I move—rugs straightened, windows cracked, cash counted, muffins plated. Normal is a choreography I can do by muscle memory. It helps. It always has.
The bell over the door jingles, and Mrs. Winthrop drifts in wearing a cape and an expression like she’s already shocked by whatever I’m about to say. “Darling, I have terrible news. I woke up this morning and discovered I’m still not twenty-five.”
“Tragic.” I slide a maple pecan in her direction. “Carbohydrate condolences.”
She accepts, bites, then sighs dramatically. “I suppose we must go on. Tell me everything.”
“About?”
“Don’t play coy,” she scolds gently. “It ages you. Thebasket, Bailey. Theliterary loversnonsense invented by the mayor. You allowed a public man to buy a private hour. I require details so I can live vicariously and give excellent advice.”
“It’s not—” I stop, realizing I’m about to saya dateout loud to a woman who once told me plants thrive when you talk to them about scandal. “It’s an appointment. After hours. For tea and cookies. The end.”
She hums like a woman who has never once acceptedthe endas a reasonable conclusion to a story. “Hmm. Well, when you inevitably wear that soft blue sweater your eyes like, tell him to sit on the rug. Men open up closer to the ground.”
“Is that…science?”
“It’s experience.” She pats my hand, purchases a mystery, and sails out again, leaving perfume and prophecy in her wake.
I set the bell to ring a little louder because I refuse to be ambushed by any more wisdom before nine.
The morning rush trickles—tourists finishing out long weekends, teachers hunting for class read-alouds, a fisherman who buys a book of poems and claims they help his casting rhythm. I let the town talk itself out around me, answering toBailey,lighthouse lady, and, once,book witch(which, honestly, is flattering).
At ten, the side door creaks, and Daisy backs in with a tray of scones balanced like a tightrope act. “I brought tributes for your not-date,” she singsongs, nudging the door shut with her heel.
“It’s not—”
“I know.” She sets the tray down, peels off her jacket, and studies my face. “You slept?”
“Like a woman who tied rope knots for fun.”
She grins. “Sawyer said your lines were clean. Also he said if you’re going to keep using that old glass, you might want to rub in a little linseed oil. But that could’ve been about bread. He was eating toast at the time.”
“I’ll ask him.”
“Or,” Daisy says, “you could ask the person who clearly wrote you a donation check like a man trying not to be noticed.”
I do not look at the drawer where the envelope lives. “You anointed yourself as treasurer of my secrets, when?”
“The minute I learned how to make frosting. It’s in the bylaws.” She leans on her elbows. “Have you set a time?”
“For the…appointment?” I aim for bored and land somewhere near breathless.
“For the not-date in your lighthouse with baked goods and moonlight,” she corrects.
“I was thinking tomorrow,” I say, because apparently my mouth has decided to live dangerously before my brain has a chance to file a safety report. “After close.”
“Perfect,” she beams. “Do your hair. Wear the blue sweater.”
“Mrs. Winthrop texted you, didn’t she?”
“She added me to a sub-thread. It’s me, her, and your pigeon.”
The door opens, and the pigeon—my nemesis—stares in as if on cue before deciding the weather is beneath him and flapping away. Daisy waves. “See? He’s invested.”
“Fantastic. A bird and two women over seventy are managing my love life.”
“Please. I’m not over seventy.” She kisses my cheek, snags a scone, and disappears with a parting, “Call me if you need reinforcements or have a hairbrush emergency.”
