“Margot,” the voice cut in. DefinitelynotGeorgie. “This is Priscilla, returning your earlier call.”
My pulse skyrocketed in record time. I paced away from the French doors, maneuvering through the half-set-up cocktail tables, and perched on the ledge. “I’m sorry, I didn’t look at my screen before I picked it up.”
She laughed. “Don’t apologize. Hey, did I hear something about cake tastings? IstheMargot Wade getting married?”
“No, no,” I snorted. “It’s my friend’s wedding in a couple days.”
There was a stretch of silence, then the sound of rustling papers. I spun away from the windows and wrapped one arm around my legs, conserving warmth.
“Did I hear your message right?” Priscilla said. “You have a manuscript for me?”
I swallowed. “Yes. My own novel, about growing up here in Bluebell Cove—fictionalized, of course.”
“Listen, I don’t even need to read it to know I want to represent you.”
“Well—” I paused to suck in a breath. “I’d love it if you read it before making any decisions. I don’t want it to be any sort of favor.”
A smile appeared in her voice as she replied, “Of course, I understand. But I doubt it’ll change my mind.”
I fought to keep from jumping up and throwing my arms in the air. I was doing it—finally, step by step, I inched toward that impossible dream. Only, it didn’t seem quite soimpossibleanymore.
“When can you be in New York next?”
“Next week,” I said. “I’ve got the wedding, and then an event called Fallfest this weekend.”
“Fallfest? That sounds familiar.”
My eyebrows drew together. “In Bluebell Cove? We’ve been getting more press coverage than usual.”
I heard her snap her fingers. “That’s it! I think I saw the name in aTravel and Tastepitch deck—my friend works there. They’re running a year-long series called ‘The Heart of America’, exploring small towns reinventing themselves after economic downturns. Kind of a deep dive into small-town image versus reality—how nostalgia reallysells, you know? What a coincidence.”
Whatever she said next fell on deaf ears. I managed to eke out a plausible excuse and a goodbye, ending the call as my hands began to shake.
Sepia-toned images flashed through my mind: cracked alleyways, hand-painted signs, and my mother, standing in her dated uniform, guarding the decades-old diner she loved. I wrote an entire book about the magic of growing up in Bluebell Cove. Teddy had come to shine a light on all our blemishes and flaws, for the entire world to see.
For the second time in my life, I realized the truth I kept trying to unlearn: Teddy Bowman would always chase the adventure, and I’d always be the one cleaning up the mess.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The rest of the day moved in hazy, slow motion.
I operated dead on my feet, nodding at the right times, shoving cake and lobster into my mouth until Serena was satisfied, too zapped of energy to snap back at Minerva’s snide remarks. Georgie sent me a series of questions about the bachelorette party that I promptly answered. Teddy called and texted. I ignored each.
Later, Serena asked me if I felt alright as she drove us home. I mumbled something about being queasy—which, to be fair, wasn’t a complete lie. She apologized for using me as a taster and offered to make up for it in coffee.
I nodded in response and lowered the window. The fresh air froze my cheeks, but the whistling wind also kept her from asking more questions.
My phone rang again, Teddy’s name lighting up on the screen. I sent him to voicemail.
This town could be complicated; sometimes I hated it growing up—the rapid-fire gossip, the absence of a big city’sshine. I applied to NYU and called it my dream because that’s what everyone expected. In a small town, you weresupposedto want out—to resent it, to run and never look back. But I hadn’t fled Bluebell Cove. I’d fled my own embarrassment for wanting to stay when Teddy chose to go.
Maybe I never really knew him. Maybe, underneath it all, he’d always been the boy who resented his childhood and craved something bigger.
I should’ve seen the signs. None of his dreams ever included the Cove.
And he was allowed to seek out that adventure—just not at the expense of the place and the people I loved.
Serena parked the car in front of the Morning Bell. When she slid out, I did a quick scan of the sidewalk and through the cafe’s windows, breathing a sigh of relief. No sign of a yellow Jeep or a rugged mop of blonde hair.
