In the back of the kitchen was another door. I opened it, expecting to find a closet, but instead found myself standing in a small living room. The space, much like the rest of the building, looked as if time had frozen there in 1950. A pea-green couch and the smallest TV I’d ever seen—which had probably aired the moon walk—decorated the space. Just off the living room was a tiny bathroom, complete with a claw-footed bathtub. A second door led to an empty second room large enough to hold a full-size bed. I looked back across the small living space. It was perfect. Light shone into the room from a window. It cast its glow on the only photograph hanging in the space. I lifted the black and white photo off the wall and dusted it off. There, I saw five laughing women sitting around a table. They all wore flowers on their lapels, and every one of them was wearing a black witch’s hat. Underneath the picture was written Halloween Dance and the names Alberta Pearl, Tootie Row, Violet McClellan, Betty Chanteuse, and Emma Jane Aster. I stared at Mrs. Aster, who was laughing so loudly her eyes had squinted shut. She looked…joyful.
Placing the photograph on the wall, I headed back to the storefront. I was about to start digging in my purse for my phone when I saw something…odd. The door on the lavender-colored shabby chic armoire was open. It had definitely been closed when I’d passed through the room. I remembered admiring the hand-painted designs on the doors.
“Hello?” I called to the empty space.
A soft breeze fluttered in from under the greenhouse door, causing the armoire door to swing open even further.
I crossed the room to close it but then spotted something shimmering inside, the sunlight pouring in from overhead glinting on…something.
The dusty armoire was empty save a small box tucked away in one corner. It had been painted silver and purple. I pulled it out. The box was small, wooden, and a figure of a woman with flowing hair blowing dust from her palm had been painted on the lid.
Curiosity getting the better of me, I opened the box. Inside, I found yellowed card after yellowed card of recipes. A recipe box? Recipes for lemon meringue pie, petit fours, dandelion wine, and so many other culinary delights were stuffed into the tiny box. Grinning like a Cheshire cat, I pulled out my phone.
I dialed Dad’s number, but he didn’t pick up. I let the phone go to voicemail.
“Dad, I’m at the property in Chancellor. We have a buyer…me. Let’s talk when I get home. I’m not going back to school. I hate it. I…I want this place. I have an idea. Love you.”
I gazed across the shop. The possibilities were limitless, but the one thing that needed to be there was me. My heart felt it with more certainty that anything I’d felt since Mom had died. I needed that neglected place as much as it needed me. What we would do together, I wasn’t sure quite yet, but that was nothing a pumpkin spice latte couldn’t remedy. Still cradling the antique recipe box, I snatched up the key and headed toward the door. But first, I needed to toss those signs back in the trunk of my car. They wouldn’t be needed. And for the first time in months, that massive pain in my chest felt like it had melted away.
Chapter 4: Horatio
“Did you hear back yet?” my dad asked the moment I stepped into the ice wine competition tent. He was leaning against the bar right inside the entrance.
Despite the fact that I’d just run a massive charity event, and despite the fact that Blushing Grape’s ice wine, Frozen Kisses, was in fierce competition for the best ice wine in the United States, all my father seemed to care about was his expanding empire. His focus seemed to be completely wrapped up in Falling Waters to the exclusion of everything—and everyone—else. The renovations on the wine bar and upscale restaurant were moving along well except for two snags. First, the town didn’t want to give up The Grove, a public park by the old mill, so Dad could turn it into a wine garden. And second, the least important piece of the puzzle—which was why he had, of course, given it to me—was to acquire space for parking. No matter how many times I called Dayton Real Estate, I couldn’t get a call back about the little hovel at the corner of Main and Magnolia that Dad wanted to level to build his parking lot. Though it was a tiny piece in the big picture, it scratched on my father’s nerves…and me along with it.
“I was tied up with the charity event this morning. I thought I’d try again after the judging.”
“For the love of—” my father said, setting down his wine goblet with such force I’d thought it would break. “Horatio, sometimes I wonder if you’re even my son. It’s such a small thing. Are you so incompetent? Call now. And if you can’t get him on the phone, drive to the office. God, Judy could have handled this better,” he said, referring to his secretary. He pinched the brow of his nose, squinting his eyes in irritation.
The bartender looked away, pretending he hadn’t just seen a twenty-five-year-old man berated by his father in public.
Nothing was ever good enough for Dad. Nothing. And now that Mom was gone, his temper and impatience were worse than ever. He hadn’t even asked about the charity event. My achievements meant nothing to him. The only thing that mattered was what he wanted. It had always been like that...grades, sports, college. Everything had to be as he liked it, and if it wasn’t, he either didn’t care or hated you for it. Anything, or anyone, who failed to meet his standards was just…worthless. And at the moment, that included me.
“Fine,” I said and left the tent. Yanking my tie loose and pulling off my coat, I headed out onto the crowded street. The harvest festival was in full swing. Around me, people were laughing and having fun. Dad had managed, however, to sweep away my happiness with just a few words. My success was superseded by the urgency of a parking lot. In that moment, I missed Mom terribly.
Among the vendors I spotted Rayne, my friend and unreformable hippie, who owned a honey farm at the edge of town. He was giving a demonstration on candle making.
“Is that the same kind of wax you have in your ears?” a little boy, about six years of age, asked Rayne. The boy was rolling a ball of warm wax around the palm of his hand.
“Not quite,” Rayne said with a grin, looking up at me. “Ear wax is made up from your dead skin cells, fat, and other gross stuff,” he said with a laugh as the boy grimaced. “This is made from beeswax.”
“Bees…like the kind that sting you?”
“And make honey. And these candles actually take dust and allergens, the bad stuff, out of the air. Burn it up. They make you healthier…and they smell good.”
“Cool!” the boy said then smiled up at his mother. “Can we get one?”
With a nod, the woman slipped Rayne a five for one of his beeswax candles then directed her boy on his way while he clutched his candle.
I grinned at Rayne. “Did you just make five bucks on that ten cent candle?”
“Of course not,” Rayne said, stretching back to put his hands behind his head. “She paid me four-ninety for the education and ten cents for the candle.”
“Ah, and here I thought maybe it was that twinkle in your eyes she was paying for.” It had almost become a cliché. Whenever we went out, the girls always flocked to Rayne and his twinkly glow. But whenever they heard my last name, they immediately forgot his inner magnetism. Money twinkles a lot brighter than charm, not that it did me any good. What use was a woman who only wanted me because my last name was Hunter? It seemed nearly impossible to find someone sweet, authentic, and motivated by something other than my inheritance.