Chapter One
Ihad three dollars to my name, and I just spent all of it on coffee.
Technically, it went in the tip jar—Rachel never let me pay—but the black hole in my wallet didn’t carewhyit was there.
“Thank you,” I sang as she slid my white mocha across the counter—so sweet anyone sensible would’ve worried about their blood sugar.
She lifted a brow. “You’d be a lot less tired if you hadn’t insisted on making five new vases last night.”
“Sorry,” I replied, sending her a sheepish grin. “But I did tell you I could’ve taken a taxi home.”
“Are you serious? Marigold would’ve come back to haunt me.” Her eyes widened in mock-paranoia as she glanced behind her, wiping tattooed hands on the rag drooping from her apron.
Basically my cool older sister that I looked nothing like, Rachel was always there for me, with that special brand of loyalty that never filled me with guilt. I appreciated that more than she knew.
I smiled and brought the mocha to my lips, relishing my daily guilty pleasure that would no doubt make me crash in a few hours. Some of the shops in Bluebell Cove leaned into the classicnautical theme—tourists loved that—but the Morning Bell was in its own league. With vintage art lining the walls, mismatched furniture, and an art deco ceiling, it felt more like a retreat for poets than a coffee shop in a sleepy coastal town.
“I’ve got someone coming by soon about the Summer’s End Festival, so I can’t hang out,” I said, turning to the door with a wave. “Thanks for the coffee!”
“Why don’t you come by later?” Rachel called at my back. “It’s open mic night!”
My heart skipped, and my smile faltered, before I recovered and whirled on my heel. “Can’t, I’ll be at the diner!”
I didn’t wait for a response before bursting out the door and across the street. Anyone under the age of eighteen used the Morning Bell as their watering hole, usually walking from school or camping out with a pile of homework. Years of my life were spent there, relaxing with my best friends on the cluster of corner couches and pretending like we weren’t supposed to be in class.
But times had changed—everything had.
On the other side of Main Street, tucked between the Button Jar and Gulliver’s Books, was Marigold’s Flower Shop. A faded blue-and-white awning hung over the towering storefront windows, hopefully beckoning passersby with rows of potted ferns on the sill and an orange, hand painted sign.
I found the ring of brass keys at the bottom of my jean pants pocket. Sucking in a sharp breath, I jiggled it into the doorknob and hoped for the best. The lock was older than I was, and it reminded me every morning.
The hinges squealed in protest as I slid through the doorway, huffing a copper curl out of my eyes.
My hands moved of their own accord as I prepared Marigold’s for the day. Floorboards squeaked underfoot, reminding me of their age as they flexed and shifted withevery step. I made swift work of setting out new arrangements, watering the potted greenery and discarding wilted stems from the floral cooler.
Before I knew it, my mocha was gone, and golden daybreak had burned off into the lemon hue of midmorning. I leaned on the counter by the register, tapping my fingers against my thigh as I watched customers begin to trickle into the Morning Bell across the road. Humming, I plastered on a wide smile as the clock struck eight and I hurried over to prop the door open.
Today was going to be good. Today would bebetter, at least.
As I strode back to the counter, though, I spotted another puddle on the floor by the window. My heart sank. The storm last night had been bad, but I didn’t think it was heavy enough to spring a brand new leak in the roof.
I was rubbing my temples and executing mental calculations beyond my comprehension when someone called my name.
“Hey, Frank,” I mumbled without looking.
“Another leak?”
I shrugged. “It’ll be okay.” Even if I didn’t believe it.
Frank pushed the stainless steel trolley inside, clipboard under one arm. The order was small—the cheapest blooms, mostly greenery, and just one bucket of roses. I’d called it in myself, but seeing the empty shelves still made my palms clammy.
“How’s Janice?” I asked, needing a change of subject.
“Much better.” His silver mustache twitched into a grin. “New meds have her back in the flower fields with me every morning.”
Relief softened my chest. “I’m glad. Tell her I miss her.”
He nodded, unloading buckets with a grunt. “You gearing up for the festival?”
