The front door of my shop swung open. A bell tinkled overhead as Graham carried in a large cardboard box and lowered it to the ground with exaggerated relief. He put his hands at the small of his back and pushed. His spine cracked audibly, and he sighed.
“If I had known I would have to schlep shipments all over town for you, I would have begged you to open a pillow store,” he teased.
I stood up from my desk, which doubled as the checkout counter, and winced. “Sorry. I’m still not used to using this address.”
“What’s in the box?”
“New journals. A few people have asked for them.”
He plucked one out and inspected it. “Not bad.”
Through the window behind him, the usual Sunday brunch crowd trooped up the sunny footpath toward the Ace of Cups. The weather outside was still chilly, but the snow was melting, and springtime was steadily marching across Donn’s Hill.
I grabbed my pricing gun. If I was quick enough to inventory the new products, I could have them shelved and out by the time the tourists finished their mimosas.
Business had been brisk in the two weeks since my grand opening. It was a relief, especially after everyone in my life had warned me about the risks of going into retail. But those warnings always came with offers to help, and Penelope had generously shared the keen eye for design that made the Oracle Inn such a smashing success as I planned the renovations on the former tarot-card parlor.
Now, after four months of work, only one piece of the shop was still technically unfinished. Tomorrow, an artist would be coming to put the final touches on the gold-leaf design that covered the front window: a cat wearing a crown of sunlight posed atop a stack of books. The words Tortoiseshell Books and Gifts arched above her head. New - Used - Trades stretched beneath her.
The bell above the door jingled again.
“Hey, Mac.” Stephen Hastain helped himself to a cup of the complimentary coffee. “Got any of those new mysteries in?”
“Yep, I left a few for you in Henry’s Room.” I jerked my head toward the back of the store, where I had converted the former office space into a comfortable reading room. Shoppers could borrow a lovingly used paperback and settle into one of the overstuffed chairs for as long as they pleased or just put their feet up and enjoy the knickknacks and wall hangings that had decorated my father’s office in Colorado.
Graham helped me shelve the new arrivals, and we sat down at my desk to split a slice of cake from the Ace of Cups over tea and coffee. Alexi had started making decaf chai just for me, and the blend she used went criminally well with the cream cheese frosting on her chef’s housemade carrot cake.
Striker hopped up onto the desk and sniffed at the plate. Before I could lift her back down to the floor, her little pink tongue darted out and left a wet splotch on the frosting.
I sighed and scraped off the portion she had tried to mark as her own. Her bright eyes followed it all the way into the garbage.
“Brrrllll,” she complained.
“I’m not rewarding your bad behavior with a treat,” I told her. “At least, not a treat you can’t even digest properly. Go find Fang. He knows where your crunchies are.”
The young Soul Searchers production assistant had taken to hanging out upstairs in what used to be Elizabeth’s day spa. Her former waiting room had been transformed into a large, open classroom where anyone could share their knowledge of herbalism, hedgecraft, or any other esoteric topic. On days with no scheduled classes, Fang liked to use the craft tables to make seasonal wreaths and home decor. His passion for crafting had been born when his apartment burned down and he was forced to remake his possessions on a budget. I felt free use of my space was fair penance for the role I had played in destroying everything he owned.
In the back half of the second floor, I knocked out the walls between the treatment rooms to make a single space large enough to hold a low, round table. Eight cushy floor pillows, low-hanging ceiling drapes, and recessed lighting helped create a comforting ambiance in Evelyn’s Room.
With months of practice under my belt, I had finally been able to channel a spirit again. That time, without Camila’s spirit supercharging my abilities, the ghost had politely hovered in front of me and spoken through me from the outside, rather than taking over my entire body, and the Soul Searchers had gotten it all on film. When the Afterlife Festival crowds arrived in a few weeks, I fully expected my shop to be one of their top destinations.
Striker hopped off the desk with a huff. The bell above the door tinkled again, and Kit nearly tripped over my gluttonous feline as the cat scampered toward the stairs.
“Whoa!” Kit steadied herself on a display of Donn’s Hill postcards. After shaking a fist at Striker, she poured a cup of coffee and hoisted herself up onto one of the low, sturdy bookshelves that housed our nonfiction materials.
“Did you guys make it to the airport on time?” I asked.
Kit nodded. “Yep. Amari said she’ll call when she gets to Dallas and again when they get to Rio.”
I took a deep breath to soothe the envy that spiked in my chest. This was the fourth time Kit and Amari had gotten to film internationally. As much as I would have loved to join them, I had enough going on here. Plus, when they were both in Donn’s Hill, they lent their considerable talents to the Soul Searchers. Kit’s camerawork got better every week, and Amari seemed to be able to talk anyone into letting us film wherever we wanted.
“It’s a long trip,” I said. “When are you heading out?”
“I’ll go next week, once you and I are done filming at the old mill. Amari has a bunch of stuff to get set up before we can really start shooting.”
“Tell Mark to check his email when you see him, okay?” I folded my arms across my chest grumpily. “I’ve been waiting for a reply for like a week now.”
A group of customers came in then, putting an end to our conversation. Kit hopped off the shelves and talked a couple from Moyard into buying a tarot card gift set, and Graham helped me ring up a stack of used books for a local teenager whose horror addiction I was stoking on a weekly basis.
When the shop quieted again, I leaned my head against Graham’s shoulder. “Hey, do you still want me to tell you whenever I feel anything strange? Like, any weird urges?”
“Of course.” His face was instantly serious, heavy brows knit together above his glasses. “What does it feel like? Another invitation rune?”
I shook my head. “No, not like that. It’s more of a… craving.”
The edge of his tension cracked. “Oh, really? Don’t tell me it’s pickles and chocolate ice cream again. That combination can’t be good for you.”
“It’s not for me.” I rested a hand on top of my growing belly. “She’s the one with terrible taste. Do you mind grabbing some for me from the store?”
He leaned over the desk and planted a kiss on my forehead. “Anything for you two.”
I watched him saunter out the door, then turned my attention back to the store around me. Even if I was the kind of psychic who could see into the future, I would never have been able to predict that my decision to pull up stakes and move to Donn’s Hill would lead me right here, to this precise moment. In just under a year, I had gone from skeptic to psychic to paranormal investigator. I’d graduated from carrying my life in a backpack to owning my own business.
And soon, I would go from losing my parents to becoming one myself.
I wished they could see me now. I wished they could hold my daughter when she arrived and marvel at the traits they passed on to her through me. Would she inherit my father’s thick hair and freckles? Would she share his love of books and his passion for unearthing the secrets of the past?
Would she have my mother’s blue eyes? And would my gifts—my mother’s legacy—pass on to my daughter too?
Would ghostly Travelers sit at her bedside, telling her stories as she slept?
I smiled and leaned my head back against the wall behind my desk. Frightening though my road had been, I looked forward to her walking it with me.