A Drexford Thanksgiving

Tadmore Books. Drexford, Massachusetts.

"Do witches have any special traditions at Thanksgiving?" Logan asked me.

I stopped dusting the bookshelf to ponder how to answer. This was the sixth brainteaser he'd posed me that day. I volunteered to mentor Logan a month ago after discovering he's a witch. The high school junior loves books as much as me. Hiring him to help out at the bookshop on Sunday afternoons has worked out well for both of us. Quincy, the bookstore's owner, is tolerant of our frequent breaks to practice magic since he too is a witch.

Logan is a special case. His parents are deceased and his grandparents don't realize he has any magical ability. He's just starting to explore the hidden world of creatures. A club of creatures at his high school is helping with the transition. Like most everything else in our community, it's a secret group. But from what Logan told me, they spend most of their time playing the fantasy board game Fleetnight Oracles. The challenge of explaining the creature facts of life is left to me.

"We celebrate like everyone else," I explained, resolutely ignoring my family's unusual traditions. "We tend not to dwell on the Puritans as that can be a sensitive subject. Some witches equate Thanksgiving with a harvest festival but mainly it's a time to be thankful for our families. You're lucky. You have both your blood relatives and now your extended family of fellow creatures."

"I think I'd prefer to celebrate with my new family," he said as he straightened a shelf of fantasy paperbacks. "My grandparents invited my uncle and his family to spend Thanksgiving with us."

"You won't enjoy seeing them?"

He shook his head. "I met them at my parents' funeral for the first time. They insisted on calling me a girl. I doubt they've changed much since then."

"But your grandparents accept your identity. They could be a good influence."

He shrugged but didn't look convinced. "I expect you're going home for Thanksgiving?"

I wished I could. My parents were killed in New Orleans three years ago. I moved to Drexford when my great-aunt passed away, leaving me the cottage. Last year I spent the holiday reading with my cat Edwina and trying to ignore all the pictures of happy family reunions.

I decided to invent a plausible excuse for Logan so he wouldn't feel sorry for me. "I usually spend Thanksgiving in New York City with friends." Books counted, right? I could stay in a hotel with a book theme. Only one problem—offhand I don't know of any hotels in Manhattan that allow cats. I could probably find one in the suburbs to camp out. Most restaurants are closed on Thanksgiving, but a few fast-food places are open. Not the most thrilling option since I'm a vegetarian. My Thanksgiving feast would consist of french fries, ketchup, and ice cream.

Quincy strolled over. "Tess, I hope you'll come to our harvest celebration on Sunday." He gave me a sharp look. "You should be back from New York by then."

I hoped my smile didn't betray how flustered I was. Darn Quincy's super-hearing.

"Logan, you're quite welcome too," Quincy added. "This will give you a chance to meet my husband Ramesh. He owns the wine shop down the street. He's also quite a gourmet. Julieta will enjoy having someone her age present. I've already invited Finn and Olivia. No need to bring anything. The menu is already planned."

Julieta is Quincy and Ramesh's daughter. She's also a werewolf and a member of the club Logan belongs to.

Logan and I were quick to express our appreciation. After Quincy returned to his office, Logan asked me, "Is Mr. Tadmore's husband a witch too? Julieta told me she was adopted and originally from Costa Rica. I think she was trying to make me feel better about losing my parents."