Page 4 of Revival in Laurel Valley

“Rose didn’t do anything by accident.” Raven’s voice gentled. “She knew exactly what she was doing. Everyone in town knew you were special to her, even after all those years. The way she’d light up whenever someone mentioned you, hoping for news.”

Liza felt her eyes prick with unexpected tears. “I didn’t come back. Not once after I turned fourteen. I didn’t even⁠—”

“Hey.” Raven squeezed her arm. “You’re here now. That’s what matters.” She pulled out her phone to check the time. “And speaking of here—I need to get back and open my shop before Tess thinks I’ve abandoned her.” Raven glanced at the display case. “But first, I’ll take a couple of those cinnamon rolls.”

“You’ve earned them,” Liza said, quickly boxing up two of the fresh rolls. “I wonder if I can pay all my helpers in pastries.”

“If only it were that easy.” Raven took the box with a satisfied smile. “Ahh. Now I can actually face the morning.” She headed for the door, then turned back. “Oh, and fair warning—Sunday dinner is at The Lampstand this week. Simone wants to meet you.”

Liza’s stomach dropped. “I don’t know if I’m ready for the whole O’Hara family⁠—”

“No one’s ever ready for the whole O’Hara family. That’s part of the charm.” Raven unlocked her door, then turned back with a knowing smile. “Six o’clock. The entire clan will be there—loud, chaotic, wonderful, and they already love you even though they haven’t met you yet. Rose and Simone were very close. She remembers you when you were here as a kid. I think she feels responsible for you since Rose is no longer around.”

“That’s a lot of pressure.”

“Don’t let it be. They’re good people, Liza. And you need people.” Raven’s voice softened. “You’ve been running for a long time. Maybe it’s time to let yourself be caught.”

She waved goodbye and headed out the door with her cinnamon rolls.

Liza let the smell of cinnamon and yeast wrap around her like a hug. She set the boxes down and began unpacking, arranging supplies behind the counter the way Aunt Rose had taught her. Neat corners. Labels facing out. Everything in its place.

Three weeks in Laurel Valley, and it felt like three years.

She’d grown up in Vancouver—city lights and noise, ocean views and possibilities. Then New York for two years, where the energy never stopped and you could reinvent yourself every day. Those were her places. Places where you could disappear into the crowd, where no one asked questions, where staying meant nothing and leaving meant less.

This town, with its perfect buildings and perfect people and perfect snow-capped mountains—it was suffocating.

Sure, the population swelled to tens of thousands during ski season. The shops stayed open late for the resort crowd. The Alpine Room had live music and a rooftop bar. But it was all so…temporary. Everyone was just passing through, staying in their luxury condos and dropping money before flying back to their real lives.

Just like she was passing through.

She eyed the glass showcase with the mouthwatering pastries and felt the familiar frustration rise up. She had the gift. That’s what Aunt Rose used to say during those long-ago summer visits.

“You’ve got the gift, Liza girl. Just like me. These hands were meant to create.”

And it was true. Liza could taste a dish and identify every ingredient. Could look at a recipe and know instinctively what would make it better. Her hands seemed to know things her brain didn’t when it came to dough and sugar and heat.

For a woman who’d gone skydiving in New Zealand and rock climbing in Peru, who’d run a marathon and learned to surf, being a baking prodigy felt like a cruel joke.

“I am not getting trapped in this one-horse town,” she said out loud. “I’m selling this place and getting out. I’ve got a life to live.”

Even if she had no idea what that life looked like anymore.

New York was behind her. Had to be. After Richard and the affair and the spectacular implosion of everything she’d thought was her future, she’d needed distance. Three thousand miles of distance.

Driving his Mercedes through his bedroom window probably hadn’t been her finest moment. Though watching his face when she’d told the police her foot had slipped—that had been pretty satisfying. And when his lawyer had seen the photos she had of Richard and his girlfriend (who happened to be married to a very high-profile politician), suddenly all the criminal charges had disappeared like magic.

Rich people hated scandals.

So she’d kept the BMW he’d given her, packed her life into three suitcases, and driven west. When the lawyer’s call came about Aunt Rose’s will, Los Angeles had seemed like the right next destination. Warm. Anonymous. Far away from everything.

Laurel Valley was just a pit stop. Settle the estate. Sell the bakery. Move on.

That was the plan.

So why did it feel hollow?

Those summer visits felt like a lifetime ago. Her parents driving down from Vancouver for two weeks every July. Aunt Rose teaching her to bake. The stories about each recipe—whose grandmother had perfected it, which neighbor had shared the secret, how everything made with love tasted better.