Gigi had arrived and was in the front, “pottering about” as she called it. Sadie could hear the crinkle of plastic wrap being taken off pitchers. The clink of jars bumping into each other. The common little noises that turned the café into a symphony. The cookies, perfectly spiced this time, were fresh out of the oven for the early customers, the sweet scent beckoning them in like a childhood memory. Mason jars filled with fresh lavender and wild buttercups dotted the tables, and the pot of crystalized ginger sugar was turned just so toward the pitcher of hazelnut-infused cream.
The glass case brimmed with orange-essence croissants sprinkled with candied zest, the card in front reading, “Will cause enthusiasm, encouragement, and success.” Its neighbor, the fruit and basil tartlets that glistened like a long-forgotten dream read, “Use for good wishes, love, and serious intent.” And the cinnamon streusel cake that some locals swore would turn your day lucky had a card that simply said, “Stability.” Generations ago, the townsfolk would have rebuked or shunned such blatant displays of magic. Now, even if they didn’t understand it, they welcomed it with relish and a rumbling stomach. It was part of a routine that had woven itself into the DNA of Sadie’s days. And it was about to begin again.
Sadie excelled at routine. The tiny town of Poppy Meadows, much like Sadie herself, ran like clockwork. All up and down Main Street lights were clicking on, tills were being counted, and “Closed” signs were rattling against the glass as they itched to be flipped. She settled into the rhythm, her shoulders relaxing as she scanned the wooden walkway connecting the hodge-podge of brick-front buildings. Her eyes traveled to the end of the street, where a nineteenth-century, steepled white church stood. Its stained-glass windows, which local legend claimed caught prayers in the wind, were casting jewels of light on the sidewalk, when a figure caught her eye. No. It couldn’t be—
“Sweetheart,” Gigi hollered in her foghorn voice.
“Coming!” Sadie called quickly, stomach churning as she shook herself out of the past and pushed through the double doors into the kitchen. Absolutely not. It was impossible. And much like everything else in her life, she shut the door on the thought. The possibility of who it might be. She’d trained herself to take every thought captive, shoving them away where they were safe in darkness. Otherwise, they’d spiral out of control into full-blown anxiety. It didn’t always work. Even now the tightness was squeezing her chest again.
“Sugar, if you don’t move this honking bag of flour, one of us is going to trip and break our neck.” With Gigi, someone was always going to break something, get a “crick,” or “ruin their lovely hands.”
“Maybe some necks deserve to be broken, Gigi,” Sadie answered sweetly, hoisting the twenty-five-pound bag of flour and settling it against her hip.
“Stop that or I’ll pop you one. I know when you’re talking about Seth. You get that mean little gleam in your eye.”
Before Sadie could answer, she tripped on the rubber mat that lined the floor and watched, as though in slow motion, as the flour cascaded against the ground and billowed into a cloud of white.
A mess in the kitchen was bad omen number five.
“You little pissant!” Gigi laughed with her deep smoker’s rumble. Gigi—a nickname that made her grandmother sound much more French and much less feisty than she actually was—shook her head. Her short hair was a cotton-candy puff, perfectly curled as always and a peculiar shade just between rust and copper.
“I know, I know. ‘Disaster follows me around like stupidity follows a drunk,’” Sadie quoted, gritting her teeth as she secured the top of the flour.
“Says who?” Gigi demanded, rounding on Sadie with a hand on her hip and a look that threatened trouble.
Sadie shrugged.
“That brother of yours isn’t too old to have his mouth washed out with soap.” Gigi sighed.
“But he’d have to actually be here in order for you to do that.” Her voice went flat as oat cakes as she absentmindedly smoothed her apron.
“Don’t go down that road, sugar,” Gigi said as Sadie’s eyes slid into the past. “Whoever digs a pit’ll fall right into it. It wasn’t your fault.”
“I’m sure he’d say differently,” Sadie said with pursed lips.
“That boy has got his own demons to fight,” Gigi said. “And he will. Now, I’ll get this cleaned up before we open while you go wipe that mess off yourself.”
At the bathroom sink, Sadie rinsed her mouth and tried to finger-comb the flour out of her long auburn hair. She hoped for the best, refusing to glance in the mirror, as that was only to be done at dawn, midday, or dusk, for fear of what else might appear in the reflection. It was one of the many oddities that were as sure as sunshine in the Revelare family, like burying found pennies in the garden at midnight, always wearing green in some form or another, and never whistling indoors. These were truths that Gigi had taught Sadie from the cradle.
The bell tinkled merrily as Sadie opened the front door and stood there a moment, letting the last of the morning chill clear her mind. She could smell waffle cones from the ice-cream parlor a few stores down on the right, and bacon wafting across the street from the diner. The half wine barrel full of marigolds on the sidewalk swayed in a sleepy morning hello. The streetlamps winked out, one in particular blinking a few times, as though sending her Morse code. Her shoulders loosened. Even without magic, this would still be the most perfect place on earth to her.
Just as she flipped the sign to “Open,” Bill Johnson stood at the threshold, his kind face lined and worn with a smile that fell into place like it was meant to be there. He was a little younger than Gigi and held a special place in Sadie’s heart for the simple fact that he was secretly in love with her grandmother. His flannel shirt, fresh and clean as always, hung loosely on his lanky frame. His shaggy, grayed hair gleamed smooth in the morning light but failed to hide his large ears that stuck out like jug handles.
“Morning, Sadie,” he said, ducking his head.
“Good morning, Bill. What’ll it be for you this morning?” Sadie asked warmly, walking behind the counter while making sure her apron was tied securely in place.
“What’s Gigi Marie recommend?” he asked, staring behind the counter, as though his eyes could drill a hole through to the kitchen.
“She recommends you mind your own taste buds, you big galoot,” Gigi called from the back.
“Surprise me, then,” he said with an indulgent smile.
Sadie, her back straight and shoulders squared, poured his coffee: black with two sugars, because that part of his order never changed. Then she cut him a slice of peach mascarpone pie and put it in a to-go container.
“And what does this do?”
“If anything has been ailing you, you’ll feel right as rain today.” Sadie grinned. “And it might just give you a bit of extra energy, to boot.”
“I could use it.” Bill raised his eyes to the heavens.
“Old Bailer?” Sadie guessed, and Bill nodded. The restoration of the local landmark had been experiencing some unexpected setbacks.
“That place is twelve thousand square feet of trouble,” he said right before his eyes swiveled to Gigi like a magnet. Her grandmother stepped out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. He cleared his throat and bid them both a good morning before leaving, but not before Sadie saw the flush that colored his cheeks.
“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” Sadie demanded with a grin. “Poor Bill has been sweet on you for ages. Why can’t you be nicer to him?”