CHAPTER THREE
CATHERINE
The Welcome to Crescent Cove sign flashes past in a blur as I take the curve a little too fast, the tires humming against the winding highway. I ease off the gas, but not by much.
I know this road.
I could probably drive it with my eyes closed. Not that I would. I’ve made enough questionable life choices this week.
The ocean comes into view in glimpses between the trees, blue and endless and exactly the same as it’s always been. For a second, something in my chest loosens. Not fully. Just enough to notice the difference.
I spent every summer here growing up. Boardwalk fries dripping in grease, sticky fingers from melted ice cream, salt tangled in my hair for days at a time.
Swimming until my skin wrinkled, poking through tide pools like I was going to discover something no one else had ever seen, building sandcastles in the shadow of my grandmother’s beach house like they might actually last.
They never did.
Kind of the theme lately, huh?
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel. “Not helpful,” I mutter, as if saying it out loud might shut my brain up for five seconds.
It doesn’t.
My thoughts drift anyway, circling back the way they always do when I let them.
Juniper.
I wonder if she’s still here.
We used to be inseparable. Sunburned and barefoot, convinced Crescent Cove was the center of the universe. Then college happened. Distance happened. Life happened. Our calls turned into texts, texts into occasional check-ins that stretched further and further apart.
Last I heard, she was engaged. Derek.
I wrinkle my nose automatically.
I’d met him once, a few summers ago. Polished smile, firm handshake, the kind of guy who says all the right things but somehow still feels… off. Too smooth. Like he’d practiced it.
But Juniper had looked happy.
And she knew him better than I ever could from one awkward dinner and a forced group outing.
“If she’s happy,” I murmur, more to convince myself than anything, “then I’m happy.”
The words sit there for a second.
Unconvincing.
I turn onto Main Street and slow down, rolling down the windows. The air rushes in warm and familiar, thick with salt and sunshine and something sweet underneath it. Coffee. Sugar. Fresh bread.
My gaze drifts automatically to the Driftwood Café as I pass, the scent of baked goods practically reaching out to grab me through the open window.
Some things really don’t change.
Locals move along the sidewalks with an easy, unhurried rhythm, weaving between clusters of tourists in bright colors and oversized sun hats. You can always tell who’s visiting. They look like they’re trying to hold onto every second.
The wooden sign for Ebb and Fable Books creaks softly in the breeze, books stacked in the front window like a promise I don’t quite have time to keep.
For a moment, I consider stopping. Just for a minute. When was the last time I read for fun? Took an evening to read about unicorn shifters and faraway kingdoms instead of marketing plans. I could stop, just to pretend I’m here for a reason that isn’t… this.
I don’t.
Instead, I turn right, heading north toward Lighthouse Point. Toward the house.
My chest tightens before I even see it.
The road curves, opening up to the stretch of coastline I know by heart, and suddenly I’m ten again. Barefoot. Laughing. Sand stuck to everything.
Home.
The word doesn’t land the way it used to because it’s not just the house. It’s everything that used to fill it.
Mom in the kitchen, humming under her breath. Gran out back with her hands in the dirt. Dad pretending he wasn’t watching us from the porch like we might disappear if he blinked.
Before.
Before everything got quieter.
Before Mom died.
Before Dad packed up what was left of himself and moved inland to Florida because staying hurt too much.
The year I left for college and everything I’d ever known changed.
I swallow hard as the house comes into view in the distance, my hands tightening around the wheel.
When was the last time we even talked?
Christmas. Two years ago, maybe.
A quick call. A shorter one than it should’ve been.
We’re both good at that.
Distance. Avoidance. Pretending everything’s fine because it’s easier than admitting it’s not.
“At least I know where I get it from.” I let out a humorless huff as the house looms closer.
Work until there’s nothing left. Don’t look too closely at what you’re losing and definitely don’t stop long enough to feel it.
Because when you stop, the pain comes, and the only thing I want this summer is sunscreen, beachy waves, and solitude.
Not magic. Not memories.
My tires crunch over gravel and broken shells as I pull into the driveway before the large colonial-style house with its white shuttered windows, covered front porch, and dark grey gabled roof. My aunt’s bright red convertible is parked out front, a sharp contrast against the whitewashed walls.
A breeze whips through my purple hair, carrying the scent of ocean salt and jasmine with it. I lean against my little car, soaking in the warmth of the sun, and practice a few deep breathes, trying to come to the terms with the fact that I’m finally back here. Back in Crescent Cove.
I’m not a little girl anymore. Not a teenager.
And maybe this could be the fresh start I need.
I stare through the windows at the neatly packed and labeled boxes crammed into the backseat and trunk. Everything I own managed to fit inside my car. Everything I’ve done over the last seven years since leaving this place still amounts to what I can carry with me.
Even most of the furniture in the apartment hadn’t been mine, aside from what I bought for Mango.
What does that say about me?
The front door swings open, and Aunt Mirabella steps out, wavy blonde hair and sea-blue eyes nearly identical to my own.
Her energy radiates warmth and happiness so strongly I can practically feel it from where I stand.
She beams, her smile widening as she hurries down the porch steps and pulls me into a tight hug despite her petite frame.
She smells like strawberries and champagne, summer rainstorms and magic.
I inhale deeply, blinking hard as nostalgia crashes into me all at once.
“Welcome home, Cat.” She draws back, looking me over from head to toe.
“You look famished. I’ve got dinner in the oven—your favorite chicken-and-dumpling casserole.
Now don’t you worry about your things. Get yourself and Mango inside and settled.
There’s a glass of iced tea waiting for you on the counter. ”
She claps her hands, and all the doors to my car fly open. My carefully packed boxes float into the air before trailing into the house like a well-oiled train.
“It’s good to see you too, Auntie.” I give her a weak smile as emotions churn in my chest, longing and regret tangled up in the comfort of being somewhere familiar.
Mango whips his tail back and forth while I lift him from his travel container, his tongue flicking out to test the air.
As I cross the threshold of the house, a strange tingling passes over my skin, raising the hairs along my arms.
That was strange…
I beeline for the kitchen and greedily gulp down a glass of iced tea, the glass slick with condensation against my palm.
The space is warm and inviting, bright summer sunlight spilling through the curtains in golden ribbons.
The rich, buttery scent of biscuits permeates the air, wrapping around me like a memory.
Everything looks the way I remember it.
Except quieter.
That is, until a series of barks fills the air and a fluffy golden doodle turns the corner into the kitchen.
She trots to my side and sniffs my outstretched hand before giving it a thorough lick and letting me pet her head.
Her fur is greyer than I remember, and she moves slower than the last time I saw her, but her tail wags back and forth as though she’s only a year old.
“Hey, girl. It’s good to see you too.”
I kneel beside her and bury my fingers in her soft golden curls, which results in a shower of dog kisses. Mango, however, is not impressed and climbs from my shoulder to the top of my head, his tiny claws digging into my scalp in protest.
I laugh and look up to find Aunt Mirabella standing in the doorway, arms crossed, leaning against the frame like she’s been there long enough to take in the whole scene.
“I’m going to miss her while I’m gone, but she’ll do better here with you.”
The kitchen timer dings, and she brushes past us, pulling the casserole from the oven.
“I’m glad I was available—”
The words although I wish it were under different circumstances stick in my throat.
It’s not my aunt’s fault I was laid off. If anything, it was mine.
If only I’d worked harder. Done something different to stand out.
“Now stop that right now,” she chides, brandishing a serving spoon at me.
“Stop what?” I push to my feet and grab my glass, refilling it from the pitcher on the counter and avoiding eye contact.
There is no way she heard my thoughts.
We were a family of witches, each blessed by the goddess with different strengths. She and I both share the family’s affinity for water magic and telekinesis.
Well… I used to.
Before I gave it up and swore I’d never practice magic again.
“Stop putting the blame on yourself that you didn’t try hard enough,” she says. “You work harder than anyone I know.”
That strange wave of electricity passes through me, and I nearly drop my glass.
My ears buzz.
Mirabella is talking, but I can’t hear her over the sound rushing through me. The whole room takes on an iridescent glow, light shimmering at the edges as though the air itself has turned liquid.
But my aunt keeps talking.
Keeps moving.
As though nothing is happening at all.
And then, as quickly as it comes, it passes.
The kitchen settles back into itself as if nothing strange occurred.
“What was that?” I glance up, my breath caught somewhere in my chest.
“I asked if you want one scoop or two.” She lifts a bowl with a heaping spoonful of casserole topped with a steaming, flaky biscuit.
“No, what was that?” I gesture to the room around me. “That noise. That feeling. Like static electricity, but stronger. Everywhere.”
Her brows pinch as she studies me for a beat before adding a second serving to the bowl and carrying both to the table.
I follow behind and sink into my seat, picking up my fork and taking a bite.
The biscuit melts on my tongue, buttery, flaky crust giving way to the savory casserole beneath.
Maybe I imagined it.
I hadn’t eaten anything all day, which I know was a dumb move, but there had been too much to do—packing boxes into the car, stopping at the post office to forward my mail, dropping off my apartment key, then driving hours down the coast.
At least I’d remembered to drink water.
“When was the last time you used your magic, Cat?”
I still.
“I don’t use magic. Not anymore. Not since…”
My words trail off as I stare at my dinner.
Her warm hand covers mine and gives it a gentle squeeze, a silent reassurance that I’m not alone. That she understands.
And some of the tension in my shoulders eases.
I’d been so afraid of how she’d react.
Especially after spending the last seven years in a job where every move, every breath, was evaluated and ranked, I’d worried she’d be disappointed in me. Or angry that I’d boxed up such an integral part of myself and shoved it away.
But magic had no room in the “normal” world.
And that was the life I wanted.
Something marketable.
Tangible.
Obtainable.
But even that had failed me, hadn’t it?
And here she was, steady and constant as the ocean tide.
“You’ve had a long day, and I leave first thing in the morning for the airport.” She gestures toward the stack of luggage.
Then she pushes to her feet, leans over, and hugs me tight before pressing a kiss to the top of my head.
“But even while I’m gone,” she says softly, “I hope you find your peace.”
She pulls back, hands resting on my shoulders.
“And I’m only a phone call away.”