Narla had an excellent idea. The gossip network had been burning up her phone since dawn.
“I understand your concern, Mrs. Holt?—”
“She saw her tennis instructor. Her tennis instructor, Ms. Wright. In front of my son. In front of the entire Coastal Preservation Committee.”
On her perch behind the counter, Ember ruffled his feathers with what might have been amusement. The owl had been watching Narla field calls all morning, his amber gaze following her every movement.
“The candles reveal fated mates, Mrs. Holt. Not current partners. It’s possible your daughter-in-law’s bond with your son is a choice rather than fate, which doesn’t make it less?—”
“Choice.” Margaret’s voice could have frozen the ocean. “You’re telling me that my son’s wife chose him while fate intended her for a man who teaches backhand volleys for a living?”
“I’m telling you the candles show what they show. I can’t control the revelations any more than I can control the surge that’s affecting them.”
The line went dead. Narla set down the phone and let out a breath that did nothing to ease the tension coiled in her spine.
This was the seventh angry call today. The third threat of a lawsuit. The second demand that she be brought before the Elder Council to answer for “recklessly exposing private romantic information to public scrutiny.”
And it wasn’t even noon.
Ember hooted softly—a sound of commiseration, if owls could commiserate.
“I know.” Narla rubbed her temples. “I should have closed the shop.”
But closing the shop meant sitting alone in her cottage, feeling Wyatt’s presence pulse at the edge of her awareness, remembering the way his hands had felt on her skin and the devastating truth of his face in her flames.
At least here, she had distractions.
The bell above the door chimed. Narla looked up, her customer-service smile firmly in place—and watched it falter as Mira Aldridge walked in.
The elderly widow moved slowly, a cane supporting her frail frame, but her eyes were bright with emotion that made Narla’s chest ache. Mira had lost her husband twenty years ago. Had spent two decades alone, still wearing her wedding ring, still visiting his grave every Sunday morning.
“Mrs. Aldridge.” Narla came around the counter, instinctively offering her arm for support. “What can I help you with?”
“You already have, dear.” Mira’s voice trembled, but her grip on Narla’s arm was surprisingly strong. “I wanted to thank you.”
“Thank me?”
“I lit one of your candles last night. One I bought at the festival—honey vanilla, his favorite scent.” Mira’s eyes glistened. “And I saw him. Thomas. Right there in the flame, clear as the day we met.”
Narla’s throat tightened. “Mrs. Aldridge…”
“Fifty-two years I spent with that man. Fifty-two years of marriage, and I never knew—” Her voice broke. “I never knew we were fated. I thought what we had was… luck. Circumstance. But it was real. It was meant to be.”
Tears spilled down her weathered cheeks. Narla guided her to the worn velvet armchair by the window—her reading chair, her quiet space—and knelt beside her.
“He was fading.” Mira clutched Narla’s hand. “The image in the flame—it flickered at the edges, dimming while I watched. But I saw him. After twenty years, I saw him again. Do you understand what that means?”
Narla understood. Better than she could say.
Niccolas’s face hadn’t appeared in her flames. She’d tested it once, in the dark hours after she’d first seen Wyatt. Had lit a candle with her dead husband’s memory held deliberately in her mind, searching for his features.
Nothing. Just Wyatt, burning golden and undeniable.
Because Niccolas had been her choice. Her friend. Her partner. But not her fate.
“I’m glad it brought you peace, Mrs. Aldridge.” The words came out steady despite the ache in Narla’s chest. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted my candles to do.”
Mira stayed for another twenty minutes, talking about Thomas, sharing memories that had clearly been locked away for decades. Narla listened, offered tea, let the elderly widow pour out her grief and her gratitude in equal measure.
