They all watched him circle the well twice, tensionradiating off him with every step. He crouched down to inspect one particularly small footprint in the dirt. When he finished, he stood and put his hands on his hips.
“Fine,” he said after a long moment. “Do your audit. Shut it down.”
Honey gave a small nod. “I’ll head back into town for the night, get some rest, and start first thing in the morning.”
“I’ll call Poppy for a ride,” he said, shooting one last glance at the well before starting toward the house.
Honey lingered behind for a moment, staring at the old well. It looked ordinary enough—stone, ivy, and a little wear—but Honey had a feeling this one was full of secrets.
Chapter 9
Ethan
Ethan guided the 1968 Camaro down the street, the steering wheel loose in his grip, the ride smooth in that floaty way that only old cars managed. It was absurdly finicky, got terrible gas mileage, and was completely impractical for a single dad hauling around three kids and two weeks’ worth of groceries. There weren’t even proper seatbelts in the back. Honestly, it had no business still being on the road.
Yet, he drove it whenever he could.
It had been his grandmother’s. Bought with a secret savings account and the ferocity that came after she left her bastard of a husband. Ethan’s great-aunt Lois had driven her to the dealership the very same week Marg finally left. The two of them split the cost and then raised Marg’s children together in the same creaky farmhouse Ethan now called home. The car had been a symbol of freedom, of survival, and of a second life built on family and resilience.
Ethan couldn’t drive it without thinking of them.
He also couldn’t justify keeping it.
The kids needed new shoes. The barn needed repairs. The shaker was only weeks from repossession.
He passed the mechanic’s shop again, making what he swore to himself was definitely the last loop through town.
If he were honest, he should’ve done it weeks ago. The overdue notices had been piling up, but it wasn’t until the repo guy actually showed—right when the auditor was there, no less—that it really hit him. He hated that she’d been the one to give him the extra time and the push to come to his senses about how dire it was.
Her opinion of him shouldn’t matter at all.
But it did.
He couldn’t stand the thought of her thinking he wasn’t capable. She’d probably taken one look at his chaos and slotted him neatly into some internal category labeledTragically Inept Dad.
He was still scowling about it when he spotted her.
She was out front of the market. Spilled peaches scattered across the sidewalk. Honey crouched low, gathering them alongside Baron Fitch, the bag boy. All the while, her gaze kept flicking toward Clover’s café next door.
“Damn it, Marlene,” Ethan muttered.
His nosey neighbor had gone and told Honey about Clover being a witch. Of course, she was curious about The Kettle, and now Honey was out here cataloguing every bit of weird she could find. No doubt she’d already made note of the fern that leaned conspicuously toward any conversation to eavesdrop, the chalk runes on the sidewalk that kept slightly shifting, and the cat stationed at the pastry counter. She was probably already drafting a report in her head.
He pulled his car alongside the curb.
“What are you doing?” he barked.
“Lovely to see you, too, Mr. Hale,” she responded without looking over her shoulder.
“I thought you were going to check into the inn and rest.”
“I don’t believe I’m required to report my comings and goings to you.”
He narrowed his eyes. “No, but if you’re dead set on judging the town, maybe take a day off before you start building your case.”
She finally looked at him then. “I wasn’t judging anyone. I was helping pick up fruit.”
“And checking out the café.”
