I huff a laugh, relieved to have my observations confirmed by someone who clearly understands the dynamics of this place. “So, I’m not imagining it, then.”
“Oh, no,” she says, shaking her head emphatically. “You’re definitely being observed like some kind of rare bird that might fly away if anyone makes sudden movements.”
“Love that for me,” I say, offering a wry grimace rather than a smile, because there’s something both flattering and deeply uncomfortable about being the center of so much attention.
Bea’s smile softens around the edges, taking on a quality of understanding that suggests she’s been in a similar position herself. “It’s not meant to be creepy, you know. They’re just. . .hopeful.”
“I know,” I admit, and the honesty slips out before I can catch it and examine whether I should be sharing this much with someone I just met. “It’s just new. Being watched like that, I guess.”
Something in Bea’s expression changes, a flicker of recognition passing across her features like she understands that particular brand of displacement better than most people would.
“I get that,” she says simply, without pushing for details or offering platitudes. Then she taps her pen against the notepad in a gesture that signals the conversation is shifting back to safer territory. “I’ll be right back with your coffee.”
When she walks away, moving with the natural ease of someone who’s spent years navigating crowded spaces while carrying hot plates and full coffee cups, Maceo watches her for a moment before turning his attention back to me.
“You like her,” he observes, and there’s something knowing in his tone.
“It’s been thirty seconds,” I protest, though even as I say it I know he’s right.
He leans back in the booth, his posture relaxed but his eyes attentive in that way that suggests he’s cataloging every micro-expression that crosses my face. “You still like her.”
I shrug, but I can feel some of the tension in my shoulders loosening, like Bea’s straightforward warmth has somehow given me permission to breathe a little easier. “She seems. . .real. Genuine.”
“She is,” Maceo says with conviction.
I hesitate, then ask the question that’s been nagging at me since I first saw the particular quality of understanding in Bea’s eyes. “She’s new here too, isn’t she? Or new to being back?”
His expression shifts, just slightly, taking on the careful quality people get when they’re about to share information that isn’t quite theirs to tell. “Yeah. She was born and raised here, but she left town years ago. Had a whole life somewhere else. She came back last year.”
The way he says it carries weight, the kind of careful phrasing that suggests there’s more to the story, and I wait, letting himchoose whether to fill in the blanks or leave me to draw my own conclusions.
“Her parents died in an accident,” he says quietly, his voice taking on the gentle tone people use when discussing tragedies. “Left her with her sixteen-year-old sister, Zane. Suddenly Bea was responsible for everything. She came back here because she didn’t have anyone else who could take care of the kid, and because they inherited this place.”
My throat tightens around a sudden swell of emotion. “That’s awful.”
Maceo’s eyes soften. “She’s doing the best she can. Better than most people would, probably. But it’s a lot for anyone to handle.”
I stare down at the tabletop for a moment, tracing the edge of a small chip in the wood with my fingertip, because suddenly I’m thinking about legacy again, about how people romanticize inheritance until it’s actually dropped in your lap with the full weight of grief and responsibility and expectations. About how the universe has a twisted sense of humor when it comes to giving people what they think they want.
When Bea returns with my coffee, she sets it down with the kind of practiced ease that makes it look effortless, even though I can see the careful attention she pays to not spilling even a drop. The mug is warm against my palms when I wrap my fingers around it, and the coffee smells like comfort and caffeine and the promise of at least temporarily improved brain function.
Then, like she can feel the direction my thoughts have taken, she speaks before I can stop myself from overthinking the parallels between her situation and mine.
“So,” she says, leaning her hip against the edge of our booth for just a brief moment, “How’s it going? You settling in okay?”
I let out a breath that’s almost a laugh, because the question is so loaded I don’t even know where to begin answering it. “Define okay.”
Bea’s eyes brighten with recognition, like she’s familiar with the particular brand of overwhelm that comes with having your entire life turned upside down. “That bad, huh?”
“Not bad,” I correct quickly, because somehow I need to defend this town even while it’s systematically chewing me up and spitting me out. “Just a lot. Everything here is a lot.”
Bea nods like that makes perfect sense, like she’s intimately familiar with the concept of ‘a lot’ and how it can feel like drowning in slow motion. “Yeah. That tracks.”
Maceo watches our exchange silently, but there’s something reassuring about his presence, the way he’s listening without feeling the need to insert himself into the conversation or fix anything.
I glance back at Bea, curiosity overriding my usual tendency to keep personal questions to myself. “You came back here and just took over all this? Just like that?”
Her mouth twists into a smile that’s equal parts rueful and tired. “I came back here and panicked for three months straight, if we’re being honest. It’s not like I didn’t know the place, but it had been years, and suddenly it was all on me.”
