“Why?”
“There’s something hanging about. I can’t tell what it is yet but … do you want me to do a card reading for you?” Lace gestured to the back of the shop, where a velvet lavender curtain hid a small room that Sadie knew was the complete opposite of the soda shop vibe. The last time she’d been in there was right after Seth left, when she’d been seeking answers from any available source. The little room was dark, and beaded tapestries hung on the wall next to palmistry posters. There was a small wood table with black lace and white candles. It was where the sisters read cards and crystal balls, along with auras and palms and fortunes. Magic of a different sort than Sadie’s, but powerful, nonetheless. Particularly when those practicing weren’t charlatans.
“It’s not a precise art,” they’d warned her when she came knocking. “We don’t always get to choose what we see.”
And indeed, when they’d tried to see Seth, all they could tell her was that he didn’t want to be found.
“Not today, thanks,” she said to Lace. “I don’t think the cards would have anything nice to say, and you know what they say about mean tarot cards.”
“No.” Lavender shook her head, looking interested.
“Uh, you know—that you shouldn’t read them because then it just encourages them to keep telling people bad things,” Sadie invented wildly.
“You’re saying they need to be taught a lesson?” Lace asked with a wicked gleam in her eye. “They’re like children?”
“More like men. Anyway, thanks but no thanks. Deliveries.” She nodded to her car outside. “And whatever it is, I’m sure it’ll be fine.” That word again. She wished she could delete it from her vocabulary.
She glanced at her café across the street, longing to lock herself in the sanctity of the clean kitchen there and try to block out the rest of the world by kneading out her problems on some unassuming dough.
Everything is okay, she reminded herself. This is a normal day. Just do what you always do. She tamped down the rising anxiety, her chest tightening in spite of the hollow words.
Tearing her eyes from the café, she took the next crate into Wharton’s. The old blue door creaked, and a bell dinged. She smelled salami from the deli counter on the right and jasmine from a candle display on the left. The store had always reminded her of a soup Gigi would make in the winter that she called “Everything but the kitchen sink.” It had every odd and end you could imagine, and some you couldn’t. There were baby clothes and stuffed animals along with metal art sculptures and motor oil. Lamps with hand-painted shades and lighters with marijuana plants engraved on them.
“I’m back here, Sadie!” a deep voice called from behind the small deli counter. Jimmy Wharton, the town bass in the church choir and “Christmas Shoes” soloist every winter was warm as apple cider unless he was on one of his drinking binges. His head was in the case as he organized salamis. “Money’s on the counter here. And can you make any more of the blackberry wine? We sold out in days last time.”
“Give me a couple weeks, and I’ll have another case for you,” Sadie told him, pocketing the money.
“How’s that grandmother of yours?”
“Feisty as ever,” Sadie said with a smile.
He cleared his throat and her heart sank.
“Not going to be breaking any hearts this week, I hope, hmm?” His bearded face smiled, but there was a hint of sharpness in his eyes. He’d never quite gotten over Sadie turning down his son, Ryan.
“No plans yet, but it’s still early I suppose,” she joked with a tight smile. She grabbed the money and left before he could see her eye roll. Meddling. Always meddling, her town. Jake had been back for less than twelve hours and was already wreaking havoc.
A few miles past Main Street, she passed the sign for the historic Old Bailer and pulled into the freshly paved parking lot. The three-story brick mansion sat right near the edge of the two-lane highway but was shrouded by towering silver birches planted closely together. The windows were boarded up, and the low wall of stone out front was crumbling sadly, though it did nothing to dim the grandeur of a bygone era. Whenever she passed, Sadie swore she could hear the subtle chatter of ladies wearing bell skirts and a distant, haunting waltz.
Old Bailer had been built by T. J. Bailer, a wealthy entrepreneur from out of town. He’d fallen in love with Evanora Revelare, from one of the seven founding families of Poppy Meadows, who was rumored to be a witch.