Chapter 1 #4
Sara’s approach to Talula’s sorcery education was a bit laissez-faire.
She believed magic was deeply personal and that Talula’s power had to be honed organically from within.
Sara would set up a training scenario and then let Talula fumble her way through it with as little intervention as possible (unless there was a dire emergency).
Often, this made Talula feel like a toddler chucked into the ocean while being told, “Let your spirit teach you to backstroke, sweetie!”
Talula stared back down at her yogurt, appetite lost. “I think I’m still recovering from last time.”
Last time Talula had tried to control the Volta, she’d blasted herself several thousand miles too far from her intended destination, surrounded by puffins.
“Last time was last time, my love.” Sara patted Talula’s cheek. “We can take it slow and try again.”
Talula tried to sound optimistic. “Okay.”
They had tea and chatted a bit more until Sara glided away to manage the café.
When Sara left, Talula slumped in her stool, trying not to imagine all the ways her Volta session later that day could go wrong.
Nervously, she bit her lip and tasted the fancy lip balm.
She remembered the way Dahlia had smiled at her in her imagination.
Determined to have a good day, Talula took another gulp of tea, grabbed her keys, purse, and her largest tote bag, then hopped on her bike. It was time for Pine Hollow’s weekly farmers’ market.
Talula loved the farmers’ market—all the smells in the open air, the vibrant colors of produce arranged just so across dozens of booths, the vendors excitedly talking up their wares. It was the only place in Pine Hollow where she felt herself.
Her first stop was always Navarro’s Organics, a produce stand run by her favorite farmers’ market couple, the thirtysomething Anna and Emilio.
Today, Anna manned the booth alone, her strawberry-blond hair bundled up into a knot, tendrils framing her pale heart-shaped face and blue eyes. “Hey, Talula! How are ya?”
“Good, thanks.” Talula looked around for Anna’s husband, but he was nowhere to be found. “Is Emilio still recovering from surgery?”
“He ripped a stitch trying to help me load the truck.” Anna scowled. “I’m making him stay home until it’s healed up. He knows recovery will take time, but he’s so impatient!”
“That sounds like Emilio.” Talula chuckled, thinking of Anna’s stern, stoic husband being forced to relax by his peppy wife. “Tell him I hope he feels better soon. But other than that, things are good?”
“So good.” Anna beamed. “He’s a bit grumpy about having to take it easy, but he’s happy with the outcome.” Anna rolled her eyes. “But if I have to hear him say ‘it’s a huge load off my chest’ one more time…”
Talula let out a humongous laugh. “Emilio’s puns are the best.”
Anna grinned. “He’s lucky to have such a pun-loving customer. By the way, there’s something special in your order this week.”
With a showman’s flourish, she offered Talula a box filled with brilliant red apples, a half dozen juicy pears, and—Talula gasped—three cartons full of gleaming red strawberries.
The last strawberries, the sweetest of the season, were sought after like the last seventy-inch TV at a Black Friday sale.
The last Navarro strawberries were battled and bled for like the Holy Grail.
“You’re too nice!” Talula said reverently.
“We’ve been keeping back a stash for some experiments.” Anna whispered, her voice conspiratorial. “We’re talking about jam.”
Talula held jam-makers in the highest regard, along with picklers and chicken farmers (for different reasons). “I mean this with the utmost sincerity. I would bankrupt the Blue Moon for those jams.”
“We take cash, credit, personal checks, and first-born children,” Anna joked. “I’ll let you know when the first batch is ready for taste-testing.”
They said their goodbyes, and Talula, smiling, wheeled her bike through the market.
She thought dreamily of the Navarros’ famous strawberries and how they would taste in jam form.
Like sweet, sticky gobs of summer you could smear on toast or pound cake.
But maybe the Navarros could get creative with their jam flavors to really set them apart.
Like strawberry rosewater jam. Or would the floral notes overpower the strawberry?
Maybe there was a savory opportunity in something like a basil-infused preserve?
Talula fiddled with the ideas in her mind as she said her hellos and her how-are-yous across the market.
She stopped by Jeremy’s for her favorite cheese.
Elena’s for lettuce and herbs. She oohed and aahed over Romanesco broccoli at Alexei’s.
She collected a dozen multicolored eggs from Wei, who asked (as he always did) when she would come to her senses and become his chicken-farming apprentice.
Finally, there was only one thing left on her list.
Talula stopped her bike and squared her shoulders. She could do this. She had fancy lip balm. She could do anything. She pressed her lips together, discovered the balm had absolutely evaporated, and stealthily reapplied before approaching the most popular booth in the market—Bochart’s Boulangerie.
Mrs. Bochart’s family had been making artisanal bread and pastries for generations.
Everything on their menu was exceptional.
Rumor had it, the Bocharts even made their own butter to ensure every flaky croissant, tart, or roll was worthy of a high-end Parisian patisserie.
Talula loved Bochart’s Boulangerie. The feeling wasn’t mutual.
Mrs. Camille Bochart, sixty-four-year-old owner and head baker of Bochart’s Boulangerie, had been scornful of Talula, Sara, and the Blue Moon for as long as Talula could remember.
Mrs. Bochart petitioned the city to have the Blue Moon bulldozed, reported an invented “plague rat” infestation to the health department, and had left as many one-star reviews on various digital review platforms as she could.
According to her social media posts, the café was a beacon for sickos and perverts from all over to come and poison the community with diseases and liberalness.
But every week, Talula gathered her courage, put on her best smile, and tried to force Mrs. Bochart into seeing things differently.
Seeing Talula differently. Talula knew herself—she was kind, responsible, polite, and had a decent sense of humor.
Mrs. Bochart would see that eventually. That’s what Talula told herself, anyway, as she walked her bike up to the booth, where Mrs. Bochart staunchly avoided her gaze.
“Good morning, Mrs. Bochart!” Talula chimed, the perfect picture of pleasantness.
Mrs. Bochart said nothing, her flour-pale eyebrow twitching.
“Have you had a nice week?” Talula carried on.
Mrs. Bochart ignored her.
“It’s been so…weathery, hasn’t it? So much sky and perspiration. Nope, I mean precipitation, don’t I? Whichever one is the wet one.” Talula laughed awkwardly. “Unless it’s an inappropriate kind of wet, of course!”
The baker grumbled. “What do you want, girl?”
“One baguette, two croissants, and a loaf of sourdough, please.”
“Carbing up for a big orgy?” Mrs. Bochart snapped open a brown bag and stuffed it, snatching up a croissant so forcefully that buttery flakes fell all over the table display. “Or ritual sacrifice?”
“Nope, not this weekend!” Talula responded cheerily. “I’m craving a grilled cheese on your amazing sourdough, maybe with brie and tomato compote. What do you think?”
“I think your sandwich isn’t my problem,” Mrs. Bochart muttered, but Talula saw her grimace soften just a tiny bit. The baker was intrigued, despite herself.
Talula continued, “But maybe your sourdough would be better for a pub-style grilled cheese, with aged cheddar and pickles.”
Mrs. Bochart entered numbers into the register, but instead of stabbing them like usual, she thoughtfully poked them. “Hmmmm.”