Something was in the air.
I could feel it as soon as I paused in the open doorway of my cozy loft apartment, even though everything looked the same. The same dark-gray hall carpet, the same welcome mat in front of my door with the arch-backed black cats, the same pair of boots my across-the-hall neighbor and good friend Sydney Santangelo always casually kicked off, strewn outside her door. Nothing seemed amiss.
I couldn’t quite put my finger on it—it was just a subtle shift in the air, a feeling that something, somewhere in the Universe, had been knocked out of alignment. And as an empath and overall sensitive person, the feeling was pretty overwhelming.
Although it could simply be that I’d gotten crap for sleep last night. My insomnia was back with a vengeance lately, wreaking all sorts of havoc on my psyche. It had been like this a lot since Grandma Abigail’s unexpected death last month. I hadn’t been myself since, which wasn’t surprising. Losing her meant losing my last family member, and it had left me feeling completely alone.
Plus, it was Monday, and that itself explained a lot. If that weren’t enough, a glance at my moon calendar this morning told me we were still in Pluto retrograde in Capricorn, which could yield all kinds of upsets. Pluto was all about our shadow side, and brought about unpredictability and change. And I was a firm believer that everything in life followed the cycle of the moon, which meant some sort of problem waited on the horizon.
A lot of angst for a Monday morning. I could hear Grandma Abby’s voice in my head: “Violet, you get out there and face Pluto head-on. There’s nothing you can’t handle. You’re a Mooney, aren’t you?”
Wherever she was, I believed she had her eye on me right now, and I didn’t want to disappoint her. So I’d dragged myself out of bed with every intention of being at my crystal shop, The Full Moon, promptly at nine with a smile and some good vibes, ready to help anyone who needed it.
But first, yoga.
I made a conscious effort to shake off the mood as I squared my shoulders and stepped into the hallway. I could hear Presley, Sydney’s four-year-old daughter, shrieking with laughter in their apartment. I didn’t bother knocking to see if Syd wanted to go to yoga. She’d tried it for a while after she moved to town two years ago, then gave it up. She’d told me that the whole experience left her overwhelmed and feeling not good enough. “I can’t handle those super skinny yogi chicks eating their Buddha bowls and twisting themselves into impossible shapes,” she’d told me. Although I think her hesitation was more about her crow pose going awry during her first and only class, resulting in her falling on her face. At the front of the room, no less.
I thought she was missing the point, but it was none of my business. Besides, everyone falls over when they’re learning crow pose.
I made for the elevator, even though I just wanted to go back inside and snuggle up with Monty. My fat orange cat was planning on an exciting day of sleep, and I thought longingly of joining him. I’d seen the gloom of this early January day from my full-length windows, and it was a perfect day to stay in bed.
“Knock it off,” I commanded myself out loud. “This is a bad attitude. Today is going to rock.”
Deciding to make that my mantra for the day, I got in the elevator, tucking my red hair under my black beret and wrapping my new pink scarf tighter around my neck. I loved my new scarf. I’d gotten it over the weekend when I’d treated myself to a trip to Nordstrom Rack. It was the softest, fluffiest scarf I’d found in a while, and a deal to boot.
I pushed open the lobby door and stepped out onto Water Street into the winter air, flinching as it hit my face. Instinctively, I tugged my scarf higher, covering my nose. And nearly tripped over a black cat sitting right at the bottom of the steps.
“Oh! I’m sorry.” I knelt down to pet the cat, who looked unfazed by my less-than-graceful exit from the building. He—or she?—arched and purred, looking for all the world like a model for a Halloween calendar, with piercing yellow eyes and a long slinky tail that twitched ever so slightly. The quintessential black cat. “Do you live here? Do you need to go inside?”
The cat continued to stare at me until an approaching whistle distracted us. We both turned to see Mr. Quigley come around the corner. He whistled an off-key version of “Moon River” as he pushed his noisy shopping cart ahead of him. When I turned back, the cat was gone. Blinking, I looked around. No trace, not even a blur of black streaking away.
Well, cats were fast. It was all part of their charm. I hoped the kitty found its way home okay.
“Morning, Miss Violet,” Mr. Quigley shouted from halfway up the block, finally noticing me.
“Morning, Mr. Q.” I waved and decided to wait for him because it was polite and because I did like Mr. Quigley. Today he wore his usual outfit—a giant flannel shirt, black vest, and a furry hat with earflaps that made me think of Alaska. His beard was getting longer. He liked to grow it in during the winter months, which left him looking a bit like Gandalf from The Lord of the Rings. “Where are you off to so early?”
“Collectin’ my cans,” he said, drawing up next to me. He had his ever-present pipe clamped between his teeth, which gave his words a slight lisp. “You?”
Every morning Mr. Quigley went around the neighborhood and collected any cans people had discarded. When he had a good stash, he cashed the money in and donated it to the local food pantry. It was a lovely gesture from someone who clearly could’ve kept the money for himself. I wasn’t sure where exactly he lived, but I guessed it was in one of the subsidized apartments around the corner. I felt a rush of gratitude for my own cozy apartment, and my business that made it possible. And all the little extras I got to enjoy. Like coffee and sushi. And yoga.
“That’s nice,” I said. “I’m working today, but I have to go to my yoga class and get my coffee first. Walk with me?”
He fell into step beside me. “Weird morning,” he said after a moment.
I glanced up at him. “What do you mean?”
Mr. Q shrugged. “Just feels weird around here. Like the calm before the storm.”
I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. Same feeling I’d had earlier this morning.
Before I could ask him about it, Mr. Q’s eyes narrowed as he caught sight of another man heading down one of the side alleys. “That’s my dumpster,” he muttered. “Shyster. Someone’s encroaching on my territory. Bye, Miss Violet.” He darted down the alley, almost as quick as the black cat, his cart jangling against the concrete.
I continued on down the block, walking as fast as I could to escape the cold. North Harbor was quiet this morning. It usually was in these earlier hours, and then later in the day it turned into a mini Manhattan as the restaurants and bars filled up and people strolled the streets. The sound of seagulls filled the air ahead as they swooped in and out of the river just up the block. The Long Island Sound was so close I could smell the salty air, an added bonus I hadn’t expected when I’d moved here. The ocean was my happy place. It filled me with energy and cleared the muck out of my brain. Which was why I always wanted to be within smelling distance of it. And later, when my shop really takes off and I could afford it, I wanted to live smack on top of it.
Something to aspire to.
Shanti, the yoga studio around the corner from my building, had a steady stream of people pouring in despite the early morning hour. Natalie Mann’s early class was one of the studio’s most popular. Natalie’s approach both calmed and energized people, and she had a knack for infusing messages into her classes that always resonated.
I joined the yogis entering the studio, intent on making it to my favorite spot in the back next to the wall. I wasn’t confident enough in my yoga abilities to take a spot up front. I fully expected to fall on my face one day also. Luckily, a lot of the early birds preferred the front of the studio, so the back was still blessedly empty. I unrolled my purple mat with a snap of my wrist and grabbed two blocks and a blanket. Natalie spotted me and smiled, making her way over with her burning stick of palo santo, clearing the room’s energy for class.
“Hey girl,” she said, giving me a quick hug while managing to not set my hair on fire. “Thanks for coming.”
“Of course. I need this today.” I sniffed the heady scent of wood appreciatively. Natalie arrived early to make the studio welcoming. I admired her dedication to yoga, which she’d said many times had saved her life. Today, though, she looked tired. I got a glimpse of muddy browns and greens in her aura, which was not like Nat. Reading auras was a skill I’d realized I had back when I was a teenager, and while it greatly helped my work, sometimes it gave me insights that I didn’t ask for. “How are you?” I asked.
“I’m fine,” Natalie said. Her cheerful smile seemed forced. “Busy week. I might need to come in and do a crystal session soon.”
In addition to selling quality crystals, holding classes, and bringing in other energy healers regularly, I offered custom crystal consults and crystal “prescriptions” based on the session. It was what I loved best—one-on-one time with clients, using their auras and energy to create a menu of stones that could truly make a difference in their lives. “Of course! Anytime. Just let me know. I have a bunch of open slots this week.”
“I will.” She flashed me a dazzling smile, looking almost like herself for a moment, then moved on to resume clearing the room and greeting students. When she’d finished, she waved her stick to put out the flame and sat up front, pulling her dark hair into an effortless bun and closing her eyes. “Welcome,” she said, and all the chatter quieted.
I settled back and closed my own eyes, sinking into the mat and the smells and sounds of the room, hoping this practice would chase away this gnawing feeling of unrest.
I felt much better after class. I popped into the studio bathroom to change into my work outfit—long, flowy purple skirt and an oversized black sweater—and dusted some glitter over my hair. I felt very strongly that everyone needed glitter in their life on a daily basis.
I was actually looking forward to getting into my shop. I had a bunch of boxes to unpack—my new shipments from the gem show I’d gone to in Colorado had arrived last week, and I hadn’t had a chance to dive in yet. And then tonight my boyfriend, Todd, and I were going to try out the new Thai food restaurant that had recently opened in town. The grand opening celebration promised to be a good time.
If he remembers to leave work, a nagging little voice reminded me. Todd had a one-track mind when it came to his bar, Luck o’ the Irish. And since the place was always busy, he usually worked late. But not tonight. He’d promised me a date night, and I had every confidence he’d keep his word. He had been trying to be extra attentive lately, because he knew how hard it had been for me to lose my grandma. And I appreciated it.
Yes, life was definitely good.
I packed up my yoga clothes and mat and left the studio, pausing in the lobby to step into my boots before I headed outside. When I stepped out the front door, I saw Sydney sitting on the steps waiting for me.
“Hey, Vi.” Syd sprang up, adjusting her hot-pink velvet cape around her shoulders. Syd owned a vintage clothing store, aptly named Yesterday, that she ran both online and from a tiny house—a literal tiny house—currently parked in Charlie Klein’s parking lot the next street over. Charlie, a local barber and lifetime North Harbor resident, thought it was great. He’d taken to boasting that her house regularly got him new clients, and called her his secret weapon.
Syd believed in marketing her merchandise, so she always had the best outfits she put together from her selection. Today, she’d coupled her cape with leather pants and cowboy boots adorned with pink rhinestones. Her rhinestone-covered hat attempted unsuccessfully to tame her wild dark-blond curls. Which needed serious taming most days. When she put effort into it, she either had a beautiful head of shoulder-length ringlets, or blew it out into sleek waves. When she didn’t, she looked a bit like she’d narrowly escaped a lobotomy. Today was the latter.
“Did you have a good class?” She snickered a little when she said it. Syd and I couldn’t be more different when it came to health and fitness. One of her lifelong goals was to lose that extra twenty pounds, but the reality was she got cranky without cake and french fries. And her main source of exercise was her five-minute walk to her shop.
“I had an awesome class. I really needed that today,” I said, zipping my coat and shoving my hands in my pockets while refusing to partake in her yoga negativity. “Were you waiting for me?”
“’Course. I need coffee and you know I hate going alone.” She pushed herself to her feet, stepping out of the way of the last of the exiting class goers. “Cold,” she muttered. “I hate this weather.”
“Yeah. Where’s Presley?”
“With Josie. I’m going to go pick her up after coffee. She was amped up this morning, so I was more than happy to let someone else get her dressed.”
Josie Cook, my mentor and dear friend who worked part-time in my shop, also nannied for Syd. And worked at the art shop, the candy store, and sometimes the flower shop. She was like Mary Poppins, but with side gigs.
“We heading to Pete’s?” Syd asked, looking back at me expectantly.
“Yep. Let’s go.” As we started off, the studio door banged open again and Natalie rushed out. She stopped short when she saw us. “Hey, Syd!” she exclaimed. “When are you coming back to class? It’s been ages since I’ve seen you!”
Syd studied her from the top of her bun down the length of her fashionable Athleta—or maybe Lululemon—yoga pants, then shrugged. “Probably not for a while,” she said.
“Oh, that’s a shame.” Natalie looked genuinely dismayed. “I hope it wasn’t because of that crow. Everyone has a tough time with crow.” She patted Syd on the shoulder. “Don’t let that stop you from joining us, okay?”
Sydney shot daggers at Natalie with her eyes. Just as she opened her mouth, I grabbed her arm and pointed her toward Pete’s. “Thanks, Nat. Class was awesome,” I called over my shoulder, waving at her as I pushed Sydney down the street. “Can you please be nice?” I hissed as soon as we were out of earshot. “She means well.”
“Oh, please.” Syd made a face. “No one can be that sunshine and namaste all the time. And I know for a fact she’s not always Little Miss Açaí Bowls and Veggies.”
I burst out laughing. “Açaí bowls? What on earth are you talking about?”
She leaned over with a conspiratorial glance over her shoulder, but Natalie wasn’t behind us. She’d gone down the street the other way, probably to the gym for a cycling class or something. “I saw her at Potatoes from Heaven the other day. Getting those specialty french fries,” she added, with a touch of glee in her tone. “The ones with the garlic and herbs?”
Crinkle-cut garlic-aioli fries, to be exact. I was well acquainted with them, although admittedly my appetite had been almost nonexistent lately, so I hadn’t indulged in a while. But they would tempt even the most dedicated of dieters. Potatoes from Heaven was a food truck that came to town every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday and parked in various spots in our business district. They served all kinds of french fries, baked potatoes, even tater tots, with special sauces and toppings and herbs. The potatoes were all organic, at least. And all were to die for.
I wasn’t terribly impressed with Syd’s revelation, though. “So?” I asked, pausing in front of the coffee shop.
Syd huffed out a breath. “What do you mean, so? She acts all high and mighty about her eating habits and her exercise but she’s really not perfect either. It’s Monday, so I bet you she’ll be there later. I’ll report back, because I’m planning on going.”
“Oh, would you get inside.” I gave her a gentle shove through The Friendly Bean’s front door. “She never said she was perfect. So she eats french fries sometimes. Big deal.”
Sydney sniffed, but let it go. I followed her inside the Bean. My other happy place. I always looked forward to the warmth and camaraderie inside, not to mention the menu. The scent of good, strong coffee hit my nose as soon as I opened the door, and I sighed happily as the blast of warm air greeted us.
“There they are.” Pete Santorini, the tall, dark, and handsome owner and morning barista, grinned at us over the top of his espresso machine. He reminded me a little of Jake Gyllenhaal. “You’re late.”
Sydney batted her eyelashes, ever the flirt. “Miss me?”
“Always, darlin’,” Pete returned. “Were you cheating on me somewhere else?”
“Never. Vi had yoga this morning. You know, with all the crazies. So I had to wait for her. I hope you saved us something good.”
I resisted an eye roll. Sydney and Pete flirted like this every time I saw them interact. I wondered when they’d just get it over with and get together. Or at least go on a date. Pete was cute, and there was something to be said for being with someone who could keep you in coffee. Sydney wasn’t dating anyone, so it might be good for her.
“The fresh blackberry muffins are out back,” he said. “Just say the word.”
My mouth was already watering, and this could go on forever. “Perfect,” I cut in. “We’ll each take one.”
We joined the four-person-deep line. I perused the chalkboard menu on the wall showcasing Pete’s latte specials. He liked to experiment. Today he was offering a juniper and sage latte, which sounded weird but given Pete’s prowess with an espresso machine, I figured I’d give it a try. Plus it would make him happy.
Decision made, I turned to Syd. “So what’s going on with you? How’s business?”
Sydney sobered a little. “Business is good, but I feel like I’m kind of in a war zone,” she said.
“What do you mean? Are they still giving you a hard time about the store?” I waited expectantly as we shuffled forward in the line a couple of steps at a time. Syd’s innocuous parking job at Charlie’s place had hit a nerve around town. There were some elected officials who didn’t think she should be allowed to simply park there and operate without all the traditional hoops a business owner would have to jump through. On the other hand, the lot was private property—Charlie had bought the building and lot a couple of years ago—and he was renting it out to Syd for something like five dollars a month, just to be able to say he was doing things by the book. Charlie was one of the more vocal residents in town, and he never hesitated to speak up when he didn’t like the direction things were moving.
And these days, there seemed to be a lot of angst in town. Development was once again on the rise for the first time in over ten years, and the town had seen an influx of new entrepreneurs. Usually it was restaurants that came and went frequently, but right now a lot of new retail and specialty businesses were hoping to anchor here. And some people had very definite opinions on how that should go.
Syd usually didn’t care. She figured it would all work itself out and she should focus on the things she could control. But today, something was different. She leaned in and spoke softly. “I got a cease and desist yesterday.”
Before she could elaborate, a shrill, displeased voice rang out through the café.
“Violet Mooney!”
Conversation through the entire coffee shop petered out as people turned to see who was shouting. I didn’t even need to turn around, though, to know who was behind the voice. There was only one person in this town who sounded like a combination of broken nails screeching down a chalkboard and a petulant five-year-old at the height of a massive temper tantrum—Carla Fernandez, one of our esteemed town officials. I felt my face heating up, already dreading whatever this was.
Next to me, Syd’s eyes narrowed to slits and she sucked in a breath. I knew Carla was one of the people giving Syd a hard time about her shop. She didn’t like me much either, but for the most part left me alone aside from some snide comments about my “voodoo shop” whenever she could get them in. I usually ignored her and tried to keep a low profile. She wasn’t someone I wanted to be on the wrong side of. Carla had a reputation for temper, and for flying off the handle at the flick of a switch. And whatever had flicked her switch this morning must’ve really rubbed her the wrong way given her purposeful march toward me, eyes blazing fire.
The anxiety I’d woken with returned, a small flutter in my tummy. But why was Carla shouting at me? I hadn’t done anything.
I tried to ignore the building feeling of dread and pasted what I hoped didn’t look like a fake smile on my face. Grandma Abigail had drilled into my head years ago that when someone was being nasty, taking the high road and being sweet as pie was always better. Plus, it threw them off. “Good morning, Carla,” I said, my voice oozing sweetness. “How are you today?”
Carla didn’t return my greeting. She marched right up to us, bypassing the people in the line behind us. One of them, a guy I recognized as one of the chefs at the seafood restaurant down by the marina, glared at her.
“Hey,” he said indignantly, but she ignored him, coming to a stop in front of me with a menacing frown on her face.
She teetered at the top of a pair of stiletto boots, trying—in my opinion—to overcompensate for her short, somewhat plump form. Really, she looked a little ridiculous, especially given the icy patches still lingering on the sidewalks. One misstep and she’d. . .
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