The Mage

---

Theresa had walked three blocks before she realized she was still clenching her jaw.

She was supposed to be taking a relaxing lunch-hour walk, the kind the wellness emails at work were always recommending. Get away from your desk. Move your body. Clear your mind. Her body had left the office, but unfortunately, her mind had come with her.

Rumors of layoffs had been circulating for two weeks, growing louder every day. Nobody knew anything, which meant everybody knew something. Theresa had spent the morning watching managers disappear into conference rooms and wondering whether her name was being discussed behind one of those closed doors.

Then there was David. He'd brought up marriage again over breakfast. He was a good man, which was part of the problem. It would have been so much easier if he weren't. She cared about him deeply, but every time he talked about rings and houses and children, Theresa felt the same knot tighten in her stomach.

Her mother had no such doubts. You can't wait forever, Theresa. What about children?

"Great," Theresa muttered as she walked. "Thanks, Mom."

She nearly passed the row of food trucks without noticing them. Then a flash of blue caught her attention.

A lemonade stand sat beneath a blue canopy, its counter crowded with jars of fruit, lemons and large glass dispensers. Behind it stood a young man with dark curls, a neatly trimmed mustache and goatee, and a smile that seemed completely unaffected by whatever problems the rest of the world might be having.

"Hi!" he called. "I'm Miguel."

Theresa couldn't help smiling back. "What do you recommend?"

Miguel studied her for a moment, not in a way that made her uncomfortable. If anything, it was the opposite. He looked at her as though, for those few seconds, she was the only customer he'd had all day.

"I think I have just the thing."

He reached for a cup and began mixing. Theresa watched pieces of fresh lemon tumble into it. Not perfect little decorative slices, either. Real lemon. Pulp, rind, even a seed floating near the top.

"You don't mess around with the lemons."

Miguel laughed. "Wouldn't be lemonade without lemons."

She took a sip and stopped.

For just a second, Theresa was nine years old again. She could hear carnival music and her father's laugh. Her mother was telling her not to run because she'd spill her drink. Her fingers were sticky, and her brother was begging their father for enough money to play one more game because he was absolutely certain he could win the enormous stuffed bear this time. Theresa could almost smell the dust beneath their feet.

She hadn't thought about that day in years.

She took another sip. The memory faded, but the feeling didn't.

Nothing had changed. Her job was still uncertain. David was still waiting for an answer she didn't know how to give him. Her mother would probably call again that evening with another helpful reminder about her biological clock. But somehow, none of it seemed quite as urgent as it had ten minutes earlier.

"Thank you, Miguel."

"For lemonade?"

Theresa smiled. "No. Just...thank you."

Miguel watched her walk away, sipping her drink, until another customer approached and drew his attention back to the counter.

"Hi! What can I make for you?"

He never noticed the seed in Theresa's cup slowly sink to the bottom, or that she was still smiling.

 -----

The next day, Miguel set up his blue tent in a different part of the county. He liked moving around. Some days he parked near office buildings; other days he found a farmers market, festival or community event. He liked never knowing who was going to walk up to his counter.

That afternoon, Walter hadn't planned to stop. He had already eaten lunch, and lemonade wasn't something he normally drank, but the blue tent caught his attention as he passed. Then the man behind the counter smiled at him.

"Beautiful day, isn't it?"

Walter glanced at the gray sky. "If you say so."

The young man laughed. "I'm Miguel."

"Walter."

Miguel reached for a cup.

"I didn't say I wanted anything."

"I know."

That made Walter smile despite himself.

His wife, Rose, had been gone for fourteen months. Everyone had told him the first year would be the hardest.

They were wrong. The second year was worse. During the first year, people checked on him. They brought food. They invited him places. They remembered anniversaries and holidays. Then life moved on.

Walter's hadn't.

Miguel looked over the ingredients on his counter. "Peach."

Walter frowned. "Peach?"

"Peach lemonade. Trust me."

"I don't even like peaches."

Miguel paused, considering that. "Then definitely peach."

Walter laughed. A real laugh. He couldn't remember the last time he'd done that with a stranger.

"Fine. Peach."  Miguel handed him a cup filled with lemonade, chunks of peach and slices of fresh lemon. 

Walter took one sip, and suddenly Rose was standing in their kitchen.

Not really. He knew that. But he could see her on a summer afternoon, slicing peaches for a pie. There was flour streaked across one cheek, and the radio was playing some old song neither of them would have admitted to liking.

Rose had grabbed his hand. Dance with me.

He'd complained. She'd ignored him.

They'd danced between the refrigerator and the kitchen counter until they were both laughing too hard to continue.

Walter closed his eyes. For fourteen months, every memory of Rose had somehow ended at the hospital.

This one didn't.

This one ended with her laughing.

"You okay?" Miguel asked.

Walter opened his eyes. "Yeah." He took another sip. "I'm really okay."

Miguel grinned. "Told you. Peach."

Walter walked away carrying his lemonade and a memory he'd thought grief had stolen.

Miguel watched him go before turning back to his counter. Then he frowned. There was a container of peaches beside the lemons.

"That's weird."

He couldn't remember putting them out that morning. After a moment, he shrugged. He had probably forgotten.

--------

On Wednesday, an eleven-year-old boy stood in front of Miguel's stand counting the dollars in his hand.

"How much?" he asked.

"Depends," Miguel said. "What kind of day are you having?"

The boy looked up. "What does that have to do with lemonade?"

"Everything."

The boy's backpack hung from one shoulder, and his expression suggested he was carrying considerably more than books.

"Bad day," he finally said.

Miguel nodded seriously. "Then you need blueberry."

"Blueberry lemonade?"

"Absolutely."

The boy's name was Eli. For weeks, three boys at school had been making his life miserable. Nothing terrible, he'd kept telling himself. A shove in the hallway. His backpack knocked from his chair. Names whispered just loudly enough for him to hear. His mother had noticed something was wrong, but Eli kept saying he was fine.

Miguel added blueberries and chunks of fresh lemon to the cup.

"How much?" Eli asked again.

Miguel looked at the money clenched in his fist. "Tell you what. First one's on me."

Eli took a sip. It was tart and sweet, and suddenly he remembered his grandfather teaching him to ride a bicycle. Eli had been terrified of falling. His grandfather had jogged beside him, one hand on the back of the seat.

Look where you want to go, Eli. Not where you're afraid you'll fall.

He'd forgotten that.

"Pretty good," Eli said.

Miguel put a hand over his heart. "Pretty good? You wound me."

Eli laughed.

The next morning, one of the boys knocked his backpack onto the floor. Eli looked down at it, then looked at the boy.

"Stop."

The word wasn't loud. It didn't need to be.

Later that day, Eli told his teacher everything.

That afternoon, he went looking for the blue tent. He wanted to pay Miguel for the lemonade, but the tent was gone.

Across town, Miguel was setting up beside a farmers market. He opened a container and stared down at it.

Blueberries.

Miguel scratched his head. "I don't remember buying these."

------

Nora chose the empty table farthest from everyone else.

She had moved to the area three months earlier for a new job. Everyone kept telling her how exciting that must be.

It wasn't.

She missed her friends. She missed knowing which grocery store had the good produce. She missed walking into her favorite coffee shop and having someone know her order. Mostly, she missed having someone to call and say, Want to grab lunch?

"Strawberry lemonade?"

Nora looked up. Miguel stood behind the blue counter holding a cup.

"I didn't order yet."

"I know."

She stared at him. Miguel looked down at the drink, then back at her.

"Apparently, you're having strawberry."

Nora laughed. "Okay."

A few minutes later, another customer approached.

Sam had lived in the area for years. He knew plenty of people, but he had discovered that knowing people wasn't the same as having friends. His divorce had divided those neatly. Some chose his wife. Some chose him. Most simply disappeared because choosing neither was easier.

Miguel looked at him. "Strawberry."

Sam frowned. "I was going to order watermelon."

"So was I," Miguel said.

"What?"

Miguel looked at the cup in his hand. "Nothing. Strawberry it is."

Every table was occupied except Nora's.

"Mind if I sit here?" Sam asked.

Nora glanced at his lemonade and held up hers. "Only if you can explain why the lemonade guy decided I needed strawberry."

Sam sat down. "That's weird. I ordered watermelon."

They both looked toward the blue tent. Miguel waved.

Twenty minutes later, their cups were empty and they were still talking. Nora discovered Sam knew every little restaurant worth trying within twenty miles. Sam discovered Nora loved old movies as much as he did. Neither noticed when Miguel began packing up.

As he loaded the last box, he found two containers beneath the counter. One was labeled STRAWBERRY. The other said WATERMELON.

The watermelon container was full.

Miguel stared at it. "Huh."

Then he closed the box.

Across the parking lot, Nora and Sam were exchanging phone numbers.

• • •

By Friday, Miguel had stopped wondering quite so much about the ingredients. There was always a reasonable explanation. He'd bought something and forgotten about it. He'd reached for the wrong container. A customer had misunderstood what they'd ordered.

Life was full of little coincidences.

Carla saw the blue tent after a morning of shopping and decided she wanted something cold before heading home.

"Raspberry," Miguel said as she approached.

Carla raised an eyebrow. "Do I get to order?"

"Of course."

"Good. Strawberry."

Miguel reached beneath the counter and somehow came back with raspberry.

They both stared at the cup.

"Apparently, we're having raspberry," Carla said.

Miguel laughed. "Apparently."

She stepped aside as another woman approached.

"Let me guess," the woman said. "You decide what I want?"

Miguel grinned. "I'm getting a reputation." He looked at his ingredients. "Raspberry."

The woman shook her head. "Anything but raspberry."

Carla froze. She knew that voice.

She turned slowly. "Linda?"

The woman stared at her.

Four years had passed since the argument. Four years since two sisters who once talked every day had stopped speaking over something neither of them could clearly explain anymore.

At first, they'd both been angry. Then they'd both been stubborn. Eventually, too much time had passed, and neither knew how to be the first one to cross the distance between them.

"What are you doing here?" Linda finally asked.

"Buying lemonade."

Linda looked at Carla's cup. "Raspberry?"

Carla nodded.

Their mother's favorite.

Every summer she'd made raspberry lemonade in a huge glass pitcher and threatened anyone who touched it before dinner.

Linda's eyes filled with tears. "I miss her."

Three words. That was all it took.

"So do I," Carla whispered.

Miguel quietly placed another raspberry lemonade on the counter. Linda picked it up.

"Can we sit somewhere?"

Carla nodded. "Yeah. I think we should."

Miguel watched the sisters walk toward a bench. He smiled, although he wasn't sure why. Then he looked down.

The raspberry container was empty.

Miguel frowned. He could have sworn there hadn't been any raspberries when he'd set up that morning.

• • •

Saturday brought Margaret.

She wasn't sure how long she had been walking. She remembered leaving the doctor's office and heading toward her car, but somewhere along the way she had passed it. She couldn't make herself go back.

The doctor's words followed her.

The treatments weren't working.

There were other things they could try, but eventually he'd said what she'd been dreading. There wasn't much time.

At seventy-eight, Margaret had always said she wasn't afraid of dying. She'd lived a good life. Now that death was no longer an abstract idea, she discovered that she was terrified.

Mostly, she was terrified for the people she loved.

How would she tell Tom, the man who had slept beside her for forty-eight years? How would she tell her children? Her grandchildren? How could she possibly look at their faces while breaking their hearts?

Lost in thought, she nearly walked past the blue lemonade tent.

"Hello," the young man behind the counter said. "I'm Miguel."

"Margaret."

He didn't ask if she was all right. She was grateful for that.

"Would you make me something?"

"What would you like?"

Margaret looked at the fruit, the lemons and the colorful containers. "I honestly don't know."

Miguel smiled. "I can work with that."

He mixed fresh lemon with honey and handed her the cup. Margaret took a sip and closed her eyes.

She remembered holding her first baby and being absolutely certain she would have no idea how to be a mother. She remembered Tom pulling her barefoot into a dance in their kitchen. Christmas mornings. Birthday cakes. Family vacations that had gone disastrously wrong and become their favorite stories. Her grandchildren climbing into her lap. Tom's hand finding hers beneath the covers after forty-eight years of marriage.

Margaret opened her eyes.

She had been so afraid of losing her life that she'd forgotten how much life she'd already had. Tears slipped down her cheeks. Miguel quietly handed her a napkin.

"I've had a wonderful life," she whispered.

"Sounds like it," he said softly.

"I don't know how to tell them."

Miguel didn't ask what she meant. "Maybe you don't have to know how."

Margaret looked at him.

"Maybe you just have to let them love you."

She stood quietly for a moment, then smiled.

When Margaret reached her car, she called Tom.

"Come get me, sweetheart. Then let's get the kids together. I need to tell everyone something."

Miguel watched her walk away before tasting what remained in the pitcher.

Lemon and honey. Nothing unusual.

Except he couldn't remember making it.

• • •

On Sunday, the Monterey County Fair was alive with music, laughter and the smells of fried food, barbecue and kettle corn. Miguel had arrived early. He liked fairs. People came to them ready to be happy.

By afternoon, hundreds of people had passed his blue tent. Miguel was restocking cups when he heard someone call his name.

"Miguel!"

He looked up. A boy was hurrying toward him. For a second, Miguel couldn't place him. Then he smiled.

"Blueberry!"

Eli laughed. "You remember me."

"Of course I do."

Eli reached the counter and pulled some money from his pocket. "I came back to pay you."

"For what?"

"The lemonade. You gave it to me for free."

Miguel shook his head. "You already paid me."

Eli frowned. "How?"

Miguel leaned against the counter. "You came back."

Eli smiled. Then he told Miguel about the boys at school. He told him about finally saying stop and about telling his teacher what had been happening.

Miguel listened, looking increasingly puzzled.

"I don't think the lemonade had anything to do with that," he finally said.

"Maybe not," Eli replied.

But he wasn't so sure.

A younger boy wandered toward the stand. He wasn't looking at Miguel or the menu. Instead, he was watching a group of children laughing together near one of the rides. There was something familiar about the way he stood apart from everyone.

Miguel turned toward his ingredients.

Eli noticed the blueberries first.

For some reason, he knew.

"You should try the blueberry lemonade," Eli told him.

The boy looked at him. "Is it good?"

Eli thought about his grandfather running beside his bicycle. He thought about his backpack hitting the floor. He thought about one word spoken without shouting.

Stop.

"It's really good."

Miguel made the lemonade and handed it across the counter. The younger boy took a sip, and his face brightened.

Eli smiled. "See you around, Miguel."

Miguel waved. "I'm sure you will."

Eli disappeared into the crowd.

Miguel turned back to the younger boy. "So, what kind of day are you having?"

The boy hesitated.

Then he began to talk.

Miguel listened.

He didn't notice the blueberries that hadn't been there when he'd opened the stand that morning. He didn't notice the elderly man approaching from one direction or the tired young mother coming from another. He didn't notice how often people arrived at his counter carrying something invisible and walked away carrying it a little differently.

Miguel knew nothing about magic.

He knew lemons and fruit. He knew that sometimes people needed someone to listen. He knew that a smile didn't cost anything, that kindness was easy to give, and that there was almost always room for one more person at the counter.

As evening settled over the Monterey County Fair, the lights of the Ferris wheel began to glow against the darkening sky. Miguel looked around at the containers on his counter. Strawberry. Watermelon. Peach. Blueberry. Raspberry. A few others he couldn't quite remember preparing. He shook his head and laughed to himself. Tomorrow he'd have to do a better job keeping track of his inventory.

A woman approached the stand. She looked tired.

Miguel reached for a cup.

"Hi," he said with the same warm smile he'd given Theresa seven days earlier. "What kind of day are you having?"

The woman looked surprised.

Then, slowly, she smiled.

And somewhere among Miguel's ingredients, something was already waiting for her.

He just didn't know it yet.

© 2026 Susan (Susie) Hanson. All rights reserved.