‘Girls!’ she said, giving us each a perfunctory hug. Although, to be fair, she was wearing linen, a fabric that famously doesn’t respond well to hugging. She cast a smoothing spell over her outfit, and Tiff shot me a pointed look.
See, Molly? It’s easy not to be a slob.
I stuck out my tongue at her.
‘How was the drive up?’ asked Mom. ‘Did you leave when I said?’
‘Uh huh. Thankfully,’ said Tiff. ‘Traffic was already starting to back up on the ninety-five. It would’ve been worse if we’d stopped at every roadside stand like Molly wanted.’
‘The dahlias were so pretty, though!’ I pouted. ‘And those jams!’
Mom and Tiff ignored me, diving into a lengthy discussion about alternative routes and fuel efficiency. When they both pulled Google Maps up on their phones, I decided it was time to back away.
Rosie sniffed. ‘Are yousureyou set the stove to simmer, Amelia? I’ll see you inside, Molly.’
Magic crackled around her as she raced back inside to salvage her recipe. From the smell, it was something buttery and fruit-filled.
I popped the trunk on the Mini and hefted my duffel over my shoulder, along with the Trader Joe’s tote bag I’d stocked with snacks. It was just a gesture, of course: between Rosie and Mom, who made a mean cheese plate, we were hardly going to be starved for things to nibble on. But arriving empty-handed wasn’t acceptable in my family, so here I was with locally sourced artisanal caramels and some sort of home-distilled spirit, courtesy of my boss’s wife. I assumed it was the type you drank. Judging from how it burned your nostrils, it waspossiblya variety of paint stripper.
Stepping over the threshold, I was infused with the sense of calm that always came with visiting the Pink House. With its soft-pink walls and plush furniture, the entire house felt charmed – and was, courtesy of Rosie’s gentle magic and eye for hospitality. Every seat was made for sinking into, and the beds were the type that gave you the best sleep you’d ever had in your life. Even the shower acoustics rivalled those of Carnegie Hall.
And, Rosie being Rosie, there were vases bursting with wildflowers on every flat surface, with huge bowls of saltwater taffy next to them. Not to mention the candles! She and I were both candle fanatics, and were constantly texting each other reviews of our latest finds and upcoming candle-making workshops. I ran my fingers over a new addition: a pyramid-shaped one with honeycomb texturing and little bees.
I hadn’t seen them yet, but there were signs the boys werearound: striped towels languidly draped over the kitchen chairs, a legal studies textbook upended on the couch, a pair of flip-flops kicked off beneath a barstool. My heart gave a kick. No Summerween was complete without Finn and Noah. We were just friends, of course, nothing more, but Lara and I had definitely had enough whispered conversations over the years about the romantic possibilities there. Lara, who didn’t have magic, but who was impressively attuned to matters of love and lust, was always teasing me about theundercurrentshe’d identified regarding my relationships with the boys.
And two years had passed, after all. Who knew how things might have changed?
But enough of that, Molly.
The boys must be down at the beach, I decided. If not, I’d likely find Noah in the garden room he’d claimed as an art studio, while Finn was probably breaking hearts down at the Hammer and Thistle.
Despite the overriding sense of familiarity I felt stepping into the Pink House, I could see there were changes, too. The empty velvet chair where Charlie would sit late at night, reading jazz biographies and album-liner notes. The home improvement projects that were underway here and there: rolls of wallpaper waiting to be hung in a hallway, the test paint swatches on the trim. Something about the soul of the house had shifted, and not just because of Charlie’s absence.
There was a creak as the wood settled, and I jumped. Rosie’s magic usually kept the quirks of the old house at bay, but I supposed she had enough on her plate at the moment.
Setting my duffel down in the room I’d claimed every Summerween for years, I plopped down on the bed, which was draped with a soft duvet patterned with tiny daisies. At least ten throw pillows were neatly arranged on it – something I adored, and which the boys endlessly complained about when it came to their own rooms. The rest of the bedroom was as cosy as could be: a plump reading chair, a bookshelffilled with vintage volumes and trinkets, a tall mirror draped in vintage beaded necklaces. Photos from Summerween trips through the years hung on the pink walls.
As I browsed them, I marvelled at how much we’d all changed since those awkward teenage years where everything feltsoimportant andsolife-changing – first crushes, first kisses and all the big dreams we’d had for our lives that we were absolutely certain would come true.Pop star Finn and illustrator Noah, I thought with a smile. And of course, award-winning sports journalist Molly, writing incredible features forSports IllustratedandRunner’s World.
My fingers brushed a photo of Rosie and Charlie standing by the shore, hair wind-whipped by the ocean breeze, and I felt a pang. Charlie, who was about as introverted as they come, had spent much of our vacations in his music room listening to his albums or working on his instruments, but I’d always enjoyed his quiet company when he did emerge to read or play Noah at Scrabble.
Just then, a small, grey-dusted face peeked around the corner.
‘Cleo!’
Cleo was Rosie’s fluffy, extremely friendly cat. She was a fixture of the Pink House in the same way that Rosie’s baking was, and was never far when you needed something to warm your feet in the middle of the night, or someone to cuddle when the full moon unleashed every emotion in your body and then some. Every witch needed a familiar, and Cleo was among the best.
Picking up Cleo, I gave her a snuggle and headed back out to the living area. Her purrs were so strong I could feel them drawing the fluffy clouds across the endless sky.
The others were still outside: Tiff had got as far as setting her suitcase by the door before being waylaid by Rosie’s invitation to explore the garden. And how could you not? It was lovingly landscaped, with gorgeous explosions of pinkand blue hydrangeas bursting up against the picket fence and spilling into the rolling green lawn. Neat rose bushes lined the pathways, guiding you to an outdoor dining area, the comfortable sectionals and lawn chairs, and the art studio at the far end of the meandering garden path. Through one of the windows, which was decorated with a planter in full bloom, I could see that Noah’s easel had been set up.
I wassocurious to see what he’d been painting. A seascape? An ironic portrait of Cleo in a Victorian outfit? Nudes?
But before I could head down the mossy path to sneak a peek, two male voices joined the chorus. The volume of the chatter and laughter increased. A few squeals split the air as Finn, for it was always Finn, picked up Mom and Tiff in turn and spun them around.
A frisson of electricity went racing down my spine. It had been two full years since we’d all been here together. And almost a year had passed since the funeral, where we’d barely managed more than a few fleeting hugs. I wasn’t sure what to expect. What might have changed.
Cleo in my arms, I rounded past the house to where they’d all gathered, chatting animatedly.
