Page 1 of Hot Flashes and Hexes

ONE

ALTHEA

The fried dough hit her first.

Then the salt air, heavier and older than anything she’d encountered inland, with a weight that belonged to the Atlantic alone. Then the ocean beneath everything — constant, low, working. And beneath it all, a warmth with no source. Not the heat rising from the vendor stalls or the press of bodies or the summer evening settling into dusk. A different warmth entirely. Her body registered it before her brain could dismiss it.

Althea Virelli had been in Spelltide Cove for forty-seven minutes.

She’d spent thirty-five of those minutes in a parking lot, eating a gas-station sandwich, because she needed the space between the car and the world. The sandwich had been so bad. She had no regrets. She was running on four hours of sleep, two coffees, and sheer bullheaded resolve—she’d run out of every other option.

Logical. Sure.

String lights looped between the vendor stalls of the Saltwater Grove Boardwalk Festival, amber-warm against the fading sky. The boards creaked underfoot, old wood worn thin by decades of use — salt and weather pressed into every plank. Iron lampposts glowed down the waterfront in yellow rather than white, making everything they touched look more significant than it needed to be. Vendor stalls lined both sides: hand-carved driftwood, wax-sealed jars, strings of sea glass, and candles in every configuration.

The crowd moved at festival pitch — too many conversations at slightly different volumes, the occasional burst of laughter, children running in all directions. The town itself felt warm — oddly warm, as if it were pleased about her arrival, which she chalked up to exhaustion-induced paranoia.

She hadn’t been back since she was fourteen. Her family left in the middle of a school year, packed and gone within a week, and no one had ever given her a reason. She hadn’t come looking for one now. She’d told herself that in the parking lot too.

A candle display near the nearest vendor stall tilted toward her as she passed. Slightly. A slow, plant-toward-a-window kind of lean.

She kept walking.

The ocean sat behind the railing to her left, dark at the edges where the light didn’t reach. The sound came up through the boards—not ambiance, not background, but a presence. It moved at a pace that had nothing to do with the festival above it: ancient, continuous, completely unbothered by her.

She sighed. The divorce had finalized three weeks ago.

She let it sit in the back of her head, where she’d been keeping it since the papers were signed. Not tonight. Not until she had somewhere to put it that wasn’t the front seat of her car.

The lights nearest her flickered.

She looked up. They steadied. A vendor across the aisle shot a glance at the lamppost, then at her, then went back to straightening his inventory with studied nonchalance, as if he’d seen that before.

That’s fine. Lamps flicker. I’m not responsible for lamp behavior.

The drink at the food stall to her right steamed, and she noticed it, walking faster.

“Althea Virelli.”

The voice arrived from behind. She turned.

Valene stood three feet away, clearly aware Althea had been waiting, and privately amused by it. She wore a cardigan with a frog embroidered on the pocket — extremely on-brand for Valene. She held two cups of coffee and offered Althea one.

At forty-three, Althea still saw Valene the same way she had at fourteen: as a force of nature that had decided to be her friend and never changed her mind.

“You’re late.” Valene grinned, coming closer

“I drove from Boston.”

“I know.” Valene pushed the coffee into her hands. “You texted me from every state line. Come help me with the chairs.”

“What chairs?”

“The folding chairs I need moved.” She was already walking. “Come on.”

Althea looked at the coffee. At the boardwalk stretching in both directions. She followed Valene because the only alternative was standing still, and standing still was not something her nervous system was prepared to entertain right now.

“I haven’t even checked in yet.” She kept pace.