Page 190 of Just One Little Bargain

I throw the whole thing in the trash and start over. The fourth batch turns out fine. Perfect, even. Golden brown, icing glossy and thick. They taste like nothing. I eat one anyway, standing at the counter, forcing myself to chew and swallow. I seal up the leftovers and store them in the pantry, out of my sight.

The rest of the day passes in a series of minor tasks. I change lightbulbs, reorganize the cleaning supplies, answer emails from potential guests, and update the website booking calendar, moving from one task to another without really thinking about any of them. Every so often, an empty doorway or familiar corner makes me expect Milo to be there. But he isn’t.

Tuesday morning Caroline appears on my porch holding an envelope.

“Before you say anything—”

“I’m not accepting money,” I cut her off.

“How do you know that’s what it is? I haven’t even offered yet or made my speech.”

“You’re holding an envelope and looking at me like I’m a wounded bird. This isn’t the first time you’ve tried this.”

She sighs. “Well, Martin mentioned your plumbing situation situation to Rebecca.”

Of course he did. In Brindlewood, telling Rebecca something is the same as taking out an ad in the local paper. Actually, it’s faster.

“She told half the town by lunch,” Caroline continues. “So we took up a collection.”

“No.”

“Evie.”

“I appreciate it. I really do. But I can handle my own repairs.” I cross my arms. “I don’t need charity.”

“It’s not charity. It’s a town taking care of one of its own. You’ve shown up for every bake sale, fundraiser, and crisis that’s hit this place. You really think we’re going to let you drown over a repair bill?”

My throat tightens while I fixate on the envelope like it might explode.

“Take the money, Evie. Let us help you.”

Every instinct I’ve spent years building screams at me to refuse, thank her politely, close the door, and handle it myself. Instead, I reach for the envelope.

Caroline’s eyes widen. “Really?”

“Don’t make me change my mind.”

She laughs, pulling me into a hug, while I try very hard not to cry into her shoulder.

“Thank you,” I croak out.

“You’re welcome.” She squeezes once before pulling back. “And for what it’s worth, your mom told everyone to leave the Milo situation alone. So if no one’s been asking, that’s why. Not because we aren’t curious or don’t care.”

After she leaves, I settle on the porch steps and open the envelope. Inside is sixty-four hundred dollars in cash and checks, along with a note in Rebecca’s looping handwriting.

Yes, I’m nosy. But occasionally that means I know who to bother, how much to ask for, and which people are terrible at saying no. Consider this one of the rare occasions Brindlewood benefits from my complete lack of boundaries.

I sit there until Marmalade comes outside to witness my breakdown. Then I get up, go inside, and start baking.

By midnight, the kitchen counter is covered in chocolate chip cookies, lemon bars, cinnamon rolls, sourdough loaves, blueberry muffins, and banana bread. Everyone who contributed gets something. I’ll spend tomorrow delivering them, and it still won’t be enough to repay what they’ve given me, but it’s what I have.

The Foxglove has always been part of Brindlewood’s ecosystem. Caroline sends customers my way when tourists ask about accommodations. I buy produce from the farms she stocks. Maddie recommends the inn to out-of-town bar patrons. I bake for her events. The cycle runs quietly beneath everything, small businesses holding each other up because that’s how you survive.

I just never noticed how much of that care came back to me until recently.

On Wednesday, Maddie and Daisy finally succeed in dragging me to The Rusty Nail. I agreed to one drink as a compromise. That was four drinks ago, and I’ve lost track of what I’m even drinking anymore.

“So where did he actually go?” Maddie reclines in her chair, eyes sharp despite the beer in front of her.