“Eli.” I gave his fingers a light squeeze. “He’s just a man working on his boat.”
“Nuh-uh.” Eli shook his head. “That’s a pirate.”
The man looked up at Eli’s words. His sunglasses shielded his eyes, and he flashed a lopsided grin, but it was gone almost as quickly as I’d caught it.
The breeze blew past him and towards me. As it washed over me I picked up on the scent of the harbor, and the tiniest bit of psychic information about the man. Intelligence, shrewdness, and maybe...destiny. My stomach flipped.
Eli stood and stared at the man. I tried not to do the same. Instead, I shook off the psychic information, sending a friendly smile in his direction. The man nodded in response. Then he returned his attention to his boat.
I felt a momentary pang at not being striking enough to hold the man’s attention, but I shrugged it off, reminding myself to be happy with what I had. Neither short nor tall, I was a curvy five foot seven. My hair tended to misbehave, so I let it grow past my shoulders, and its only redeeming quality was that it was a nice shade of honey blonde. My eyes were a denim blue, nothing exotic, and nothing that inspired men to passion.
I was comfortable with my looks, but they were dead average—apparently all the gorgeous genes had gone to my older and younger siblings.
The breeze shifted and the aroma of fried food wafted over me. “How about we go get some lunch, at Mona’s?” I tried to distract Eli.
“Can I have chicken fingers?”
“Yes, you can.”
“Let’s go!” Eli tugged me along to the little dockside lobster shack down from the pier. We walked to a simple building clad in weathered wood faded to silvery-gray. It faced the marina and boasted a smattering of umbrella covered, rustic picnic tables. A huge bright red lobster was painted on the side of the building. Mona’s Lobster Shack had been around forever, and what it lacked in style, it more than made up for with the food.
The glass window slid open. “What can I get you?” asked the teenager working the front.
After placing our orders, Eli and I sat under the shade of a picnic table umbrella, enjoying the cooler breeze off the water. The seats gave us a great view of the port, and I could also still see that man working on his boat in the distance. Not that I was interested anyway...I’d learned my lesson about mingling with outsiders. Very few could accept anything beyond what they considered the norm. The wind toyed with my hair and I tucked a few wayward strands behind my ear.
But still, I tried to remember the last time any guy had made me perk up and notice him. It had been a while. The only men in my life these days was my father, my best friend Edmund, and of course the little one currently wearing a pirate hat and using his toy spyglass to watch the horizon.
“Keep a weather eye…” Eli mumbled to himself.
I grinned at him, snuck my phone out of my purse and took a few pictures of my boy with the marina in the background. He was so damn cute. And growing up so fast. I tried not to feel sad that in a year, he’d be starting Kindergarten.
“Here you go.” Mona Trask, owner and cook of Mona’s Lobster Shack, dropped off the baskets herself. “Chicken tenders and fries for Eli, and a lobster roll and coleslaw for you.”
“French fries!” Eli set his spyglass on the table and pounced on his lunch.
The scent of the lobster roll hit, and my mouth watered. “Thanks, Mona.”
“Would you tell your folks I’ll be in to pick up my spice order tomorrow before the holiday?”
“Sure,” I said, and proceeded to squirt ketchup on the fries for my son.
“Your sister Kayleigh is the only person I trust to mix my spices for my recipes,” Mona said.
I smiled. “She’ll be happy to hear you say that.”
“Seriously,” Mona said, “your parents have the best spice shop north of Boston.”
They did indeed, I thought. What had started as a tiny little store front when I’d been Eli’s age was now a booming local business. My parents specialized in bulk spices, teas and custom blends of spice mixes. “I’ll remind Kayleigh and she’ll make sure they are ready to go.”
“Both the seasoned salt for the fries and the spices for the fish batter.” Mona reminded me.
“Sure,” I said, picking up my phone. “I’ll text her now.”
“Eat all your food,” Mona said to Eli.
“Aye, aye!” Eli said with his mouth full.
“You scalawag.” Mona patted his shoulder and went to help her next customers.
Eli slurped his soda through his straw. “Mona makes the best chicken fingers.”
I sent my text and raised an eyebrow at him. “Are they better than mine?”
He grinned at me. “Maybe.”
I pretended to be offended. “That’s a horrible thing to say to your mother.” I pressed my hand to my heart for dramatic effect.
“Grandma says that.” Eli giggled at me. “She says it just like that.”
“I know.”
“Pop says Grandma is a drama queen.”
I swallowed wrong, coughed and thumped my fist against my chest. “You shouldn’t repeat that, Eli.” If my mother heard that she’d have my father’s head on a platter.
“Why?” He frowned up at me. “Grandma’s funny, and I like it best when she makes the plants and flowers dance.”
I flinched and glanced around, but no one was close enough to overhear us. “What’s the family rule, Eli?” I asked.
“Don’t talk about mag—”
“Rutabaga,” I cut him off, and he started to giggle.
Rutabaga was the family code word for ‘magick’. My family had a strict code of silence with outsiders. We kept our Craft quiet and our spiritual beliefs hidden. We always had.
My father had started the ‘rutabaga rule’ when I’d been little. It had been silly fun for my sister, brother and me, and it had
