Page 108 of What Remains of Grace

Emmie eyed him. “Please don’t say ‘The real Blue Cypress was the friends we made along the way.’”

He huffed out a laugh. “I’m serious. You’re not just some random owner trying to flip a property. You’re Grace’s daughter. Jenna’s your aunt. I remember Jenna and Grace being ‘The Bakery Sisters’ in high school; everyone in town does. The two of you are trying to keep this place alive. You’ve got a story. A good one. And a small town that loves a cause.”

Emmie blinked. Then squinted suspiciously. “You’re about to say fundraiser, aren’t you?”

His mouth curved. “Yes, I’m about to say fundraiser.”

She sat back. “Like . . . a GoFundMe?”

“Sure, that’s part of it,” Cole said. “But I was thinking more . . . all of it. An event. A rally. Something people can show up for. Something that reminds everybody what they’re fighting for.”

He grabbed another piece of paper and started jotting words.

SAVE THE BLUE CYPRESS – COMMUNITY RALLY KEEP IT LOCAL – KEEP IT HISTORIC – KEEP IT HERS

“Cheesy,” Emmie said automatically, but, after a beat, “Also . . . not terrible.”

“High praise,” he said.

She leaned forward, tapping the paper as his ideas spilled faster.

“We get the old crew,” Cole said. “The ones who’ve been eating here since your grandma was running the place. The construction guys, the nurses, the teachers, the retirees who treat that corner table like it’s reserved. Ask them to spread the word.”

“Mrs. Cartwright and her book club,” Emmie said, eyes starting to spark. “She’s basically the benevolent mafia boss of the Rotary and the women’s club.”

“Exactly.” Cole jotted ROTARY CLUB, WOMEN’S CLUB, HISTORICAL SOCIETY. “You’ve got the historical angle. This building’s been here since, what, the fifties?”

“Forties,” Emmie corrected, already catching the rhythm. “It’s one of the only original commercial buildings left on this stretch. It’s literally on the historic preservation list.”

“So we lean into that. Locally owned. Historically significant. Female-led. ‘Help us keep The Blue Cypress in the hands of the women who built it.’”

A slow, dangerous smile spread across Emmie’s face.

“Oh,” she said. “They’ll eat that up at the women’s club luncheon.”

“I’ll talk to a couple of people I know at the Rotary,” Cole said. “There are at least three old guys who think they owe me because I’ve remodeled their kitchens.”

“We rope in the historical society,” Emmie said, now fully on board. “They’ve been dying for an excuse to put plaques on something that isn’t a fountain. ‘Save a piece of old Athens Street.’ They can bring their sepia-toned photos and bore people into donating.”

“Now you’re thinking like a general,” Cole said.

She ignored that, drumming her fingers. “We could do a silent auction,” she said. “Extra services, local gift baskets, art. People love bidding on things they don’t need.”

“And live music,” Cole added. “I know a guy who plays acoustic sets at Capt’n Jack’s on Thursdays. He owes me at least two favors.”

“And obviously baked goods,” Emmie said. “We can’t run a Save the Bakery rally without sugar attached.”

“Obviously.”

“And we set up tables about the history of the place,” she continued. “Pictures of Mom and Great Grandma. Stories. Maybe some quotes. We remind people that this isn’t some nameless property on a spreadsheet. It’s . . . it’s her.”

Her voice went soft on that last word.

Cole’s chest tightened.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “We remind them it’s her.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of it stretching between them. Then Emmie straightened, determination settling back over her like armor.