by M. J. O'Shea
And yes. His extended family was filled to the brim with witches of all kinds, but even among them he never felt quite like he fit in.
The rest of the Vallerands said it was his father – he’d been one of the fairy folk from up in the Smokies and had disappeared faster than he’d come, barely able to stay long enough to see his two children out of toddlerhood – but Arlo couldn’t blame his father for the way he was, any more than he could blame his mother for falling victim to his father’s charms. Something about leopards and spots. Sticking around wasn’t in his father’s nature. And so far it hadn’t been in Arlo’s either.
All through his childhood, his skin had tingled with the need to explore, and ever since he’d felt the call of the open road every time he got too settled in one specific place. At twenty-five, he’d been in more cities and towns than most would in their entire lives.
There was something special about Baxter Hollow, though, unlike most places he’d been. He’d known it before he even pulled down the crooked main street, even when his rickety old truck was still miles down the road, traveling through faded sea grass and tree-covered New England hills.
This was the place. It was where he would be, the place where Arlo would find home. It was right.
He was a lot closer to Louisiana than he’d been all year — closer to his mother and sister and the cozy house they shared with his reliable, steady, non-magic stepfather, but it felt like another world in Baxter Hollow. He smelled it. If he concentrated hard enough, he tasted it too.
Baxter Hollow itself was small and pretty, mannerly and neat, as if its sturdy, practical inhabitants, New England natives to the core, refused to let it become anything less than picture-perfect – a bit of that Pilgrim spirit, he supposed. Arlo hadn’t spent enough time in the chilly northeast to know.
The town might have been a bit stuffy, for Arlo’s taste at least, but he liked the feel of it already. The potential he felt nearly burst underneath its prim and proper crust.
Even the town pub was nicer than most, perched on a picturesque corner and filled with dark wood and happy green lights.
There was a smiling black-haired bartender behind the bar. He had pale, pale skin and brilliant blue eyes and his face seemed to be bloomed in a perpetual smile. The bartender had tiny sparks of happy yellow and bright grass green swirling around him, which startled Arlo for a moment. He’d never been able to see auras around people like that before, but everything about Baxter Hollow seemed different so maybe Arlo himself was different there too. Somehow he knew already that this bartender was going to be his friend.
“Hey, man. What can I get you?” the bartender asked when Arlo slid onto a high cushioned barstool. The sparks had faded, just a momentary impression, but Arlo was left with an overwhelmingly good feeling about the guy.
Arlo smiled. “Just a beer, please. Whatever is local. IPA if you have it.” He liked the bartender immediately. Of course in the past, he tended to like most people until his sister told him otherwise. It wasn’t the safest habit. He’d gotten a little warier in recent years.
“You’re new in town,” the bartender said. It wasn’t a question. Of course, in a town like Baxter Hollow, they’d probably already known someone new was in town the second he crossed the county line.
“I am. I like it here. Thought I’d stick around for a while.”
“Really.” He got a brilliant grin for that. “We could always use another bartender if you’re looking for a job. I’m Sawyer by the way.”
“I’m Arlo.” Arlo stuck out a hand to shake. “I don’t know much about bartending. Are there any bakeries in town?”
“No. Is that what you do?” Sawyer looked like he might start salivating into the ale he was pulling for Arlo at the thought of fresh baked goods.
“Yes. Well, I ran a restaurant with my cousin for a while, but baking is my passion.”
“I do have something that might interest you,” Sawyer said. He ducked under the counter and came up with an old file. “We own a café. Well, I own it actually. It’s been empty for years. Could easily turn into a bakery if you’re going to stay long enough to open one. I think people here would like that a lot.”
Arlo thought about running his own place, being in charge of displays and menus, supply ordering and business hours – it sounded exhausting but… right.
He felt that feeling of rightness again when Sawyer showed him a few pictures of the cafe. It needed work, the machinery was dated and clunky, and the whole place could use a good overhaul, but the idea of the cafe seeped into his bones just like Baxter Hollow itself had already begun to do. The feeling from the dream was back again.
“If I can afford the rent, I’ll take it.”
Sawyer grinned at him. A half an hour later, he’d put down a deposit in cash and taken the key. Baxter Hollow was going to be his home — at least for the time being.
Most of the townspeople stared at him as he walked down the street the next morning, but that was nothing new. His layers of fabric, shoulder length dark hair tied into a decidedly hipsterish bun, and odd clunky combat boots didn’t fit into village life in traditional New England. The townspeople would get used to him eventually, he figured. They always did. He found that he’d kind of missed the staring, actually. He hadn’t gotten much of it back in San Francisco where there was at least two people on every block who looked far more quirky and eccentric than he did.
There was a brisk wind curling down Baxter Hollow’s crooked little main street, bringing with it small flurries of early fallen leaves and the crisp promise of autumn – something he’d definitely missed in California. Sawyer’s pub, the Tilted Shamrock, was at the far end of the street, not on the spacious town square, but in the corner of another charming brick courtyard. It had a bright green door, was covered in ivy, flanked by an old time apothecary, and across from a store that sold handmade gifts and scented candles. Arlo idly wondered if they had a honeysuckle scented candle he could send to his mother, or a cinnamon one for himself. He decided as soon as he found an apartment to rent he’d come back to the candle shop and have a look.
Arlo was glad he’d found the pub so easily again — it had been nearly dusk when Sawyer had shown him to the cafe where he’d spent the night. He pushed open the door and found himself back inside, surrounded by the glow of lamps and shiny booths and counters.
“Morning, Arlo,” Sawyer said.
Arlo waved at him happily. The pub was warm and cozy. Sawyer had even lit a fire in the huge two-story river rock fireplace that took up nearly the entirety of one wall. He had his plaid shirtsleeves pushed to his elbows and his hair stood nearly straight up, like a pleasant ink-black haystack. Sawyer had a big smile and a friendly laugh. Arlo still liked him as much as he had the day before.
Arlo had also decided he wouldn’t mind spending long, warm, lazy hours in the Tilted Shamrock with a book, curled up in a corner against dark beamed wood with a beer and a hot dinner and Sawyer’s laugh as a backdrop to whatever story he was reading. He’d spent a rather cold night huddled in the backseat of his truck behind the cafe with a blanket and a sad little muddy stray kitten he’d found by the side of the road a couple of days ago and couldn’t seem to say no to. Arlo didn’t want to spend another night like that. He needed to find an apartment, hopefully one close to the shop, and hopefully soon. As much as Arlo liked the thrill of the open road, stretched before him, he liked the comfort of a warm bed nearly as much.
“Morning, Sawyer. Do you serve breakfast here?”
“Of course.” He plunked a menu down in front of Arlo.
Arlo figured he might as well ask about an apartment as well. It was probably one of those towns where people knew everything about everything, after all.
“Do you know of any apartments for rent in town?” Arlo asked. He realized after the fact that he probably should’ve gotten living arrangements dealt with before he’d rented out the cafe. Planning had never been one of Arlo’s strengths. If nothing else, a cot in
his kitchen would do for a while. Turned out he didn’t have to worry.
Sawyer pointed above his head. “The one above the pub is empty — furnished and everything. My brother moved back to Boston with his new wife a few months back.” He grinned. “There’s been nothing but luck for you here, hasn’t there?”
Arlo couldn’t agree more. It was probably a good sign that he was definitely in the right place. He took a deep breath and smiled into the coffee Sawyer had served him along with a breakfast menu. There’d been a reason he’d been drawn down the country road surrounded by sea grass and scraggly coastal trees. It was more than just the dream calling him. Baxter Hollow was exactly where he needed to be.
“How much is the rent for the apartment?” Arlo asked.
“If you tack three hundred dollars onto what you’re paying for the cafe, that oughta do it.”
It was more than generous. Probably the best rent he’d ever paid even with some of the one room crapholes he’d called home. Arlo thought of the little white stray kitten that was currently asleep in the backseat of his truck. He had one more question. “Is it alright if I have a cat?”
Sawyer chuckled. He seemed to always be laughing or on the verge of it. Arlo decided that was the best part about him. “Don’t you want to see the place first?”
“Sure, but it’ll be perfect. It’s just me. Well, me and the cat.”
“What’s your cat’s name?” Sawyer asked as he fished a set of keys from a hook behind the bar.
“I hadn’t thought of that yet. She just found me the other night. She’s tiny and white except for one round orange spot. Clementine?”
“I like it.”
After Sawyer fed Arlo a breakfast of eggs and toast, he led both of them outside and through a door in the alleyway that he had to fiddle with for a few moments before it unlocked.
“Sorry, that lock’s always been a pain in the ass. I’ll take a look at it after my shift today,” Sawyer told him. They walked up a narrow rickety staircase to another door, which he unlocked much easier.
Arlo smiled at the remnants of Sawyer’s lingering Boston accent – faint but still charming. He figured he’d be happy to spend entire afternoons listening to Sawyer tell stories.
The apartment wasn’t glamorous, but it was more than enough for Arlo — a small living room with a battered old leather couch, a coffee table, and a television that he’d probably never use. The kitchen was dated but tidy and he’d probably eat most of his meals at the cafe or down at the pub anyway. The bedroom was small and plain with a closet big enough for his small amount of clothes and a wrought iron bed right up against the window that looked down at the charming brick courtyard in front of the pub.
“This is perfect,” he told Sawyer. “When can I move in?”
Sawyer tossed him the keys. “I’ll need a deposit this afternoon. Can you do that? You already gave me cash for the cafe, so I’m going to trust you.”
“Not a problem. Let me go get my truck. I left it parked at the café.”
“You need a lift?” Sawyer asked.
Arlo thought of the cool breeze and bright sunshine outside and shook his head. “Nah. I don’t mind walking.”
Arlo brought his truck back to the apartment and parked it in the little gravel lot behind the pub. He stopped bought a can of tuna and a bottle of water for Clementine at a small corner store and figured he could add some permanent supplies for her to the list of the things he needed to buy. He hauled his suitcases up the stairs, and his new kitten, sleepy from her fish snack. He hung his clothes up, which didn’t take very long at all, and then covered the bed with his sheets and the quilt his mother had made for him a few Christmases back. Then he popped downstairs to pay Sawyer his deposit.
The rather vintage hardware store was charming but frustratingly incomplete. Still, Arlo chose wall paint and cleansers, supplemented his toolbox and got a few cans of brightly colored metal spray paint for the old wrought iron tables in the cafe. He went to the grocery store too, for coffee and milk and food for Clementine. He was lucky the store had a pet section as well — he knew from experience that many small town stores lacked variety. He bought her a litter box and a bed and even some toys and a tiny collar with a bell before he managed to escape with what little was left in his wallet.
“Thank you,” he said to the woman at the checkout when she bagged his purchases. She was plain and mousy, but she smiled at him, friendly enough. Arlo had the feeling she’d be on her phone the moment he walked out the door, gossiping to her friends about having run into the odd new guy in town. It was always like that. He’d gotten used to it.
The cafe was… he wished he could say it was perfect as is, but it needed a bit of elbow grease. A lot, if he was telling the truth. Arlo knew he could make it happen. Even more than the pictures, when he’d first walked into the cafe he’d felt like he belonged. It smelled musty and old, nothing like gingerbread and pumpkin pie, the walls had been an unappetizing shade of olive green, and the curlicues on the wrought iron chairs had more rust than metal, but the place had potential, and he was determined to realize it.
He’d left a happy Clementine at home, lounging on her new bed, and he was armed with paint and tools and enough detergent to shine the whole town. It was time to get to work.
Before he started, Arlo called his cousin Frankie. They’d never been that close before, he wouldn’t have called from any of his previous cities or towns, but something had happened between them that summer. Somehow, he wanted to let Frankie know he was all right. Frankie picked up his cell on the second ring.
“I’ve been worried about you. Sofia assured me that she’d know if you weren’t fine, but, well, are you?”
Arlo was already glad he’d called. “Yeah, I’m fine. I made it here.”
“Where’s here exactly?”
“Baxter Hollow— tiny little town. Somehow reminds me of home a little bit.”
“Yikes.” Frankie didn’t have good memories of their hometown. Vieux Chêne hadn’t been good to him, and from what he’d said, he was very happy to leave and not look back. Arlo remembered it with a lot more fondness.
“No, I meant that in a good way.” Arlo chuckled. “Maybe you’ll have to come visit someday.”
“Someday? You’re already thinking like that?” Frankie asked.
Arlo was glad his cousin couldn’t see him blush. “Yeah. I think I am.”
“Have you found him yet? The guy from your dream?”
“No.” Arlo felt him, though, in a deep shivery part of his gut. “He’s here, though. Definitely here.”
Frankie sighed, like he didn’t know what to say. “Can’t argue with Vallerand intuition,” he said. Arlo knew Frankie had just touched Addison’s hand once the first time they met and seen a clear shot of their future together.
“No, you can’t.” Arlo grinned.
He talked to Frankie a little bit longer before he hung up to get his supplies together. Staring at the old faded room gave him a deep thrill, almost like he could see exactly what it would become before he’d done a single thing. Arlo smiled to himself. Can’t argue with Vallerand intuition…
By the time he finished painting it was near dawn, but the walls were exactly what he wanted — swirls of blush pink, twilight lavender, and darkest blue, dotted with trails of orangey-yellow stars and a curly crescent moon that glowed from the corner. It had taken hours, and he was exhausted, but the result was so, so worth it.
Any of the few non-magic people who had ever known about his skills, about what he was, asked why he did all that kind of stuff by hand instead of… and that was usually when the wooshy-wooshy hand gestures came into play.
Arlo typically had to sit them down and explain that it didn’t really work that way – at least not for him. There wasn’t a spell for every occasion and while a lot of witches bonded to objects… wands, jewelry, or even old wooden cooking spoons in his cousin Frankie’s case, there was no swish and flick for instant, easy painting unless y
ou were a lot more talented of a witch than he was.
Arlo didn’t mind the work. He found it satisfying. The old tables were finished too, and he loved how they looked even if he’d had nearly passed out from the smell of the spray paint. Some were a shiny dark midnight blue, some purple, some orange or pale moon yellow. The chairs clustered around them had been painted to match and tucked under the tables on the old scarred wooden floor. He’d put up paper on the windows while he worked, and the light was starting to peek around the edges. Arlo was tired but satisfied. He figured he’d go to his new apartment, get some sleep and then come back and started on the kitchen itself after he’d rested.
Gray was exhausted. He’d spent the day arguing with a farmer who’d rented orchard land from them back when useless Croft was in charge of their accounts. The paperwork had been abysmal at best, and Gray wanted to make sure the apple farmer had all of his equipment properly insured so Gray’s family didn’t end up getting screwed if someone got hurt. Apparently “properly” meant something very different to Gray than it had to the farmer or Croft.
“That’s not enough insurance on your cider press,” Gray had argued. “Those things are dangerous and what happens if it malfunctions?”
He’d said it a million different ways throughout the morning, but the bottom line was he couldn’t actually do anything about it since Croft hadn’t written any specific values into the rental agreement about required insurance coverage. The man really hadn’t known how to do his damn job.
“I’m gonna kill him, Sawyer,” he’d said when he finally sat at his spot at the pub at dinner time. “If he ever shows his face back in this town I’m going to take it clean off with my bare hands.”