A Little Taste of Magic

by M. J. O'Shea

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A Little Taste of Magic Copyright © 2016 by M.J. O’Shea

  Cover Art © 2016 by M.J. O’Shea

  http://www.mjoshea.com

  Chapter Heading Artwork by Lileya

  http://lileya.deviantart.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Ari. Shelley, Mom, and everyone else who helped me with this book.

  It’s been a learning experience and I couldn’t have done it alone!

  Xoxo,

  MJ

  “Okay, just hold your hand over the lasagna and concentrate. We’re going to try infusing this one with just a light bit of happiness and sunshine. I’m sick of the rain.”

  Arlo Vallerand ignored the heavy summer rain that pounded on L’Osteria Di Pomodoro’s kitchen windows and tried to pull in the warmth of the kitchen and the memory of yesterday’s hazy afternoon until they were somewhere nestled in his chest.

  He’d grown to love the old restaurant’s kitchen over the summer - tall and cavernous but somehow homey. It usually smelled like baking bread and one of his cousin’s specialties. The kitchen was rarely quiet, either, filled to the brim with chatter and clanking pots, noise from the dining area and even a radio that played bossa nova whenever his cousin’s best friend stopped by to help.

  Arlo wanted to take that feeling and put it in the lasagna. Just that feeling. Nothing else. He concentrated on his cousin Frankie’s voice and whispered, “Happiness. Warmth. Sunshine.”

  Arlo’s palm tingled a bit and then he lifted his hand. Frankie clapped him on the back. “Good job. Take a taste and see if it worked.”

  Arlo dipped a spoon – not his cousin’s treasured wooden one, of course – into sauce that had pooled at the corner and tasted it. He was immediately filled with a faint but pleasant sensation of golden light, baking bread, and coziness that came from Frankie’s cooking. Of summer and, well, sunshine. “It worked.”

  He put the spoon down on the work surface and grinned. It had taken all summer to get where he was. When he’d first arrived in his cousin’s kitchen, he’d been a mess.

  “You’re getting so much better at that. You’d be surprised how hard an accurate food charm is for most of our family.”

  Arlo grinned. Sometimes he wondered how it was possible that Frankie was a cousin, rather than his brother. He sure seemed far more like Arlo than the rest of the Vallerands.

  “Okay,” Frankie said. “On the next pan, we’re doing it without speaking out loud. Remember. Happiness and sunshine.”

  Arlo tried to protest, but Frankie held up his spoon like a sword. “I know you can do it, don’t be stubborn.”

  “I can only do it silently when I don’t mean to.”

  “See? If you’re doing it subconsciously, that means you’re strong with emotion charms. I’ve never done it accidentally. At least not when I wasn’t already in the middle of charming something.” Frankie smiled and blushed a bit.

  “Do I want to know?” Arlo asked. He knew his cousin had a very good relationship with his husband, Addison. Especially after spending the past nine months living at their house. Very good. He wasn’t sure if he needed more details than he already had.

  “Oh, it’s nothing like that. Really. I was just in the middle of charming some fruit sauce once when Addie walked up and tickled me. I kind of gave my sauce the giggles. But I’ve never done it subconsciously from scratch. That’s, like, a whole different level. I’ve never met a witch who could do that.”

  Arlo had to hold back his own snort. “You really gave fruit sauce the giggles. Wow.”

  “Please don’t repeat that story back home.” Frankie cringed and swept his dark hair off his face – a gesture Arlo found they had in common. “If my mom doesn’t already know, I’d rather save myself the humiliation.”

  Frankie’s mom was a bit…. interesting to say the least. A purist. Old school. Okay, she was a pain in the ass. Arlo didn’t blame Frankie for moving across the country from Louisiana to get away from her. He also didn’t blame him for wanting to hide his quirkier moments from her judgment.

  “Lips sealed. Are we going to do the rest of the lasagnas before you open?” Arlo asked.

  “Yes. Yes. And I’ll do the cheesecakes. I think… openness. People could use a bit of interaction with each other, right?”

  “Sure.” Arlo grinned. After all these months, he still loved watching Frankie work.

  “Since you’ve got the food charming down, you want to work on rain spells next? They’re completely useless, but they’ll impress the boys,” Frankie said with a wink. “I should know.”

  “How could I say no to that?” Arlo chuckled.

  Arlo woke with a start and sat up in bed. It was bright outside his window, glowing with the soft warmth of late summer in San Francisco. It took him a while to force himself into the real world.

  He’d just had the most realistic dream. It was uncanny. And very unlike him.

  Snow and wind swirled outside, and the sound of laughter bubbled happily from the next room…

  His belly was warm and tingly and he’d never been so happy. Arlo smelled tomatoes and melting cheese; there was laughter in the distance and a warmth like he’d never felt in his life. Completion. Joy.

  Arlo blinked a few times and tried to shake the dream, but he couldn’t. The feelings were all still there – intense happiness, that inexplicable belly-deep sense of rightness, the laughter the smells, a voice calling his name. He still felt all of it. And he had no idea where the dream had come from.

  The feeling welled up inside him, swallowed him whole, shimmered out of every pore. It was magic – the real forever kind.

  “Baby. Are you done in there?”

  It was a voice he knew somehow, but he strained to remember it. He wanted to hear it again.

  “Arlo? Babe? Let me help you. It’ll be bedtime before that thing is ready to eat.” The voice was accompanied by a soft chuckle.

  Arlo tried to look up, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t see the face that went with the voice.

  He needed to see a face…

  Nothing in his life had felt more real, more necessary than the man in the dream, whoever he was.

  He had to go find him.

  Arlo pulled himself out of bed and stumbled to the closet. His chest ached a bit, like there had been something there and it was suddenly gone. He shook off the feeling and pulled his bags from the floor of the closet. He started to pack his belongings away. It wouldn’t take long. He’d never had very many things. Arlo had to find him. He had to find the voice.

  “Arlo? What are you doing?” His cousin Frankie stood at the door, scrubbing a hand through tousled dark curls that looked a lot like his own, just a few inches shorter. He had on a pair of pajama pants and a tank top and looked confused. Arlo felt bad about waking him up.

  “Sorry if I was being loud.”

  It was early, probably only a little bit past sunrise. Arlo knew he had to look like he’d lost his mind, frantically packing in the pale light of early morning. Frankie would understand.

  Arlo had been staying with Frankie and his husband Addison in San Francisco since Christmas time, probably the longest he’d been anywhere since he’d le
ft home. He’d loved his time with them, learning from Frankie and growing into his skills. But he had to go. He needed to go.

  “That’s okay.” Frankie walked over and sank onto Arlo’s bed. “Are you going to explain to me what’s going on here?”

  “I had a dream,” Arlo said. Okay, that sounded a little dramatic. He shoved a shirt into his duffel bag.

  “Fantastic attention to detail, MLK. You want to expand on that a little?” Frankie smiled tiredly at his own joke.

  “Don’t be sarcastic,” Arlo said. He pushed the heel of his hand against his eye for a moment. It didn’t help ground him. “I’m too flustered to try bantering with you.”

  “Sorry. Tell me about the dream.”

  “You know how Sofia has dreams? You know, dreams?” Arlo asked. That was enough of an explanation. He saw the moment Frankie got it, loud and clear on his face. Frankie’s eyes widened slightly, and he bit his lip.

  “Yeah. Of course, I know about her dreams,” he rushed out. “Really?” Arlo and Frankie were both very aware of Arlo’s sister’s best skill. She’d had it for years but prophetic dreams weren’t a common gift in their family.

  “Yes. I had a dream dream. Like hers.”

  Frankie’s eyes went wide. He stumbled into the room and sank down on Arlo’s unmade bed. “Like…”

  “I don’t dream like Sofia does I never have before, but I did. It felt real. Like something that’s supposed to happen. I can still feel it.” He didn’t know how to explain how it just felt different, not like a normal dream. How he’d known that whatever was in that scene, the people, the smells, that feeling, was something he needed to find.

  “You want to call your sister?” Frankie asked gently. Sofia would be able to help him, but talking to her wouldn’t cure the itch under his skin. Wouldn’t rid the need to find the person attached to the voice he could still hear in the back of his head. The one who called him baby, and felt like forever.

  “Nah. I’m just going to get on the road.”

  “Babe.” Frankie sighed. “Do you even know where you’re going?”

  Arlo knew his mother and Frankie had hoped living with a… like-minded family member would cure him of his need to wander. He’d kind of hoped it would too. And it had. Before the dream.

  “It was snowing in the dream. So north somewhere, I’d imagine. Probably east too.”

  “It’s a pretty big country, man. That’s not a lot to go on. I think you should call your sister.”

  Arlo stood silently for a few moments. And then he felt it right in his gut like he should’ve known all along. Zero doubt. “Maine,” he said. “I’m going to Maine.”

  Maybe he did need to call Sofia. Dreams and visions were so out of his skill range, and he should make sure he wasn’t doing something wrong. He’d call once he got on the road.

  “Maine’s a long way from San Francisco.”

  Arlo nodded. “It is. I suppose I’d better get going.”

  The town of Baxter Hollow, Maine, hadn’t changed much in the past hundred years or so and Gray Baxter quite liked it that way – as he should since it was his family who’d founded the town back in the pre-revolution days. Sure, cars and stoplights and typical day-to-day things had made their way through Baxter Hollow’s borders, but the streets still looked much like they did in the drawing his great-great-grandmother had made that hung on Gray’s dining room wall, and many of the families in town had been there nearly as long as his. Gray had always figured that was a good thing.

  There was something comforting about the steadfastness of the creeping ivy and old brick walls, the meandering cobblestone streets, and the way the river that circled the outskirts of town trotted along politely between its grassy banks all the way to the Atlantic without ever daring to overflow – except once during a torrential spring downpour when he was twelve. Gray shuddered at the vague faded memory of panicked townspeople and general chaos in the middle of the night. He hoped nothing like that would ever happen again.

  And it won’t. Not if I have anything to do with it.

  Everyone in Baxter Hollow knew each other, knew everything about each other, and they always had. It was just a fact of life around there. The same way it was a fact that the cherry trees bloomed in April, the county fair was always held in June, and the town square was neat and well kept – mostly with Gray’s own money.

  Things were the way they were, and he didn’t see any problem with that. Too many places changed just for the sake of change, brought in big-box stores, drive-through burger joints, and high-rise hotels, and look where it got them. They certainly weren’t the prettiest, most orderly town in New England.

  People thought he was funny for being the way he was, young guy and all, so stuffy and stuck in his ways. But Gray liked tradition, he liked comfort and family and familiar surroundings. There wasn’t anything wrong with that, he always said. Even if his friends mocked him for it from time to time. Or always.

  Gray rarely drove, except to leave town. Nearly everything was reachable on foot – or bike if he had to do any carrying. Baxter Hollow had stayed small and compact over the years, never gave into strip-mall sprawl or mazes of cookie-cutter houses. So it was a bright September morning that found him walking toward his family’s offices with a huge cup of Earl Grey tea with milk in the Batman thermos he’d had since second grade, a heated-up breakfast sandwich, and a rather complacent smile.

  “Morning, Gray!”

  Gray looked up to see his oldest friend, Leo, teetering on the top of a ladder in the middle of repairing Mrs. Brown, the piano teacher’s, gutter. He and Leo had known each other their whole lives, since Leo was born to the renters of a small farm that was part of Gray’s family estate. Gray and Leo had known Mrs. Brown’s sons for years too, although both of them were long since gone, leaving Baxter Hollow for bigger and brighter things.

  “Hullo, Leo.” Gray nodded and smiled, but didn’t dare stop to chat.

  Leo had a habit of toppling down from tall places when he was distracted. Gray didn’t particularly feel like a drive down the highway to the county emergency room. It had happened before, and everyone involved had learned their lesson; don’t distract Leo when he’s at work.

  Leo was a happy guy, easily pleased and content with his place in town. He was always ready with a wave or a smile. Gray’s family had offered to fund his tuition to the college of his choice back when Gray had been accepted to Columbia in New York. Leo had opted to stay home in Baxter Hollow and start his own business instead of going to school. Gray often wondered if that hadn’t been the best course of action. There hadn’t been much in New York for Gray; he didn’t like the lights and the noise and the traffic and how everything was so impersonal. He’d been home from Columbia for nearly four years. He didn’t plan on leaving again anytime soon.

  “See you at the pub for dinner?” Leo called.

  “Of course,” Gray said back. He scrunched his eyebrows. They always met at their friend Sawyer’s brewpub for dinner after work on weeknights – it was far better than any half-assed attempt at cooking he or Leo could make.

  Why would today be any different?

  Leo waved, and his ladder wobbled; he might have fallen to the ground if he hadn’t gotten a good hold on Mrs. Brown’s downspout. Gray’s heart tripped in his chest for a moment before he saw that everything, and everyone, was righted.

  Gray always walked down Maine Street – he always thought his forefathers had a bit of a sense of humor adding the e – and through the town square on his way to the office. His family’s building was located kitty-corner to the statue of Benjamin Jonathan Baxter, who’d founded Baxter Hollow back in the early 1700s. He usually stopped to say hello to the man, who was his distant ancestor… somehow.

  Despite his love of Baxter Hollow and the traditions of the area, Gray had never quite grasped the complexities of the family’s genealogy; a fact that his mother was rather disappointed with. Madeline Baxter was disappointed with Gray quite a lot. Madeline H
aley, he reminded himself. His mother was on her second marriage. Jason was a nice enough fellow, Gray supposed, but he wasn’t from Baxter Hollow, and they’d been married while Gray was away at college. Gray barely saw him above once or twice a month so he hadn’t exactly gotten the chance to get close in the past few years.

  Which was fine for everyone involved.

  When Gray turned the corner into the town square, he inhaled, hoping for another fresh breath of autumn air, leaves and grass and fading sunshine. Instead, he smelled… tea? Gray took another long, quizzical sniff. He brought his thermos up to his nose, but no, it was closed tightly, and instead of coming from a certain distinct spot, the scent seemed to be everywhere, floating faintly on the breeze. The entire town square smelled like a good cup of brisk Earl Grey, brewed and lightly milked to perfection… and cinnamon toast, just a faint hint, freshly cut grass and vanilla frosting and a wet spring rain. Gray closed his eyes for a moment. How? The scent made the hairs on the back of his neck stand. An odd light twisty feeling worked its way through his belly. He wanted to breathe it in and never stop.

  Gray opened his eyes once more and looked around, tried to get the source of that enticing smell that changed on the breeze and made him want to close his eyes and inhale some more. But no – the town square looked just like it always did.

  “You alright, man?” Gray turned at the sound of a voice he’d not been expecting. Jake Suarez.

  Jake’s quiet little bookshop was across the square from Gray’s office. He’d been a few years ahead of Gray in school. Mostly, he was a quiet type. Sat in his shop or on the bench outside cozied up in a big wool cardigan, lived with his grandmother, sold dusty books to tourists driving through town, and smoked expensive cigarettes. Gray didn’t really know him, but he knew about him. Just like he knew about everyone.

  “I’m fine, thank you.” Didn’t hurt to be polite. “Do you smell that?”

  Jake lifted his cup. That must be it. That was the tea smell. Gray was relieved, ready to write the whole thing off. “I just smell my coffee.”