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Bishop’s voice fills with fondness and nostalgia, conveying his deep love for these traditions and the community, sounding just like my grandmother earlier today. Seems like Kentbury is a lot more than just a town. It’s a real home for many.
For some inexplicable reason, I find myself leaning closer, envisioning wandering the lively fair with him, huddled close with mugs of steaming cider to ward off the autumn chill. A sense of belonging washes over me, one I’ve never felt so strongly before. I want to stick around for more than just a few days, but obviously I can’t. There doesn’t seem to be a place in here for me.
Then where is it that I belong?
ChapterNine
McKay
Though I’m temptedto stay for hours more, talking with Bishop about everything and nothing, I call it a night after finishing one of his delicious homebrews.
Bishop walks me back to my grandmother’s house, our footsteps crunching on the quiet, moonlit roads. Anticipation simmers inside me, wondering if he’ll make a move before we part ways. But as we near the front steps, I give an awkward little wave and hurry inside, not trusting myself around this man who stirs up such unfamiliar feelings in me.
Despite my fatigue, sleep evades me as I lie restlessly in bed, mind spinning with thoughts of Bishop. By three-thirty a.m. I surrender and get up to start my day, heading downstairs to help my grandmother in the bakery as planned.
“Morning,” she greets me warmly as I enter the cozy kitchen. Her searching gaze sweeps over me. “You look tired, dear. Did you get any sleep at all last night?”
I give a noncommittal shrug, avoiding her too-perceptive eyes as I tie my hair into a ponytail.
“I noticed you came home quite late,” she continues, her voice is soft. “Wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain young orchard owner, would it?” The teasing draws a smile to my face.
“Well, in theory, you did send me to Bishop’s,” I reply, fidgeting with my hair. “But I was too wound up to sleep after our talk, and he was kind enough to tell me more about the festival and the town’s history. Did you know he’s one of the last descendants of the founders?”
My grandmother nods knowingly. “I hope you have some energy left, dear, you’ll need it this morning.” She claps her hands together briskly. “Ready to head to the bakery?”
I take a deep breath, sending up a little prayer that I don’t mess this up. “More than ready.”
We leave the house and stroll down the quiet streets as the first hints of dawn lighten the sky. Our footsteps echo on the cobblestones.
“Do you walk every day?” I ask.
“Unless there’s snow on the ground,” she confirms. “Then one of the boys usually comes to pick me up—Bishop, Damian, or Landon.”
At their names, she launches into telling me more about the Harris family. Steve and his three children: Damian, Bishop, and Knightly. They own the ski resort, the orchard, and the B&B. Their mother, Rose, passed away when the boys were just toddlers, and Knightly was a baby, leaving Steve to raise them alone. Landon is Lee’s husband, but he’s been part of the family since they were children.
My grandmother’s voice fills with affection as she describes their roles in Kentbury. I can tell this town and its people mean everything to her, and I feel myself falling under the same spell of belonging.
By the time we reach the cheery bakery, I’m fully immersed in my grandmother’s world. I just hope I can do her and this place justice for as long as I stay.
The bakery kitchen envelops me in warmth and the sweet scent of sugar as my grandmother ties an apron around her waist and hands me another one.
“Let’s start with something simple: chocolate chip cookies,” she declares, patting the industrial mixer. “Those are great for beginners, and people can never resist the classics.”
She opens a faded box labeled “Recipes” and pulls out a slightly yellowed, flour-smudged index card. Handing it to me, she says, “We’ll make two batches. Follow my lead but be sure to measure everything precisely as the card instructs.”
“The key is not to overmix once you add the flour,” she advises, demonstrating how to gently fold it in. I’m surprised we’re using our hands and not the industrial mixer. “Just until everything is barely combined.”
I copy her movements, feeling the dough come together silky and smooth beneath my fingers. Next come the chocolate chips, which I take care to disperse evenly through the mix.
“Grease those trays while I check that the ovens are ready for the first batches,” she says over her shoulder, already moving toward the large industrial ovens.
With practiced, efficient motions, Grandma rolls the dough into balls and arranges them neatly on the baking sheets. “A little space between lets them spread just right,” she explains, and I follow her instructions.
As the first batch bakes with the sugary aroma wrapping around me like a hug, she pats my shoulder. “You’re a natural, dear. With my recipes and your hands, we’ll make a baker of you yet.”
“I don’t know about natural, but I’m ready to try the next recipe,” I reply with a hopeful smile.
My grandmother beams and gestures me over to a large mixing bowl. “Next up, pumpkin cookies. My most popular fall treat. Are you ready?”
