Her eyes meet mine, dark and searching. “Not yet,” she says, voice trembling.
I nod, step back, and swallow the ache in my chest.
She smiles faintly, like she’s grateful and wrecked at once. “Good answer.”
We finish the porch in silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s charged and alive—the kind of quiet that hums with the promise of something that hasn’t happened yet but will.
When she leaves, she touches my arm as she passes—a small, deliberate thing that undoes every ounce of composure I have left.
I watch her walk down the drive, her sweater catching the wind, her hair gleaming in the sunlight.
Mom leans out the kitchen window, waving like she’s in a parade. “Nice work, honey!”
I look up. “We fixed your rail.”
“I meant with Bailey,” she says, smiling. “Pace yourselves.”
I groan and drop my head back, but I can’t stop the grin.
That night, when the farm has gone quiet and the air smells like woodsmoke and distant salt, I sit on the porch with a beer and stare out toward the lighthouse.
The light sweeps across the bay, steady and sure, just like her.
I whisper into the dark, “Not yet,” and for the first time, waiting doesn’t feel like punishment.
It feels like hope.
Chapter Nine – Bailey
If joy had a sound, it would be Coral Bell Cove at festival season. They find a reason to put one on almost every weekend in the fall.
Children laughing. Music drifting. The low hum of gossip dressed as small talk.
It’s the kind of noise that vibrates right through your bones—and the kind of day that feels like it could save you or ruin you, depending on which way the wind blows.
This morning, the wind’s on my side. Probably.
I have three folding tables, two boxes of donated paperbacks, and zero patience for the ninth argument about whether the pumpkin tower should have a theme. (Mrs. Winthrop insists it needs an “emotional arc.”)
The whole town’s out. Booths line the marina. The Wright family’s pie stand smells like heaven. Cider simmers somewhere, and Daisy’s bakery has already sold out twice.
And then there’s me—librarian, book witch, accidental lightning rod of small-town scandal.
I’m halfway through labeling the donation jars when Lila shows up with that look—the one that says she’s about to be unhelpfully supportive.
“You’re glowing,” she announces.
“I’m sweating.”
“You’re glowingandsweating,” she says. “Multitasking queen.”
“I hate you.”
“You love me.”
“I tolerate you.”
She laughs, but there’s affection in it. “You’ve been smiling more.”
