My stomach performed a spectacular dive into my shoes. “Austin Coleridge? He’s your brother?”
Amusement twinkled in Brenna’s eyes, a knowing, almost conspiratorial look. “That’s him. Don’t worry, his bark is usually worse than his bite. Mostly.” She gave a tiny wink that somehow made me feel both better and marginally more terrified. “I’m Brenna Coleridge-Markham. So you’re tackling Heron House? What are your plans for it?”
“Likely unrealistic,” I admitted with a rueful smile. “But I’m turning it into a Bed & Breakfast.”
“That’s fantastic!” Brenna’s enthusiasm was infectious. “Dove Key could absolutely use another charming B&B.”
“And I’m trying really hard,” I added, a self-deprecating grimace twisting my lips, “not to accidentally destroy the neighborhood in the process.”
Brenna raised an eyebrow, a flicker of understanding in her green eyes. Thankfully, she didn’t press for details. “Well, if you’re looking to meet people, we have a book club called Sips and Pages. We read books and drink plenty of wine.” Her smile grew as she smoothed a hand over the slight rounding of her belly. “But no wine for me for a while.”
I clapped my hands. “Congratulations!”
“Thanks. My husband, Hunter, and I are pretty ecstatic. And it’s even more special because my sister is pregnant too. With twins! It’s going to be a decidedly busy year for the Coleridge baby department.”
“You guys will need a babysitter on speed dial.” I smiled at her obvious happiness, unable to deny the sad twist in my stomach at yet another life stage I had missed with my thirtieth birthday.
“Enough baby talk, though,” Brenna said with a casual wave. “Our book club meets next week. We’re reading…” She scanned a nearby shelf, plucked a brightly colored paperback, and handed it to me. “Love on the Tide. Perfect beach read. You should come.”
The invitation, so unexpected and warm, was a lifeline. “Oh! I’d love that. Thank you so much.”
“Consider it your official Dove Key welcome packet,” Brenna said with another easy smile.
I boughtLove on the Tide, and as the bell chimed my departure, the warmth of the sun outside felt less oppressive, more welcoming. That hadn’t been so bad. Brenna hadn’t run screaming when she heard the wordsHeron House. She didn’t even seem to think Austin was a fire-breathing ogre, just a typically grouchy older brother. A brother with shoulders wider than a zip code.
Maybe there was hope for me in this quirky little town yet.
Back in the Heron House kitchen, armed with my new baking supplies, coffee maker, and a fragile, Brenna-inspired sense of optimism, I dove into Operation Apology Cookie with renewed vigor. The familiar, rhythmic process of measuring flour, creaming butter and sugar until light and fluffy, and stirring in generous handfuls of chocolate chips worked its usual magic. As I placed dough on mycookie sheets, I sang my own version of “Neon Heart”, which I’d heard recently on the radio. I crossed my fingers when I turned on the not-exactly-chic, avocado-green wall oven, but it heated up just fine.
The warm, comforting scent of baking cookies gradually overpowered the kitchen’s lingering mustiness, a fragrant symbol of hope and profound regret. Soon they emerged from the oven, golden-brown and ready for their diplomatic mission. A wicker basket, rescued from the yawning walk-in pantry, became their vessel. I lined it with faded floral napkins and nestled a dozen of the most perfect ones inside, like precious jewels. Finally, I tied a faded blue ribbon around the handle, fashioning a slightly lopsided but undeniably cheerful bow.
“Okay,” I said, holding up the basket for inspection. It looked presentable. Friendly. Hopefully not too desperate. “Just a neighborly gesture. An extremely apologetic neighborly gesture.”
Basket clutched in a hand that was only slightly trembling, I took a deep, fortifying breath and headed for Austin’s front door. The walk felt a little less like trudging toward my own execution this time, thanks in no small part to Brenna’s kindness. Knowing he had a nice, normal sister somehow made him marginally less terrifying. After all, I was the one who had screwed up.
His yard was a picture of serene, almost severe, order. The white clapboard siding of his house gleamed in the afternoon sun, and the dark-green shutters aligned with a precision that made my haphazard renovation efforts feel vaguely criminal. Even the shells bordering his walkway were arranged in perfect rows.
My courage wavered as I stepped onto his porch. No clutter. No fuss. I raised my hand, took another shaky breath, and knocked on the dark-green wooden door. Thesound was a loud, definitive thud in the otherwise profound silence. I waited, the basket growing heavier in my hand, the scent of the cookies suddenly, overwhelmingly cheerful.
No answer.
I knocked again, a little louder. Still nothing. I craned my neck, trying to peer through a nearby window, but the glass reflected the bright sky, revealing only dim, orderly shadows within.
“He’s not home,” I whispered, a strange mixture of profound relief and sharp disappointment washing over me. I’d psyched myself up for this confrontation, rehearsed my lines, and braced for the impact of his disapproval.
And… nothing.
Defeated for now, I turned and walked back home. The book club with Brenna was next week, so I sat at the kitchen table with a dang good cookie and settled in to read.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a restless, cookie-scented limbo. After several chapters, I tried to focus on unpacking more boxes, sketching out preliminary plans for the B&B guest rooms, wrestling with the ancient, terrifying fuse box. My attention kept drifting to the window and Austin’s house, watching for any sign of his return.
Late in the afternoon, as the sun began its slow, spectacular descent toward the ocean, I heard the distinct, welcome rumble of an engine, followed by the crunch of tires on his shell driveway.
“He’s back!”
I rushed to the window, my heart thumping a nervous, erratic rhythm against my ribs—a mix of dread and something suspiciously like anticipation.
Unfolding his tall, lean frame from a dark-blue pickup truck, Austin moved with an efficient, practiced grace. Hereached into the truck bed and began to unload gear—several long, serious-looking fishing rods, a battered cooler that no doubt held the day’s catch, and a worn canvas gear bag slung over one broad shoulder. I stood on my tiptoes to inspect the words embossed on his truck door more closely.
