Susan turned from the window and walked toward her bedroom. The answer had nothing to do with Paul or the project itself. But it had everything to do with the question she’d been avoiding since she’d arrived in Sapphire Bay: What did she want from this next chapter of her life?
The bedroom was still shadowed, the morning light not yet reaching this side of the cottage. Susan set her coffee on the dresser and opened the closet, considering what to wear for a day that held nothing but a coffee date and the vague possibility of baking. She’d spent so many years in chef’s whites or event-appropriate business casual that her current wardrobe felt like playing dress-up in someone else’s clothes.
She pulled out a pair of comfortable jeans and a soft blue sweater that Kathleen had insisted brought out the color of her eyes. As she dressed, she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Her silver hair, which she’d finally stopped dying, looked soft and pretty. Laugh lines around her eyes marked decades of joy and stress in equal measure. She didn’t feel any older than when she was in her thirties, but she looked like someone’s grandmother—even though she’d never had children of her own.
After the long hours she’d worked, she should have been content with morning coffee and lakeside views.
But contentment, she was learning, wasn’t the same as fulfillment.
By the time Susan emerged from her bedroom, fully dressed and with a touch of makeup, she’d made a decision. She’d take a walk before meeting Isabel and Lynda. The physical movement might help clear her head, and the autumn morning was too beautiful to waste indoors with her spiraling thoughts.
She grabbed a light jacket from the hook by the door and stepped outside. The air bit at her cheeks, crisp and clean in a way that Georgia air never had been.
As she began walking, Susan’s thoughts returned to Paul Renard. There was something about him that intrigued her beyond his obvious culinary talent. He carried himself with quiet confidence, the kind that came from knowing exactly who he was and what he could do. But beneath that confidence, she’d sensed something else. A wariness, maybe, that matched her own.
He’d left behind success in Los Angeles and San Francisco to open a modest restaurant in small-town Montana. That took courage—or desperation. She understood both.
The shoreline trail wound between old-growth pines and carefully maintained lawns. Susan recognized most of the houses now, could name the families who lived in them. The Johnsons, the Patels, and the elderly Sanderson couple who’d lived in Sapphire Bay for fifty years. Then she saw The Lakeside Inn, a gorgeous two-story home that had been converted into a bed-and-breakfast by Mabel Terry’s daughters.
Two students from her Wednesday cooking class jogged past, calling out cheerful good mornings. Susan waved back, warmed by their enthusiasm. Most of her class were young moms, looking for a hobby, a skill, or just an excuse to have an adult conversation over chopped vegetables and simmering sauces. Teaching them had reminded her of something she’d forgotten during the commercial grind—that cooking was, at its heart, an act of love and connection.
Maybe that was the answer to Jennifer Walker’s question. Perhaps what came next wasn’t about building something bigger or achieving more recognition. It was about sharing what she knew and creating connections through food in this small Montana town.
But even as the thought formed, Susan felt that familiar restlessness stirring again. Was she settling? Making peace with diminished ambitions and calling it wisdom?
She’d reached an open area where families came in summer, and teenagers gathered for bonfires in the fall. It was deserted this morning, just weathered picnic tables and a fire pit filled with cold ashes. Susan sat on a bench and looked out at the water.
Paul’s offer represented more than an opportunity to create different recipes. It was an invitation back into the professional culinary world, even in a small way. The chance to create something that mattered, even if it was just a perfect mushroom tart or an inspired take on local trout, made her pull out her cell phone.
Before she could second-guess herself, Susan typed a quick message to Paul: I’ve been thinking about your offer. I’d like to discuss it further. Are you free this week?
She hit send before she could reconsider, then immediately felt a flutter of panic. What was she doing? She’d come to Sapphire Bay to slow down, to reconnect with friends, to enjoy a peaceful retirement. Taking on a professional collaboration went against everything she’d told herself she wanted.
Except it didn’t. Not really.
The phone buzzed with Paul’s response: Monday afternoon? We could meet at the Grill around two, after lunch service.
Susan typed back: Perfect. See you then.
She sat for a moment longer, letting the decision settle into her bones. The water lapped gently at the shore, and somewhere above her, a raven called out. The autumn morning held all the peace she’d been seeking, but now it felt different. It was less like an ending and more like a pause before something new began.
Whatever happened with Paul’s project, at least she was saying yes to a new possibility. At least she was stepping forward instead of simply drifting.
Susan stood, brushed off her jeans, and started back toward Kathleen’s cottage. She had cinnamon rolls to warm up and friends to meet for coffee. Later, she’d think seriously about recipes that would work for a Montana lakeside restaurant, and about what it meant to collaborate with someone who understood food the way she did.
For now, though, it was enough to walk through the morning air and know that she could still surprise herself.
As her cottage came into view, Susan smiled. Perhaps she didn’t have all the answers about what this next chapter would hold. But she was finally ready to start living it.
Chapter 4
Susan pulled into Isabel and Frank’s driveway just as Kathleen’s truck appeared from the opposite direction. Kathleen waved through the windshield, and Susan smiled at how often they arrived at the same moment without planning it.
“Perfect timing,” Kathleen called as they both climbed out of their vehicles. She held a covered dish. “I stopped by the market this morning and couldn’t resist the Honeycrisp apples. I made an apple crumble for us.”
“That sounds yummy, and it’s Isabel’s favorite.” Susan grabbed the basket of cinnamon rolls she’d warmed before leaving the cottage. “How’s Patrick?”
“He’s great, especially on a day like this. He’s gone fishing with Allan Terry.”
