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“I do have locks on all the doors, you know,” Willow reminded her mother. “And security cameras.”
“That’s cute, dear.” Esme patted a dismissive hand over Willow’s. “Now we must be off. Since you insisted we not use magic to get here, we have a two hour drive home.”
Ivy threw Willow a pointed look, which was her way of telling her Esme was so full of it. They were definitely using magic to get home. Probably driving to Mysthaven’s town limits and then using some kind of portal charm into Crescent Hollow. At least Esme wastryingto humor her.
As soon as the three women left, the bustle of the bookshop flooded over Willow, as if a charm had been lifted, and the demands of the customers crashed around her like opening a closet door when everything was stuffed inside. But it was a good kind of busy.
Willow reveled in ringing up books and recommending cocktails. She’d even made book shaped sugar cookies for patrons to enjoy as they shopped, or read a little. Every corner of the store was humming with the excited chatter of her guests, and her heart warmed with gratitude toward the inhabitants of Mysthaven.
It wasn’t until she’d taken a moment’s reprieve that she noticed a lone figure through the crowd of browsing patrons. He was sitting in a wingback chair, legs crossed elegantly, and amusing himself with a book which sat open on an antique accent table. Willow figured he was too engrossed in the book to notice her approaching him, but when she was about three feet away, he gazed up at her, tilting his head ever so slightly. She was arrested by his look. Those impossibly green eyes with a trace of melancholy in them. And then there were the tiny hairs behind her neck which stood on end with the way he fixed his attention on her—cautiously and a little bit bothered.
Who was Willow to interrupt this man’s reading? Only the owner of this fine establishment, that’s who. He could at least buy something. Willow considered telling him so. But it was opening day. And there were a lot of people around. And Willow was anything but unpropitious.
She bent her head to get a gander at the book he was reading.As I Lay Dying. Kind of a morbid choice, but it was October, after all.
“Are you a fan of Faulkner?” she asked him as he watched her, unblinking. “Personally, I found the multiple narrators a bit jarring. Although I did enjoy the way he evokes mythical characters as a backdrop to the story. I actually had to read it twice to make sense of it. Is this your first time reading it?”
The man remained still, unmoving other than the parting of his lips—which Willow noted were nice-looking lips under the manscape of trimmed and tidy facial hair. And his skin. So white, it almost resembled a pearl.
“Can I interest you in a mint julep? That was Faulkner’s favorite drink. I heard they’re the best mint juleps anyone has ever tasted.”
For a tiny moment, the man’s eyes flickered, as if calculating his exit. But Willow was undeterred, and was determined to figure this guy out. Even though he seemed like he’d rather do anything than actually speak to her.
“I’m Willow, by the way. I… think we got off on the wrong foot the other day.”
Willow enthusiastically offered her hand to the man, letting her arm hang between them, stiff as a board. He did not take her up on the handshake, only dropping his gaze to her outstretched hand and back up to her face.
“You’re leaving me hanging here, man. Do you at least have a name?”
She awkwardly retreated her hand, suddenly not sure what to do with it. Letting it hang at her side felt too weird, now that this guy seemed to have an aversion to it… or normal greetings in general. Or maybe he was a germaphobe. She took a small step backwards just in case.
“Willow Ravensong, that is. I own this place. Gosh, it feels strange to say that. ‘I own this place’. Gah! But I thought you should know that before you go thinking I’m some random lady asking men about Faulkner. Or what their name is. Or offering to buy them drinks. I’m not here fishing for phone numbers, or anything, that’s all I’m saying.”
Now would be a good time for her mouth to stop running.
The man had the expression of someone who either thought she was a nutcase, or didn’t understand a word she was saying. But he was reading Faulkner. Surely he knew English.
He shifted his gaze to his right, followed by a slight turn of his head. Then to the left. He did it in the way one does when looking to see if anyone else was seeing this train wreck of a conversation, and if someone would please save him. Then he returned his cold stare at Willow, opened his mouth, and seemed to get his voice stuck in his throat before blinking, sucking in a breath as if it was demanding his entire concentration to do so, and in a dazed tone, said, “Mont… gomery. Har… land.”
And then, as if shocked and delighted to remember how to talk, repeated himself.
“Montgomery Harland.”
Willow smiled with a small sense of accomplishment.
“Nice to meet you, Montgomery Harland. I hope you find what you’re looking for. Classics are fifty percent off today if you decide Faulkner’s your jam.”
She wanted to add ‘but you’re only welcome here when we’re actually open’ but thought better of it and pressed her lips together.
The man stared at her incredulously and she thought of saying something witty or perhaps a joke about Proust, when someone’s screaming child momentarily caught her attention. She only turned her head for a second or two. But when she snapped it back to Montgomery, he was gone.
Broomsticks. What a cliché. Even though they were a cliche for a reason. Unfortunately, Willow never got the hang of it, no matter how hard Esme tried to coach her. Truth be told, she just plain hated it. Major chafing, and all that.
But her bike. That she loved. She could ride her bicycle ’til the cows came home. If she had nowhere to be, going around in circles suited her just fine. She could do a loop of the whole town in the same time it took to listen toStrangeMagicby Electric Light Orchestra.
Today, she’d already gone to the florist for no other reason than to ride through town with a basket full of flowers.
The Mysthaven Women’s Business Council wasn’t held at the civic center like Willow would have imagined, but in a Victorian Stick style house on the outskirts of town. It stood three stories tall, with prominent eaves, a Queen Anne-style wraparound porch and a Gothic mansard roof.
