She glanced at her laptop and opened her banking app. The numbers hadn’t magically improved. If anything, they’d gotten worse.
She sat up straighter, her heart beginning to race for a different reason. She’d been avoiding dealing with Lolly’s estate because it hurt too much. But maybe this was the answer to her problem. The property had to be worth something. Even in a small town like Sunrise. Enough to buy some time. Enough to clear her head and claw her way back to the city with a little dignity.
She took a breath, long and steady. Then she opened a new note on her phone.
Step one: call the lawyer.
Step two: book a flight back to North Carolina.
Step three: prep The Spoon for a quick sale.
It was time to go home again.
Just long enough to say goodbye.
Chapter Three
Cora cut the engine of her rental car and let out a long breath, the sudden silence almost deafening after hours of highway noise on the drive from Raleigh to the coast. Her hands stayed on the steering wheel as she took in The Salty Spoon, affectionately known as The Spoon by Sunrise locals. The old house, with the café on the first floor and Lolly’s apartment above, seemed to stare back at Cora. If buildings could judge, this one definitely was.
She’d known this moment was coming. The closer she got to Sunrise, the more it had started to feel as if her GPS was rewinding time. Mile marker seven on the outside of town came with a rusted-out tractor someone had decorated with a feather boa and plastic flamingos. Just past the inlet bridge, a flashing neon sign urged her to pull over for boiled peanuts from Larry’s trunk. She had no idea who Larry was, but sure enough, a bright yellow Cadillac was parked by the curb with the trunk popped open. This was probably how Southerners got kidnapped. They’d decide they wanted a snack, spot the Caddy, and the next thing they knew they were chained up in someone’s basement.
As she stared at the place where she’d grown up, memories flooded back. The faded red rockers on the porch whereLolly and she used to shell peas and gossip. The coastal blue shutters framing windows she’d washed more times than she’d had bad first dates, which was saying something.
Guilt pinched at her as she noticed the hazy glass and peeling paint. The Spoon had been sitting empty since Lolly’s funeral, the bills quietly covered by the estate. But apparently, upkeep hadn’t been part of the deal. Between the salty air, the relentless summer sun, and last year’s hurricane season, the place had gone downhill faster than Cora’s career atMorsel Magazine.
She forced herself out of the car and immediately regretted her choice of skinny jeans.Welcome to North Carolina in June, where the air feels like wet cement. Sweat instantly clung to her, and the weight of the sea air settled in her lungs. Home sweet home felt more like home sweet sweat lodge.
She made her way along the shell-lined path. Lolly’s prized azaleas were locked in a death match with waist-high weeds, and the porch railing was missing a few spindles that had rotted clean through.
Lolly had loved this porch. Her voice played in Cora’s head:Think of her like an old friend. Treat her right, make sure she always has her lipstick on, and even her wrinkles will be beautiful.They’d shared that line over sweet tea after an afternoon spent sanding and painting that very railing. And now, there it was, a perfect metaphor for her life.
After nearly tripping over a terra-cotta pot, Cora fished out the spare key from the same old hiding spot. It was Lolly’s version of rolling out the welcome mat for the entire town. Most days when Cora had lived here, she’d find the café door unlocked anyway, no matter how many times she’d warned her grandmother about burglars. And even if it was locked, everyone in town knew where to find the key.
“Welcome to Sunrise,” she muttered to the drooping ferns by her feet. “Feel free to let yourself in.”
She pushed the door open, and a rush of cool, coffee-scented air—the building’s signature perfume—washed over her like a familiar hug. Her visits had dwindled over the years, life in New York always pulling her away, but stepping inside was like flipping back to a page she’d dog-eared long ago. The silence inside was heavy but warm, the walls still holding the echoes of all the laughter and celebrations that had taken place there.
Dragging her fingers along the hostess stand, she came away with enough dust to write “fire your cleaning lady” on it. A few lonely tables still sat in the dining room, while the rest huddled against the walls, their mismatched chairs flipped upside down on top. Her gaze landed on the ancient cash register behind the counter. Lolly wasn’t ever able to make the switch to a digital system. Cora had always suspected she’d loved the ka-ching sound too much to trade it for one of those “newfangled computer thingamajigs.”
The weathered pine floorboards creaked as she ventured farther in. She traced the wainscoting, her fingers running over dents and scratches from years of chairs scraping and servers rushing by. The specials board still had faint traces of Lolly’s looping handwriting. How many mornings had Cora watched her carefully chalk up the day’s menu, tongue peeking out in concentration?
A muffled thump pulled her from her thoughts, freezing her in place. It came again. Metal clanging on metal.Someone was in the kitchen.
Her heart shot to her throat as her brain replayed every true crime podcast she’d ever listened to. Grabbing the closest thing she could find, a jar of Lolly’s pickled okra, she crept toward the swinging door like one of those bad actresses that people screamed at in horror movies.
Who was the idiot about to get ax-murdered on her first day back in Sunrise? It was her. She was the idiot.
