As I walked down Main Street, dodging around princesses, pirates, super heroes, and even dogs dressed in costumes, I passed a large white tent adjacent to a wooded park. A sign noting “America’s Best Ice Wine Challenge” hung over the entrance. Signs for Blushing Grape Vineyards were plastered everywhere. Inside, I saw people dressed to the hilt sipping wine from slim glasses. I veered out of the way when a horse-drawn wagon full of laughing children passed by, trying not to tromp on the groups of college students who were sitting on the street working on chalk paintings. I paused to look at a few of them. The designs featured Chancellor scenes: the lake, the vineyards, the college, but I also saw some of the students drawing mermaids, witches, and faeries. Chancellor was definitely turning out to be more interesting than I expected. We hadn’t visited the little town often, but one year Mom and I had come during the Christmas season to visit their Yuletide Christmas bazaar and watched The Nutcracker at the local theater. I remembered sipping hot chocolate and watching people ice skate at the makeshift skating rink near the town center. It was one of the few times I remembered my mother looking truly happy. Most of the time she just looked harried. The ballet, however, was what had left an impression on me…but not in the way you’d expect. The next morning I woke up determined to make sugar plum pudding. I still remembered how good the house smelled as I prepared the dish. I remembered Chancellor being fun, and it still was. The quaint little town’s energy was so alive.
For just a moment, I stopped to watch a gorgeous candle maker with shoulder-length curly blond hair dip a long taper into a vat of wax. He glanced at the crowd as he explained the candle making process. When he spotted me, he winked. He was around the same age as me and wore a pair of jeans that were ripped at the knees and a red and black flannel shirt. Shelves lined with jars of organic honey, beeswax candles, and lip balm sat at one side of his display. I smiled at him. He replied by tipping his head toward me. Then I headed down the street. To my surprise, I was actually close to the property. I caught sight of the sign for Magnolia Lane just over the roof of a vendor tent. Ducking under ropes, and shimmying between two tents, I finally stumbled upon Serendipity Gardens.
The little Tudor cottage, with pale yellow stucco siding, dark timbers, and a massive stone chimney near the large front window, sat tucked just off Main Street at the corner of Main and Magnolia. I propped the signs against the broken down fence and lifted the handle on the worn white picket fence gate. The yard was covered with knee-high golden rods, purple asters, black-eyed Susans, Queen Anne’s lace, and other wildflowers. I gently pushed open the gate and approached the house. It was a charming fairy tale style place, but it showed its age and disuse. The windows were shuttered, the window boxes overgrown. There was a small porch on the front of the house, but its crumbling roof was in need of repair. To the right side of the little house was a charming Victorian-style greenhouse that appeared to be attached to the building. Several of the glass panes were broken and it looked like a jungle was growing inside.
I stepped onto the porch carefully, the old wood groaning as it took my weight. The green paint on the door was flaking off in chunks. Leaning along the side of the house was an old sign that read Serendipity Gardens. Reaching into my purse, I pulled out a wrought-iron key. It was then that I realized the top of the key was shaped like a heart. A faded red ribbon had been tied to it. I grabbed the door handle and was surprised to find that it was, in fact, a glass door knob. It shimmered with amethyst color.
I slipped the key into the lock and turned it. Pushing the door open, I went inside.
The place was adorned with old baskets, hand-painted watering cans, and had an antique cash register sitting on the counter. Overhead was a chandelier trimmed with multi-colored beads. The vaulted ceiling, with its large beams, had been painted to look like a forest canopy. Sunlight glimmered in and caught the light on the dusty chandelier, casting blobs of colored light all around the room. The image was breathtaking. The little place was simply…divine. Perfect. Dusty tables dotted the room. Clearly, they’d once been display tables. An old baker’s rack sat in one corner. At the end of the counter was a beveled glass bakery display case. While it was covered in an inch of grime, it was truly quaint. Along the wall sat an armoire. Its lavender-colored paint had faded and worn off, giving it a shabby chic appearance.
Just to the side of the armoire was a set of double glass doors leading to the overgrown greenhouse. I peered through the glass and looked inside. Ivy was trying to take over the place. A vibrant-colored indigo bunting fluttered in through one of the broken panes and back out. A russet-colored butterfly flitted through the space like a fey thing, owner of a forgotten kingdom.
I was in love.
I slid my finger along the dusty shelving as I headed toward the cash register. The place was filled with so much character, so much potential. Who in their right mind would turn it into something as bland as a college administrative building?
I moved behind the counter, pushing aside the faded cherry-print fabric separating the shopfront from the back room. Immediately, I walked into a kitchen. It was a perfect 1950s style kitchen. It looked like it had come straight from the set of the I Love Lucy show. There was a refrigerator, a massive old-fashioned stove large enough to hold ten pies, a pot-bellied wood stove, and deep, cast iron sink. In the center of the space was a butcher table. The space could be turned into anything: a pizza joint, a café, a restaurant. The possibilities were endless. Serendipity Gardens indeed! Who had, I wondered then, Mrs. Aster been?
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 ide
a. 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.
Rayne laughed. “How goes the wine business?”
“Pave paradise, that’s my mission today. If I fail, I’ll be cast out of the family.”
“I thought you spent the morning digging in people’s pockets.”
“I did, and I did it very well, not that it matters. Half the socialites in there are already tanked thanks to my fine ability to organize canapes, drinks, and flowers. But it matters not to Mi’Lord Hunter. I’m headed over to Sweet Water to see if I can find someone to sell me that hovel on Magnolia.”
“That place?” Rayne asked, looking over his shoulder.
I nodded. From the space between the tents we could just make out the forgotten nursery on the corner of Main and Magnolia.
“Why don’t you just go ask the agent?”
“I’ve been trying to get the guy on the phone all week. No answer. I need to drive over to the office and try to catch him. And apparently, I need to do it right now.”
Rayne shook his head. “The fey, my friend, have smiled on you this auspicious day. A very fetching lass toting property signs just went inside.”
“What, now?”
“Like an hour ago. Hot, too. Red dreads, all peaches and cream. Lace up boots. Lots of bracelets. Definitely my type. Caught her with my twinkle for a moment, but she dodged me.”
“Then by all means, let’s go meet her. Get that twinkle ready, because I need to leave that place with a signed contract, or I’ll be cast off with you serfs.”
“Well, I’ll do what I can to keep you above the rabble,” he said then leaned forward and put a lid on the flame keeping his wax melted and hot. “Hey Kate?” he then called to the vendor tent next to him.
I followed his gaze to the little white tent. Kate, the owner of The Glass Mermaid, whose necklace Viola bid God knows what to win, poked her head around the corner of the tent and smiled at us. “Hey Rayne. Horatio. Heard the charity event went well. Congratulations.”
“Thanks, Kate. My sister won your necklace.”
“I love that. I’ll make her some earrings to match it. You need something, Rayne?”
“I’ll be back in twenty. Keep an eye on my booth? I’ll cover the wax, but it’s hot. And, you know, the bees,” he said, referring to the glass display holding a live beehive, “but they’ll behave, won’t you,” Rayne said to the bees, gently tapping on the glass.
Kate nodded. “Got it.”
“Thank you again for the donation,” I called to her.
“Of course!” she said then turned back to her customers. From the looks of it, everyone was in the mood to buy beach glass jewelry today.
“She’s smokin’,” I whispered under my breath as Rayne and I headed toward the little house.
“Yeah. Married though.”
“Too bad.”
“Well, there’s always more fish in the sea,” Rayne said then laughed to himself.
As we turned the corner around the back of the tents, I took one look back toward the ice wine tent. From inside, I could hear the judge announcing the winner
s. Did they say we’d placed second…second? As my mind tumbled over the impossibility that Frozen Kisses hadn’t won first, and the dire consequences it would bring on everyone in our business, I was completely lost. A split second later, I slammed into something and nearly tumbled to my feet, barely catching myself against a parking meter before I fell face forward onto the street.
“You okay?” Rayne asked. “I think you’re bleeding.”
I was about to answer when I heard a female voice reply. “I’m okay. Got my finger though.”
Rayne had bent down and was helping up the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. Her red hair flowed down her back, a pile of real estate signs were heaped at her feet, and she was nursing a cut in her thumb—an injury that, clearly, I had caused.
Great. What a wonderful day this was turning out to be. And thanks to my dumb luck, I’d just made the worst first impression on the one person I’d needed the most.
Chapter 5: Julie
“I’m so sorry,” the guy who crashed into me said, his handsome face crinkling with worry. He had black hair and eyes the color of the sky on a bright spring day. Unlike his friend, the candlemaker I’d seen earlier who looked a little like someone from my drumming circle, the gorgeous guy who’d slammed into me was dressed in what looked like an Armani suit. The scent of expensive cologne, a sweet mix of lemon verbena and something soft, like an ocean breeze, effervesced off him. As he reached out, albeit tentatively, to steady me, his watch—which was platinum—glinted in the sunlight. He was undeniably handsome in a very classic way. My heart skipped a beat.
The Chancellor Fairy Tales Boxed Set: Books 1-3 Page 7