and organizing. I loved both. I got some of my best ideas when I was doing a menial task – finding pearls of wisdom in the back recesses of my mind while I focused on something else, not that Thistle ever gave me credit for those ideas. “If we would have waited, we wouldn’t have had inventory for next week. Do you know what next week is?”
“The Spring Fling,” Thistle replied, her tone dry. “It’s the official ending of the spring season and the beginning of the summer season – even though spring doesn’t end for another four weeks. It’s a stupid tradition.”
“It’s one of our biggest weekends of the year,” I said.
“I know.”
“So, how were we magically going to get the inventory if I didn’t step in and do it?”
Thistle placed her hands on her narrow hips. “I … that’s neither here nor there,” she sniffed. “I always do what needs to be done.”
“Not this time.”
Thistle swiveled, stalking toward the counter so she could grab her purse. “Fine,” she said. “You stay here and do your … organizing … and I’ll go and get the wax. I don’t feel like fighting.”
She could have fooled me. “Fine.”
“Great.” Thistle was already halfway out the door.
“You didn’t win this one,” I yelled to her back.
“I always win.”
No, she always has to get the last word. Unfortunately, that’s a family trait.
TWO HOURS later I was almost done, and I had a great new idea for blueberry pancake wax melts to experiment with when Thistle returned from her jaunt to Traverse City with supplies. I just hoped I could convince Thistle to give it a try.
I started doling the herb bags to their appropriate spots, only stilling when I heard the wind chimes above the door jangle to signify someone’s entrance into the store. “I’ll be right with you.”
“No hurry.”
I recognized the voice. “Hi, Dad.”
I was still getting used to saying that. Dad. It had a nice ring to it, although it was also awkward. My father – along with my two uncles – had recently returned to the area. Being married to a Winchester woman was hard enough, but being married to a Winchester witch was even harder. They’d left during our adolescent years, keeping in varying degrees of communication with us during their exile. Now that they were back, we were all struggling to find even footing with one another.
“The store looks good,” Dad said, smiling down at me. At barely five feet tall, I’m small – and somewhat top heavy. Most men tower over me, and my father was no exception. Thankfully, he wasn’t interested in looking down the vee in my shirt like the rest of his gender.
“Thanks,” I said, depositing the last bags on the shelf. “We’re just finishing up our spring cleaning.”
“Your shelves look kind of bare,” Dad said, glancing around the store.
“We don’t have our new inventory out yet,” I explained. “It should arrive Monday.”
Dad’s face brightened. “Does that mean you’re free this weekend?”
“What did you have in mind? I’m not sure Bay and Thistle are up for another family dinner just now,” I said, my mind involuntarily traveling back to the horrors of the last one. While I was ready to strengthen my bond with my father, Bay and Thistle were more reticent. They weren’t exactly fighting the effort, but they weren’t exactly embracing it either.
“Actually, I was hoping you would come out and stay at the Dragonfly this weekend,” Dad said.
I stiffened. The Dragonfly Inn was my father’s new business endeavor. He’d joined forces with his former brothers-in-law, and they’d purchased a dilapidated piece of property on the outskirts of town. After months of hard work, their new inn was getting ready to open – and then it would be in direct competition with the inn that my mother and aunts ran. It was a sore subject in the Winchester house. Actually, it was a really sore subject.
“I didn’t think you were opening for another two
“The Spring Fling,” Thistle replied, her tone dry. “It’s the official ending of the spring season and the beginning of the summer season – even though spring doesn’t end for another four weeks. It’s a stupid tradition.”
“It’s one of our biggest weekends of the year,” I said.
“I know.”
“So, how were we magically going to get the inventory if I didn’t step in and do it?”
Thistle placed her hands on her narrow hips. “I … that’s neither here nor there,” she sniffed. “I always do what needs to be done.”
“Not this time.”
Thistle swiveled, stalking toward the counter so she could grab her purse. “Fine,” she said. “You stay here and do your … organizing … and I’ll go and get the wax. I don’t feel like fighting.”
She could have fooled me. “Fine.”
“Great.” Thistle was already halfway out the door.
“You didn’t win this one,” I yelled to her back.
“I always win.”
No, she always has to get the last word. Unfortunately, that’s a family trait.
TWO HOURS later I was almost done, and I had a great new idea for blueberry pancake wax melts to experiment with when Thistle returned from her jaunt to Traverse City with supplies. I just hoped I could convince Thistle to give it a try.
I started doling the herb bags to their appropriate spots, only stilling when I heard the wind chimes above the door jangle to signify someone’s entrance into the store. “I’ll be right with you.”
“No hurry.”
I recognized the voice. “Hi, Dad.”
I was still getting used to saying that. Dad. It had a nice ring to it, although it was also awkward. My father – along with my two uncles – had recently returned to the area. Being married to a Winchester woman was hard enough, but being married to a Winchester witch was even harder. They’d left during our adolescent years, keeping in varying degrees of communication with us during their exile. Now that they were back, we were all struggling to find even footing with one another.
“The store looks good,” Dad said, smiling down at me. At barely five feet tall, I’m small – and somewhat top heavy. Most men tower over me, and my father was no exception. Thankfully, he wasn’t interested in looking down the vee in my shirt like the rest of his gender.
“Thanks,” I said, depositing the last bags on the shelf. “We’re just finishing up our spring cleaning.”
“Your shelves look kind of bare,” Dad said, glancing around the store.
“We don’t have our new inventory out yet,” I explained. “It should arrive Monday.”
Dad’s face brightened. “Does that mean you’re free this weekend?”
“What did you have in mind? I’m not sure Bay and Thistle are up for another family dinner just now,” I said, my mind involuntarily traveling back to the horrors of the last one. While I was ready to strengthen my bond with my father, Bay and Thistle were more reticent. They weren’t exactly fighting the effort, but they weren’t exactly embracing it either.
“Actually, I was hoping you would come out and stay at the Dragonfly this weekend,” Dad said.
I stiffened. The Dragonfly Inn was my father’s new business endeavor. He’d joined forces with his former brothers-in-law, and they’d purchased a dilapidated piece of property on the outskirts of town. After months of hard work, their new inn was getting ready to open – and then it would be in direct competition with the inn that my mother and aunts ran. It was a sore subject in the Winchester house. Actually, it was a really sore subject.
“I didn’t think you were opening for another two
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