Page 132 of What Remains of Grace

Jenna could, too. Grace, with her legs thrown up in a chair, head tipped back, cackling. The same way Emmie was bound to when she told her.

“Thanks for telling me,” she said. “For . . . the prayer-list update.”

“You’re welcome, honey,” Aunt M said. “Now go bake something delicious. Something really over-the-top. I’ll drive down for a slice.”

Jenna laughed. “I love you.”

“Love you more,” Marilyn said. “Talk soon.” The call ended.

Jenna stood there a moment, phone still in hand, listening to the muffled hum of the bakery on the other side of the door and the fading echo of her aunt’s words.

Maybe a little bit of Grace was still out there, rattling the life of the man who had spent years trying to grind her down. Not because she was vindictive, but because the universe had a funny way of sending unfinished stories back to their authors.

“Everything okay?” She turned to find Cole leaning in the doorway from the back hall, one hand braced against the frame.

He’d come straight from a job site; she could tell by the sawdust on his boots, the pencil tucked behind his ear, and the faint smell of cut wood clinging to him. These days, he slipped in and out of the bakery as naturally as she moved through his job sites. They were running both places side by side now: her and Emmie’s bakery, his construction company, two separate businesses, one shared life. She helped him with walkthroughs and scopes; he sketched new pastry case layouts for Emmie’s approval. And he always stopped by when he could, to check in, steal a pastry, walk her home, or all three.

“Yeah,” she said, exhaling. “Aunt Marilyn called. We have… news from the First Baptist Intelligence Network.”

He grimaced playfully. “Oof. That’s more powerful than the NSA.”

“You have no idea,” she said. “Come on. I’ll tell you on the porch. It’s a good one.”

His brows lifted. “A good church gossip story? Plot twist.”

“You could call it . . . a haunting meets karma situation,” she said, smiling.

“Now I definitely want to hear it,” he said.

They stepped back through the kitchen, Nicole lifting a chin in hello, Steph waving a dough- covered hand. Emmie popped her head out of the office just long enough to say, “Don’t be gone long; we’re trying a new frosting,” before disappearing again.

On their way out, Jenna paused for half a heartbeat. What remains of Grace is everything that stayed, and everything that changed but stayed anyway.

And maybe, just maybe, it’s whatever invisible weight was now sitting firmly on Troy Bailey’s shoulders.

Because if anyone in this story had been haunted, it was him.

Not in the floating-sheets, rattling-chains way. In the quieter way: doors closing, jobs drying up, investments going sideways, the nagging sense that every time he tried to cash in on something unearned, the universe reached out and smacked his hand.

Haunting and karma, Jenna decided, were sometimes one and the same. If Grace had a ghost, she liked to imagine it was less “boo” and more “absolutely not” whispered in the ears of men who thought there would never be a bill for what they took.

“What’d Aunt Marilyn say?” he asked as they moved onto the porch.

“Oh, you know,” Jenna said. “Just that my sister’s bakery is still standing, her daughter’s a menace, my aunt’s been praying for emotional closure, and Troy Bailey is currently living at a Motel 6 because he cheated on a rich twenty-something with eyelash extensions whose dad has mob ties and promised to double his money.”

Cole stared at her. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

He blinked. “That’s—wow. That’s . . . a lot.”

She shrugged, the smile tugging at her mouth impossible to contain. “Haunting and karma,” she said, “sometimes they hold hands.”

He laughed, the sound bright and disbelieving. “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say to that.”

“Nothing,” she said. “That’s the point. We don’t have to say anything. Or do anything. Or fix anything. Not anymore.”

He studied her face for a second, then looped his hand into hers. “You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said. “I think . . . I really am.”

Behind them, the Blue Cypress door chimed as someone else walked in, the bell bright and familiar. Somewhere inside, a customer would read one of Grace’s quotes, smile, and order something sweet.

Not everything they loved had stayed the same. But somehow, it had all stayed with them anyway.

Jenna laughed, the sound light and full, and didn’t look back.

What remains of Grace, Jenna thought, isn’t just one thing.

It’s the chalkboard. It’s the plaques. It’s the recipes, the regulars, the way this place smells like sugar and coffee and comfort. It’s the love stitched into the walls, the routines, and the people.

Most of all, it’s Emmie. It’s Grace’s fierce-ass daughter who once weaponized the Rotary Club and will absolutely egg anyone who tries to change the cinnamon roll glaze.