I turned down Willow Lane, which was just off Main Street. The lane was shaded from the morning sun by two rows of stately red maple trees. Their bright green leaves were pretty now, but in the fall, they would turn a beautiful garnet red.
Ever since the crash, I preferred to walk rather than drive.
I waved to Rylee through the bakery window of Betty’s Biscuits as I passed.
She raised her arm and beckoned me in.
Before I could even say hello, she lifted a croissant close to my mouth. “Try this.”
I took a bite. The buttery pastry melted in my mouth, a perfect complement to the tart sweetness of raspberry preserves coating my tongue. Pushing a crispy flake which clung to my cherry-red gloss past my lips with the tip of my finger, I said, “Oh my god, that is so freaking good.”
“My croissant recipe. Grandma’s preserves recipe,” she answered.
I nodded. “Well, Grandma Betty would be proud.” I took the pastry from her, already reaching for more.
Rylee was one of the first people Hailey and I met when we came to town.
She too had taken advantage of the town’s offer of grant money and rent discounts through a program for new small business owners.
Cliffs End’s way of getting some young blood to relocate here and breathe new life into their downtown district. Rylee had been thrilled to see two women in their twenties like her, and even more excited to learn we had rented the spaces next to her new bakery.
I gave her a quick hug. “I have to go.”
“Wait!” She loaded two more croissants into a pink bakery box and handed them to me. “On the house.”
Ignoring her generous offer, I reached into my jeans pocket and pulled out a wrinkled ten-dollar bill.
She waved me off. “Don’t be insulting.”
“You are a new business, too. You can’t just let me eat the profits!”
“They are samples for quality control. You’re one of my best marketers, the way you send all your customers my way. Besides, the Three Bs need to stick together!”
The “Three Bs” was a nickname some of the townspeople had given us. At first, we were horrified, thinking they meant the Three Bitches. Turned out it was for our shop names: Betty’s Biscuits, my Borrowed Time, and Hailey’s Blowing Bubbles. It was the first time any of us had felt like we belonged.
At least, that was, until the crash.
Shaking off the looming dark clouds in my mind, I said, “As soon as I have enough money to buy the espresso machine I want, we’ll talk about you supplying me with pastries for the cafe counter.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
The buzzer to her oven in the back went off.
With a quick wave goodbye, she headed into the kitchen, while I left with my gift.
Passing the closed storefront to Hailey’s artisan glass shop, I pulled the keys out of my purse and unlocked the door to my bookstore.
Hailey wouldn’t open her shop for another few hours, one of the perks of being an artist.
I liked to capture the sidewalk traffic, so I opened earlier.
Tossing the pastry box onto the cashier counter, I moved around the store turning on the lights. A soft golden glow spread across the shaded interior, highlighting the neat rows of books, reaching the over-stuffed chairs in the corners.
This bookstore was my sanctuary.
It was hard not to feel that nothing bad could happen to me as I walked between the carefully curated bookshelves.
Turning on the ancient iPod I had hooked up to stereo speakers for ambient music, I flipped over the “Closed” sign to “Open” and snatched up the stack of leather-bound copies of“The Complete Sherlock Holmes,” volumes I and II, that I hadn’t had a chance to shelve last night.
