Page 5 of Witchy Woman

Chapter 2

Goldilocks

The next morning I’m outside Grandma’s shop, The Cat’s Cradle, at eight thirty sharp. Hazel will be opening the shop while Grandma gets me situated at the market, but that doesn’t mean we’ll be having a late start.

The toe of my faux furry boot taps against the sidewalk as I shiver. That winter chill is cold as fuck, but there’s no way I’m going inside. The first time I walked in there I was almost bowled over by disorienting memories I had long forgotten. Memories Mom stole from me, hid from me, with her magic. I can barely remember Dad outside of a few core memories, like him helping me blow out the candles at my birthday party and buying me my first sketchbook. I’d assumed I was too young to remember much else. But that wasn’t it at all.

I have no interest in it happening again.

I still don’t understand why Mom took my memories, but there’s a lot of things about my life that I no longer understand.

And despite everything, I don’t want to see the last place she walked free.

“Morning, dear!” Grandma steps out of her car. “I have most of the supplies already in the car but my favorite tablecloth is in the shop.”

My arms cross my chest as another shiver wracks my body. “I’ll wait here.”

I don’t miss the calculated eyes sweeping over me, or the raised eyebrow. “If you’re sure.”

Sure I don’t want to go in the shop? Yes.

She opens the door to The Cat’s Cradle as I turn to the town. My hometown. Chagrin Falls, Ohio. The shop sits on Main Street along with the other mostly brick buildings that line the road on either side. Boutiques, bookstores, and restaurants with people fluttering in and out. Their chatter tends to hide the sounds of the waterfalls themselves, but you can still hear them when it’s quiet.

It’s the most New England town outside of New England.

When we were younger, Dad used to take us to the Popcorn Shop overlooking the falls every Sunday afternoon to get us hopped up on sugar before family dinner. Thankfully, that memory wasn’t stolen.

“I love this town in the winter,” Grandma says, sneaking up behind me with the tablecloth underneath her arm. “I may not always love snow, but it adds a certain magical quality to everything.”

“Yep. Let’s go.” The butterflies swirling in my belly are threatening to take over. I don’t want to go to the market. I don’t want to see Ash. I don’t want any of this.

I just want my life back. Despite how broken it was, how fake it was, it was expected. Comfortable. Mine.

The car ride is quiet. Grandma doesn’t know what to say to me anymore, and I don’t know what to say to her. She’s so fucked up by what happened to Mom I barely recognize her. It feels wrong to tease her when she’s already so hurt, but teasing her was the way we talked to each other before.

Now it just feels cruel.

And I may be a bitch, but I’m not cruel.

We pull up to the field, which is completely empty to the naked eye, but actually covered by a magical veil that obscures the market from view. It’s kept up by most of the witches who have stalls, including Grandma, and it also acts as a ward to keep out malevolent types and humans.

“Where are we setting up?” I ask.

Grandma waves her hands a little, securing her feet on the ground with a smile. Magic. The scent of it fills my nose. It’s the heat of a bonfire on a summer evening, the scent of marshmallows and wood crackles. Pure warmth and comfort.

I watch as dirt slowly spreads at her feet; tendrils of tree roots twist together, forming one large tangle. The roots lift the boxes and bags in the car, waiting for Grandma’s direction. “Come, come.”

I follow Grandma and her personal tree-root butler through the magical barrier and into the bustle of the market. I won’t be able to hide from Ash, not with my own booth. I’ll be a sitting duck and he’s going to torment me all he wants.

“Here we are!” Grandma says, fanning the deep, royal-purple tablecloth over the basic wooden table. Very bougie—very Grandma. It’s thick and plush and ready to be decorated within an inch of perfection. “I like to arrange things in their categories. I have a few different display cases and decorative plates to make everything look nice. You can have creative control over that. I trust your taste.”

Despite feeling like a grumpy monster, I preen at the compliment. Having good taste is something I take a lot of pride in, and knowing she agrees is validating. “I got this.”

“I was thinking of doing a little shopping while you get set up. Is that all right with you? I can answer any questions when I return,” Grandma says. “All the things you’ll need are on the ground in well-labeled boxes.”

Grandma is always well organized.

I nod in agreement, eager for a moment to myself. For a little space.