oh, you know . . . all kinds?" Jacob shifts his weight. "Whatever you like is good."
I bite back a groan. She's giving you an opening, you adorable idiot. Ask her about getting coffee to discuss books, or something.
"Cool," Zara says after a painful pause. "Well, let me know if you need anything specific . . ."
"Yeah, okay." Jacob picks up another book, this time managing to hold it correctly. "I'll just . . . browse some more."
Oh, for heaven's sake.
I fight the impulse to bang my head against the counter. Instead, I dig through my purse, fingers closing around the movie vouchers I won at last month's quiz night. Time for some divine intervention.
"Oh no," I say loudly, making them both turn. "Zara, I completely forgot. I can't make that movie tonight. The one at the Roxy?" I wave the vouchers. "I feel terrible. If only we could find someone else who's free . . ."
Her eyes widen in horror. "Ivy—"
"They're showing that 80s classic, Pretty in Pink tonight," I continue innocently. "The movie theater's doing this whole John Hughes marathon. Would be a shame to waste the tickets."
I glance between them, waiting. Jacob keeps stealing hopeful looks at Zara while she studies the floor like it holds the secrets of the universe. The silence stretches painfully as neither of them makes a move.
"Hey," I say finally to Jacob, unable to bear this suffering any longer, "any chance you're free tonight?"
"I'm free!" He nearly trips over nothing. "Totally free. Completely. If . . . if Zara wants . . ." His face lights up with such genuine excitement that I have to bite back a grin. Poor guy's probably been rehearsing ways to ask her out for weeks.
"Perfect!" I beam at them both. "Zara, why don't you head out early? You can grab coffee before the show."
"But—" she starts.
"I insist." I'm already grabbing her bag.
Main Street glows under fresh snow, strings of year-round twinkle lights catching on icicles. Sometimes I forget how lucky I am, having my own little piece of magic right here. This town has always been home in a way I can't explain.
When I turn back to the empty shop, my smile fades slightly.
Part of me wishes I had a reason to close early, too, but all I've got waiting at home is Salem and cold leftover pasta.
And maybe that's on me for always holding out for some perfect timing that never comes.
For wanting someone who knows exactly what they want, when half the time I'm not even sure myself.