Midlife in Glimmerspell Read online

“Harper, don’t fall for boys who claim to be part wolf either. They’re going to see you as fresh meat and tell you anything you want to hear. It’s all rumors and piecemealed lore to haul the walking wallets in by the busload.”

  “Mom, I read up on this town and it’s more than lore. Did you know it’s a hot spot for paranormal enthusiasts? And that they hold conventions at the community center here every year?” She sucks in a quick breath as she points to a stone-covered establishment with large blue metal butterflies attached to it every which way. “Fae Gardens! Mom, it’s too cute. I vote we eat dinner there first.”

  “You’re right. It is too cute. But I’m betting it’s too expensive, too. We need to mind our nickels and dimes until I can clear a few paychecks first.”

  Lucky for me, Morgan happens to own and run the town’s only bookstore, the Haunted Book Barn, right here at the end of Main Street and she immediately offered me a position.

  She also let me know Harper and I were welcome to stay at her condo until I could secure a rental. I would have done it sooner, but there was so much madness happening at once, there was no time to drive out here to see what was available.

  Harold helped put all of our furniture in storage until I need it. And since we don’t need it just yet, Harper and I have decided to start our new life with just a few suitcases each until we can settle down in a place of our own.

  “And there it is,” Harper says, breathless, as we spot the bright red barn in the distance. “The Haunted Book Barn. And don’t think I’m not ghost hunting for the rest of the afternoon. I like ghosts as much as I do reading.”

  “Good,” I say. “That means I might actually see your face a little more now that we’re in Glimmerspell.” Harper was notorious for hanging out at school, with her friends, with her scholastic clubs, until all hours while we were in Mulberry. A part of me is afraid she’ll go into social withdrawals.

  “Please,” she says, relaxing back in her seat. “This is a one-horse town, Mom. Face it, you’re going to get sick of me by the end of the week.”

  “Fat chance, kiddo. I’d need at least two weeks,” I say, winking her way. We both know it’ll never happen. I’m pretty much a barnacle stuck to the bottom of her boat, and she’d have better luck being bitten by a vampire than me ditching her under any circumstances. I can live a lifetime without Harold, but I couldn’t last a nanosecond without Harper.

  A long private road, laden with snow, leads the way to the oversized crimson barn with its white crisscross accents that give it a homey feel. There’s a parking lot to the right, strewn with cars, and to the left there’s a view of Glimmerspell Lake in the distance.

  The barn is a one-story wonder that used to be a part of a working dairy farm my grandfather once owned, and after he passed away my father let it sit and rot until my brother, Darrel, God rest his soul, and his first wife, Millie, decided to turn it into a bookstore. It was Millie’s love of books that inspired it.

  We park and hustle our way in through the double red doors, and as soon as we step inside, we’re met with the sweet scent of paperbacks, of hardbacks, of all things literary—and just beneath that, the scent of freshly brewed coffee competes for our attention. And believe me, it has it. I inhale the intoxicating cocktail as I look around in wonder. Cheery eighties music strums from the speakers and mingles with the din of voices as the place hums with the sounds from the bourgeoning crowd inside—at least one hundred deep.

  “Mom, look.” Harper smacks me on the arm as she points to a rather ornate gilded mirror hanging to our left in the entry. Just above it are the words Vampire checker! Take a peek. Do you see your reflection? Or are you a vampire? And both Harper and I have a good laugh as we wave to ourselves.

  In front of that sits a large sign on a brass pole that reads Welcome to the Haunted Book Barn! Show your receipt at the café for a ten percent discount! Murder, Mayhem, and Baking tapes every Saturday at two!

  “This is so freaking cool!” Harper jumps a little as she says it, and soon she dissolves into the crowd. Surprisingly, there are more than enough bodies in here to make up a decent mob. It’s mostly young people. The smattering of Dexter sweatshirts lets me know which university the masses belong to, and just the sight of their youthful faces depresses me a little.

  Since when did college kids start looking as if they belonged in junior high? It feels as if I was a Dexter student myself just a handful of years ago, and I swear while I was there, nobody looked like they were just out of diapers.

  Each one of these baby-faced college kids is bopping about, chattering away while combing through the endless display tables laden with books.

  A trio of coeds bumps past me and I veer to the left to avoid a collision, ending up near the first of many rows of bookshelves.

  To my left a couple stands about six feet away, whispering something to one another in a fury, and I can tell by their body language things are getting tense.

  The man is about my age, tall, wavy dirty blond hair slicked back, nice suit on. And the redhead is one of those newfangled college tweens with a tight Dexter sweatshirt to call her own and a mini skirt on despite the arctic temperatures hitting us outside.

  I’m not proud to say I’ve braved the elements a time or two in the name of fashion back in the day. I once had numb toes for a week just because I had a cute pair of Huarache sandals I wanted to show off in junior high. Not my finest moment, but on the upside, my toes lived to tell about it.

  The couple grows increasingly animated with his wild gesticulating and her angry huffs. I’m not sure why, but I’m getting some serious Harold and Charlene vibes from the two of them, so I take a moment to glower their way.

  The woman pulls the man in by the tie and goes for a kiss, and I blink back at the brazen show of affection. Maybe I’m a prude, but I wouldn’t have guessed a bookstore to be the hot spot to proposition a man old enough to be her professor. And I’m betting that’s exactly who he is.

  He leans her way as his eyes enlarge, and he seems to be saying something to her rather sternly.

  How do you like that? A blatant rejection? An act that was clearly beneath Harold.

  Just think, given the right set of circumstances, that poor girl could have found herself in my bed with my husband.

  The redhead pulls the man in one more time, and now I can clearly see that she’s pleading with him about something.

  The entire display makes my heart wrench, and I want to run over and tell her he’s not worth it. No woman should ever have to beg a man to stay with her, or in her case, maybe finish her research paper.

  I take off deeper into the bookstore, glance past the bodies milling around, and soak in the establishment with its cute twinkle lights set up over the walls and its rustic old metal chandeliers that string along the ceiling, giving this place just the right amount of ambient lighting. I wouldn’t call it dim, but it’s definitely not bright.

  The bookstore has an all-around rustic appeal with its dark wood floors and a wooden reception counter outfitted with three registers to choose from. Sitting in front of the registers is the endless display of book tables that boast of new releases, vampires, werewolves, fae, cookbooks, true crime, thrillers, cozy mysteries, and an entire slew of other signs I can’t read without my glasses. Just beyond the tables are rows and rows of bookshelves as far as the eye can see, leading all the way to the back.

  And last but never least, the café sits to the right in all its rustic glory. The wall behind it is made of distressed blue and gray shiplap, running in long skinny strips, with a backlit menu that boasts of all of its offerings.

  There’s a working kitchen with a stainless counter and refrigerated shelves showing off rows of cookies, muffins, cakes, and a few Panini sandwiches as far as I can tell. About a dozen or so dark wrought iron bistro tables sit across the span of twenty feet, and there’s a pony wall surrounding one side of the café with greenery set along the edge, to section off the area from the rest of the bookstore.


  This place is huge, a warehouse would be envious of its size, and yet somehow between the books, the café, and the luscious scent of coffee, it manages to feel as cozy as can be.

  An entire beehive of men and women with black sweatshirts that read film crew hustle this way and that while getting their equipment ready for the true crime show my niece films here weekly.

  Yes. A show about murder. True crime was something just shy of a hobby for Morgan growing up, but about two years ago she started filming Murder, Mayhem, and Baking right here in the café, where she spends an hour talking about whatever homicide case strikes her fancy while whipping up a sweet treat for her audience. Of course, she gives the recipe away as a bonus to her viewers at the end. She’s not a monster. That would be Harold’s department.

  I head over to the café because somewhere in that melee is my spicy little niece. Morgan is not only fantastically feisty and sarcastic, but she doesn’t take bull from anyone—and those wonderful attributes had more than a little to do with why Mabel was killed. The poison that did her in was actually meant for Morgan instead. It was awful and tragic, and I’m still so very angry that it happened at all. How I hate the fact my niece is gone. Mabel was the innocent flower to Morgan’s wild child. Twin sisters who were as opposite as can be. Mabel was the goody two-shoes librarian type and Morgan was essentially born with a party horn in her mouth. They decided to play the twin switcheroo that fated day and it ended up costing Mabel her life.

  I try to push all of the death and horror that day brought out of my mind for a moment. It’s dragged me to a dark place more than once, and I want to put on a happy face when I finally see my niece. Even though Morgan is young enough to be my daughter, with the nineteen-year age gap between us, I’ve always felt more of a sisterly bond between us, just the way I did with Mabel.

  To my left I spot a black cat sitting lazily on the counter and my heart melts at the sight of her. I’m not only a sucker for a good book, but I’m a sucker for a furry feline, too. A woman working one of the registers casts a scathing glance my way, and I do a double take in her direction. She has long, chestnut-colored hair with matching glowing eyes, and she’s practically glaring at me as if I stole her lunch money.

  It takes all of my effort to shift my gaze in the other direction.

  I’m sure she’s not glowering at me. We don’t even know each other. Unless, of course, she thinks I’m shoplifting. That would make total sense, with the exception I haven’t picked up a single item.

  I do my best to thread my way through the bodies as I brush up against a table laden with paranormal books. A black ornate hardback catches my eye that looks as if it’s made of embossed leather. There’s a picture of a single red rose on the cover, bleeding its petals as they fall into a pool of sanguine liquid.

  “Vampire Hunter’s Companion,” I whisper as I run my finger over the carved cover and it bumps beneath my flesh as if it were coming to life.

  I’m sure the tourists are snapping up books just like this, right and left. And I can see why. It feels as if this sacred tome were casting a spell on me, mesmerizing me with its comely grace before I ever crack the spine.

  A spark darts up my arm, and I pull my hand back as if yanking it from a fire. I take a sharp breath before spinning on my heels.

  So odd. It’s as if innately I knew I had to step away or I’d fall inside of it.

  I swallow hard as I take another look around. To the right of the café sits an expansive magazine section with rows and rows of glossy reads as a smattering of people lazily flip through them.

  The shelves are ten feet tall, white, backlit racks, making the entire area feel bright and airy, a luminary in an otherwise gloomy yet cozy environment. And seated precariously on top of the shelf nearest to me is a glassy brassy hourglass that crowns the place with an ethereal glory.

  It stands about three feet tall, and the sand encapsulated in it glows a strange shade of lavender with bits of glitter that sparkle and shine as they capture the light. If I didn’t know better, it looks as if the sand is moving. The shimmering lights inside of it look as if they’re stirring to life as if they had magical properties of their own. It glistens and winks my way as if beckoning me to adulate its beauty up close and personal, and my feet lead me that way to do just that.

  Time in a bottle, I muse as I stare up at it, unable to pull my eyes away from the enchanting wonder as it looms up above. No sooner do I take another step in that direction than I crash, face-first, into a brick wall of a body.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say as I stumble to my right, only to look up at the palest green eyes I have ever seen. A jolt of electrocution bucks through me and a breath hitches in my throat that I can’t quite seem to fill my lungs with. My body is frozen solid. It’s as if all of time stops as our eyes lock.

  Something is happening.

  Those eyes… They seem to glow and pulsate supernaturally as they stare right back at me. There’s a depth to them that I haven’t seen in any other eyes before, a knowing, an entire treasure trove of secrets buried in each one.

  “My fault,” says the tall, dark-haired stranger with the face of a deity, stubble-peppered cheeks, eyes that seem to have entranced me, and the curve of a smile on his face. He’s about six-five, dark suit, dark wool coat on over that, slick silver tie that sets off the deliciousness in his face—and oh my word, I think I’m drooling.

  My stomach squeezes tightly at the sight of him, and holy hot tamale—if this is what they’ve been hiding out in Glimmerspell, then I’ve certainly picked the wrong time to eschew men.

  His chest bounces with a silent laugh as his eyes rake over my features.

  “Pardon me.” He steps aside, his eyes lingering a touch longer than they need to before a group of young girls bombard him, a common occurrence, I’m guessing.

  I take another blind step to my right, my eyes still glued to the handsome man in the dark coat, and he looks my way before doing a double take.

  “Look out,” he shouts while glancing just above me, and I look up in time to see that enormous hourglass toppling in my direction.

  My head explodes in a vat of pain, and just like that, the lights go out in my world.

  Chapter 2

  “Acorn!” someone shouts in the distance as my left cheek grows increasingly warm and wet. “Acorn, come here.”

  My eyelids struggle to open, and the first thing I see is the cute furry face of a cinnamon-colored labradoodle who I’m all too familiar with.

  “Acorn?” His name croaks from my lips as he’s quickly pulled back, and in his wake, Morgan’s face pops up.

  That’s right. Acorn is Morgan’s dog. She brought him to Mabel’s funeral a few weeks back. He’s as sweet as can be—and then it all comes crashing back to me as my lids begin to flutter once again. That rock-hard body, those eyes, that ridiculously tall hourglass set precariously on a perch.

  “Billie?” Morgan shouts as she gives me a few quick slaps on the cheek and my lids spring wide open once again. Her dark hair swings around her shoulders, she has the Buttonwood-issued lavender eyes, and is as pretty as can be. “Oh, you scared me. I thought you were dead.”

  I pat my hands over the ground in an effort to try to get up and my fingers land in what looks to be purple glittering sand.

  “Oh no, don’t do that.” Morgan panics. She’s clad in black with a pair of ripped jeans shredded at the knees as her pale skin glares out at me. “There are shards all over the place. That stupid hourglass tipped over and bonked you right on the head. Stay put while I grab a broom.” She takes off and Acorn dashes off right along with her while a sea of faces stares down at me.

  I do a quick scan of the crowd for Harper, but she’s nowhere to be seen. To the left I spot Morgan tucked between a couple of girls with her dark hair swept up and a far more matronly outfit on than she was just wearing as she stares down at me timidly. And as soon as I spot her, she taps her fingers to her lips and backs into the crowd until she’s go
ne once again.

  Odd.

  I could have sworn she ran in the opposite direction.

  The handsome man with the electrocuting eyes swoops down my way with his lips flickering as if he was unsure of what he was about to do next. His wool coat flanks me on either side, and for a moment the two of us are encapsulated in the darkness. His eyes glow as they look into mine as if they were backlit from the inside. The music, the bookstore, all of its patrons disappear for one brief moment in time, and it’s just the two of us in the world once again.

  My heart gives a wild thump as if kick-starting after a long hiatus and a charge runs through me. The stubble over his cheeks contrasts with his pale skin, and there’s something intoxicating about the darkness and the light as it mingles over his features.

  “How many fingers am I holding up?” he asks, lifting his index finger a notch.

  “One,” I say, struggling to sit up and he grabs me by the arm and gently helps me to my feet.

  “My apologies again.” He gives a curt nod, no smile, as if he were angry that he had to apologize about anything. “I take full responsibility for this. Once I bumped into you, I must have sent you spinning like a top.”

  “Well, good. I like blaming things on other people. It’s my favorite hobby as of late. Apology accepted.” A quick smile blinks on my lips as I dust purple glitter off my jeans, but my eyes never leave those clear green peepers of his.

  “Glad I could be of help in that department.” He inches back a notch, a hint of amusement on his face.

  Our gaze lingers a little too long, and that spear of heat is right back to bisecting my stomach. In all my time on this planet, I have not seen a man with such cutting good looks. Thank God Almighty we didn’t meet while I was still a Boobe, or I might have been the one cheating in the bedroom. Not that I would have. I was a loyal Boobe to the bitter end.

  Cheating? Really? What am I thinking? This man is certainly taken. They don’t let hot property like this roam the earth unattended. His wife is probably here rolling her eyes at me right this minute. My goodness, that was probably her at the register, glaring at me preemptively.