Restless Nights, Father?
The sun had barely lifted over the cypress trees when Sabine unlocked the front door of The Cypress Cabinet, her little apothecary at the edge of town. Morning light spilled through the lace curtains, soft and gold, stirring the dust motes into dance. Somewhere out in the swamp, the frogs were still croaking, slow and sleepy, like they hadn’t realized the night was over.
Inside, it smelled of herbs and honey and something older—something wild.
“Come on, Popeye,” she murmured, nudging the black cat with her foot. “Up and at ’em. Folks’ll be needin’ their tonics.”
Popeye stretched across the counter, gave one unimpressed mrrp, then hopped down to the window sill where his little round bed waited. He turned three lazy circles, plopped into the sunlight, and immediately began to purr.
Sabine only smiled. She moved through the shop with practiced ease, setting glass jars in their places, lighting a small bundle of rosemary at the counter. The smoke curled upward, crackling faintly in the morning quiet. Shelves lined every wall—dried herbs in jars, tinctures glowing amber in the light, oils and balms and teas for every ailment you could name.
It was home. Her little slice of calm between the swamp and the rest of the world.
She had just finished arranging a tray of lemon balm tea when the bell over the door chimed.
Two women entered, wrapped in thin shawls despite the already-climbing heat. Town regulars—Miss Alma Dupre and her sister Claudette—familiar faces with wagging tongues.
“Well, mornin’, Miss Sabine,” Alma said, eyes bright as ever. “We came for that salve you made for Claudette’s rheumatism. Worked better than the doctor’s medicine, I swear it did.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Sabine said, her smile warm. She reached behind the counter for a small tin. “Rub it in twice a day, and don’t forget the tea I gave you. It’ll keep the swelling down.”
As she wrapped the tin in brown paper, the sisters exchanged a look. Claudette leaned in, lowering her voice like they were swapping secrets.
“You heard about the new priest?”
Sabine tied the twine with a flick of her wrist. “Can’t say that I have.”
“Oh, honey,” Alma breathed, delighted. “Father Gabriel Moreau. Fresh from New Orleans. Young, too. Not what we’re used to, that’s for sure.”
“Too young for the collar, if you ask me,” Claudette muttered, though her smirk betrayed more interest than disapproval.
Sabine smiled faintly, feigning disinterest though she listened all the same. “And what brings a young priest like that all the way out here?”
“They say he asked to come,” Alma said, fanning herself. “Wanted to ‘serve somewhere quiet.’” She chuckled. “Quiet, can you imagine? He’ll learn soon enough this town ain’t quiet. Especially not with the likes of—”
Claudette’s elbow found her ribs, quick.
Sabine’s lips curved, slow and knowing. “With the likes of who, Miss Claudette?”
Claudette flushed, fiddling with her purse strap. “Oh, I just meant… folks. Always needin’ help. Always sick. Always prayin’ for miracles.”
“Mmm.” Sabine handed them the parcel. “Miracles come in many forms.”
The bell chimed again as they left, whispering all the way down the street.
When the door shut, the quiet returned—only the hum of cicadas, the creak of old wood, and Popeye’s steady purr from the window. Sabine poured herself a cup of chicory coffee and leaned against the counter, staring out toward the sunlight flickering through the moss-draped oaks.
A new priest. Father Gabriel Moreau.
She wondered what kind of man he was. If he’d look down on her like the last one did, or if he’d smile that cautious, polite smile reserved for the strange woman in the swamp.
She lifted the mug to her lips, half-smiling. “We’ll see, won’t we, Popeye?”
The cat flicked his tail, already half asleep.
By late afternoon, the heat had softened into something syrupy and golden. The air smelled like wild mint and wet stone. Sabine was sweeping near the doorway when the bell chimed again.
A tall man stood there, framed by the fading light. His black hair was tousled from the humidity, his sleeves rolled, the top button of his shirt undone.
Her gaze flicked over him once, deliberate. He didn’t have to say a word. She already knew.
“Good evening,” he said carefully. “I hope I’m not intruding.”
“Not at all,” she said, straightening the broom. “We were just about to close.”
He hesitated before stepping inside, eyes sweeping over the jars and bottles that gleamed softly in the dusk. “I heard you might have something for nerves,” he said after a moment. “For... restless nights.”
Sabine’s mouth tilted into a quiet, knowing smile. “Restless nights, Father?”
His shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly. The faintest flash of surprise crossed his face before he could hide it.
“How did you—”
But she was already moving, her skirts whispering as she crossed to the shelves. “You’ve got the look of a man who carries too much on his mind,” she said lightly. “That kind of weight doesn’t sleep easy.”
Sabine’s hand brushed his when she passed him the jar. A spark—soft but undeniable—shot through him, catching somewhere low in his chest. Her skin was cool, her eyes warmer than they had any right to be.
“Lavender balm,” she murmured. “For the noise that keeps you up. And this—” she lifted the sachet, her fingers grazing his again “—is for the heart. You may not realize it, but that’s the part that needs quiet most.”
Gabriel swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “And what do I owe you?”
Her smile curved, lazy and certain. “Nothing at all. Consider it... a kindness freely given.”
The way she said kindness made the word feel heavier than it should have. It lingered in the air between them, rich as incense.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The cicadas hummed outside; the air thickened with the scent of rosemary and heat. He could hear the faint creak of floorboards under her feet as she stepped closer, just close enough that he caught the faint sweetness of her perfume—something floral, something wild.
“Welcome to Cypress Hollow, Father,” she said softly.
His name sounded different in her mouth, too intimate, too alive. He should’ve left then. He knew that. But he only nodded and turned slowly, his pulse echoing in his ears.
Outside, the swamp wind felt cooler, cleaner—like stepping out of a fever. He didn’t look back, though every step away from her door felt like it pulled at something invisible, something he couldn’t name.
