Violet doesn’t speak after that. Just reaches up to her shelves, pulling down canisters and bottles and jars, chopping and grating and stirring, losing herself in her work, her home, her happy and safe place. For a moment she disappears into the kitchen and puts on the kettle, then returns, making a few more selections from the shelves, stirring a bit more, still not meeting my eyes.
The minutes tick by. The kettle whistles. Violet heads to the kitchen, returns with the water. Steeps the tea. Pours a cup.
After what feels like another ageless endless bloody fuckingeternity, she finally turns to face me again. Steam clouds her glasses, veiling her eyes. She slides a cup and saucer across the counter.
“Drink,” she says plainly.
“What did I tell you about my personal policy?”
“Don’t worry. It’s not a banishing tea.”
“Hmm.” I give it a whiff. Cardamom and cinnamon. Hint of rose. I’ve seen her make enough brews now to know what that means. “Are you putting a love spell on me, mushroom?”
I wait for her answer. And wait. And fucking die a thousand times over.
And then, miracle of bloody miracles, she smiles.
“It was always you for me too, Devlin,” she says softly. “My true heart’s desire. Not the shop, not the money. But love. You.”
“Are you saying…”
“I’m saying that I’m in love with you. I’m saying I want you to jump off the Fool’s cliff with me and trust that it’s right.” She tucks her curls behind her ears, her smile bright, her tears gone. “I’m saying I want you to stay, Devlin.”
“Oh. Well, in that case, no offense to the tea brewer, as I’m sure this is a delicious blend that would absolutely cure at least seven of the many,manythings that ail me, but Violet?” I set down the cup and lean forward. “I wouldmuchrather spend the afternoon with a mouth full ofyou.”
One more smile, that’s all I need. That’s all Iget, because I don’t wait for a response beyond that. Just haul her across the counter and claim her in a kiss that obliterates every last fear, every last doubt, every last regret.
I’m working my way down her neck, enjoying the soundtrack of her soft, sensual moans, when she suddenly stops, unleashing a gasp that I somehow know isn’t meant for me.
“Why are we stopping?” I demand. “I was just getting to the good part.”
“Sorry, but it looks like your unquenchable carnal desires will have to wait.” She grants me one last all-too-brief kiss before hopping back behind the counter, eyes glazed with happy tears, a shocked but ecstatic grin gracing her lovely mouth.
Then, tossing me an apron, she nods at the crowd gathering outside the windows: the mayor, the pottery painting woman, all four of her sisters, the aunts, Maleek and Jovahn from the liquor store, her landlady, the crowd of adoring women from my very first week here, the whole damn town of Pumpkinville, it seems.
“Violet,” I whisper. “Do you see them?”
She laughs, and snorts, and laughs again. Then tightens her apron strings and says simply, “Devlin? It’s time to put that kettle back on. We’ve got customers.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
VIOLET
One Month Later
The snow has just started falling in earnest when the cats and I put the finishing touches on Kettle and Cauldron’s Winter Solstice window display.
Not to brag, but it’s pretty epic. White and silver lights, cottony snow drifts, hand-painted evergreens in a ceramic village—a miniature version of our very own Main Street, the café front and center. A twinkling star hangs above it all, reminding me of the Star from the Tarot.
Reminding me how far we’ve come.
With the impending blizzard, we had to close the shop a few hours early today, boxing up treats and putting teas in to-go cups, hustling everyone out the door in their fluffy coats and hats and mittens so they could get home before the roads turn bad. The new police commissioner has been making the rounds on the TV and radio all morning, warning us to prepare for a record-breaking snowfall.
I’m kind of excited for it. Kettle and Cauldron is in full-on festive holiday mode, twinkle lights twinkling, my favorite Celtic Christmas music floating through the speakers, holly and ivy adorning the mantle over a roaring fire, a simmer pot full of juniper berries and pine boughs steaming on the stove.
’Tis the season for gathering around the fire with a hot beverage, and we’ve been filled to capacity every day.
What a difference a month makes, huh?
