Rhianna perks up instantly, nearly knocking over her iced tea. "Yes! I've been saying we need more kissing in our literary lives."
"We just did that monster romance you picked," Mia protests, though she's fighting a smile. "I'm still traumatized by the tentacles."
"That wasart." Rhianna presses a hand to her heart.
"A masterpiece," Tom agrees solemnly, raising his coffee mug in solidarity. "The way the author described the appendages?—"
"Don't you work with fish all day at the bait and tackle shop?" Violet frowns at Tom. "Isn't reading about marine… romance… a little weird?"
"Nah." Tom grins. "Got to keep work and pleasure in separate tanks, if you know what I mean."
"We are not changing the subject," I protest, though my heart isn't really in it. Discussing our reading list—even if it means listening to another Rhianna-and-Tom tag-team campaign forparanormal romance—would be infinitely more pleasant than dwelling on my spectacular failure of a first day on the beach.
The bell above the door chimes, and Jamie Peterson walks in with his parents. He spots me and waves shyly.
"Hey, Ms. Williams." He shuffles over to our table. Around school, he's always carrying his trumpet case, which is covered in stickers from every band competition we've attended.
"Jamie! How's your summer going?" I try to keep my voice bright, even as I notice him fidgeting with the hem of his t-shirt.
"Good, um..." He glances back at his parents, then lowers his voice. "About next year's band... I think I'm gonna have to drop it. Since, you know..."
The words hang there, heavy as storm clouds. Since the program's ending. Since we couldn't save it.
"Hey, don't give up hope yet. We're working on it, aren't we guys?"
"Absolutely." Zoe slaps her hand on the table, making our glasses jump. "Operation Save the Music is about to go nuclear. We're talking publicity stunts, flash mobs, whatever it takes. Ethan already put a donation jar up at the bakery."
"I plan to write something for the local paper," Violet chimes in. "See if we can get the community involved."
"And I made an amazing flyer for the library—it has enough glitter on it that the whole town will notice." Rhianna's grinning like a kid with a fistful of candy.
"And when we get the money," Mia says, "we're going to have a big celebration."
I look around at my friends, then back at Jamie, whose shoulders have straightened just a little. "See? Team effort. So, you do your part and keep practicing those solos, okay?"
He nods, a hint of a smile returning. "Yes, Ms. Williams."
After he rejoins his parents, I stare at my untouched pie. "You guys really think we can do this?"
"Honey." Zoe grins, that wild smile that usually precedes her most outrageous karaoke performances. "We're going to make your snow cones the hottest ticket in Magnolia Cove. If Ethan has taught me anything at the bakery, it's that a good gimmick sells. We just need to brainstorm yours. And if Mr. Fancy Ice Cream doesn't like it?" She shrugs, violet hair glinting. "He can take his chrome cart back to California."
I finally take a bite of my pie, letting the tart sweetness settle on my tongue. The familiar rhythm returns, steadier now. One-two-three-four.
We have work to do.
Grant
The morning sun gleams off my cart's polished chrome as I arrange the new sundae bar with methodical precision. The bamboo bowls lack the grandeur of Pierce & Sons' crystal-clear perfection, but they fit Magnolia Cove's laid-back charm. Father would hate them—which, if I'm honest, factored into my decision.
My fingers drift over the toppings, infusing them with a hint of magic—not the sterile, profit-optimized enchantments Father swears by, but something warmer. Something real. Childhood summers. The first taste of ice cream on a hot day. The kind of magic that lingers in the air and makes people smile without knowing why.
By noon, the line stretches halfway down the beach. Each customer's laughter rises over the sound of waves, and for the first time in forever, I feel like I'm creating something that's mine. No rules. No spreadsheets. Just a tiny rebellion in the form of sprinkles and sea salt.
I'm restocking toppings when a familiar voice cuts through the gentle hum of the beach.
"Enjoying your little victory?"
Rachel Williams stands on the other side of my counter, hands on her hips, her braid barely holding together in the sea breeze, her floppy hat covering part of one eye. The sight of her shouldn't make my heart stumble over its rhythm, but it does.
