AllFreeNovel
Share Us
ONE
CASS
Driving up the coast through Western Michigan, I let the crisp autumn air whip through my long hair. With the radio cranked and one hand out the window, I let the freedom of the drive carry me away from the hustle of the city. As an aspiring journalist, I was hungry––eager to take any assignment I could get my hands on. Which was why even a fluff piece about a small town autumn festival was not beneath me. Sure, I’d rather be reporting on corruption of elected officials, or peace talks with the United Nations, but a girl’s gotta start somewhere. Apparently slogging through endless coffee runs, working the mail room, and writing the occasional obituary wasn’t enough to climb the ranks at the Chicago Daily.
After I was given the assignment, my editor warned me that Outtatowner, Michigan, was one of those towns where, if you weren’t careful, you could miss the exit.
I did miss it, in fact.
Twice.
When I finally circled the roundabout for the third time, crested a small hill, and saw the main strip of downtown come into view, I was sweaty, achy, and ready to be done with this bullshit story. As my car slowed at the four-way stop, my breath hitched. Off in the distance, about a half mile down the road, Lake Michigan sparkled, the roadway cutting through the quaint little tourist town. Ma-and-pop shops dotted the sides, shoppers filtered in and out of the businesses, and storefronts had signs and sandwich boards enticing people to come inside.
I looked at the town’s welcome sign to my right: Outtatowner, Michigan––Where Strangers Become Friends.
I hummed. Kind of cute.
The honking of a horn behind me elicited a stifled scream and wave of my hand out of the window. My middle finger almost went flying with it, but I opted for a general salute instead. My heart beat wildly as heat seeped into my cheeks. Still scanning the area as I crept down the street, I observed that the town shops were eclectic and busy for a Friday afternoon. It was hard to tell who were tourists and who were locals, but there was no lack of smiling faces and laughter floating through the early evening air. When a parking space opened up, I pulled my car between the lines and organized my thoughts.
Once I found the Sugar Bowl, I could meet with the contact my editor had set up. He’d informed me that I had tentative plans to sit down with the bakery owner and gather preliminary information. Then, tomorrow, I would be accompanied to the Fireside Flannel Festival to find my story.
There has to be some meat there somewhere. I need more to a story than just hot cocoa and flannel.
I glanced down at the note on the passenger seat and scanned the storefronts, looking for the Sugar Bowl. It was difficult to see much through the sea of happy shoppers.
Stepping from my car, I pulled the front of my knit sweater closed. The crisp, coastal wind cut straight through me. I looked up one side of the long street, then the other. Without a clue where to go, and already freezing my ass off, I needed help.
Just ahead of me was a tall, heavily tattooed man about to walk into a shop with the words King Tattoo illuminated above his head. “Um, excuse me?”
The muscles in the man’s jaw flexed once before he slipped a small, forced smile onto his face––annoyed but resigned to help me. “How can I help you?”
“Hi, thanks. I’m looking for the Sugar Bowl?”
“That’s Huck’s place.” He lifted his arm to point several storefronts down. “Just that way.”
A man owns the bakery. Huh. “Huck. Is he the owner?”
“Sure is.”
I smiled. “Great. Thank you.”
Instead of a farewell, the man simply ducked his head once and walked into his shop.
I headed in the direction the man had pointed, jaywalking across the street and hustling a few shops toward the water. An elderly couple was exiting the bakery, so I held the door and shuffled my feet to keep the blood flow to my limbs.
As soon as I stepped inside, warm air and the scent of cinnamon assaulted my senses. My stomach growled in protest at the energy drink and gas station beef jerky I’d called lunch.
The Sugar Bowl was busy, patrons waiting in line for coffee or cocoa while others chatted in small groups at the tables nestled into the small space. Soft music floated above the crowd, and there was a hum of something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
Contentment, maybe?
I looked left, then right, over the shoulders of the waiting customers, hoping to spot the owner. Despite the number of customers, the line moved efficiently, and as I stepped up to the counter, a glass display with muffins, pastries, and coffee cakes came into view. My stomach growled.
“Sounds like you need breakfast.” The light brown eyes of the woman working the counter danced with humor.
I looked at the clock. “It’s almost dinnertime.”
The woman smiled softly. “It’s always breakfast at the Sugar Bowl.”
