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The interior looks like something from a movie set. Glass cases brim with an assortment of pastries and cakes that seem too perfect to eat. Behind them, jars of candy and cookies tempt me from rustic wooden shelves. Archie and Tilly would love this place.
The customers sit at round tables, chatting and laughing with easy familiarity.
Feeling slightly out of place in my sleek black city coat, I approach the counter. To my surprise, people greet me with friendly nods and smiles, like I’m a regular and they’re happy to see me again. One elderly lady even gives a little wave. Taken aback by the unexpected welcome, I manage a timid smile.
The sweet old woman behind the counter looks up, face folding into a grin. “Well, hello, there, Lou. It’s so wonderful to meet you. I’m glad you arrived safe and sound, dear.”
I blink, startled. How does this perfect stranger even know my name? I take an instinctive step backward. “Um, hello,” I reply weakly.
This is certainly overwhelming and not the kind of welcome I pictured. In New York, everyone would ignore me and go on their merry way. Here, everyone is watching me as if expecting something.
Maybe coming here was a mistake.
A huge mistake.
ChapterFive
Louanne
“I’m Rose,”the grandmotherly woman behind the counter introduces herself, brown eyes crinkling. “Everyone, this is Genie’s granddaughter, Louanne.”
I glance around self-consciously as all eyes turn my way, a chorus of friendly welcomes following Rose’s introduction. Do I know this woman? Doubtful, since I’ve never stepped foot in Kentbury before today. But her familiar use of my name sends a fresh ripple of unease through me. I manage a tentative smile in return, my big city instincts still on high alert in this unfamiliar territory.
I know Rose seems sweet as pie, but my mind still irrationally spins a sitcom scenario of her whipping out a shotgun from under the counter and demanding my wallet. Not that she’d get much—five dollars and some change, a couple of receipts, and canceled credit cards. Though, there’s my beloved Hermès bag that I’ve toted for years. Maybe she could sell that online. Someone might pay good money for a well-loved designer bag.
“Um, hi, everyone,” I reply, my voice a shade too polite, too distant. But it’s hard to shed the armor of city life, even in a place as welcoming as this.
I move further into the bakery, my steps hesitant. The locals’ gazes follow me, curious and unapologetically intrusive. Their whispers float toward me, snippets of conversations that make me feel like an exhibit rather than a customer.
“She’s Paul and McKay’s sister, right?”
“Yep. You heard Rose. She’s another one of Genie’s grandchildren. I think she has two or three more grandsons,” chimes in another voice. “They’ll probably be here soon, too.”
I barely suppress a snort. The idea of Raffa, Barnaby, or Sinclair abandoning Boston seems about as likely as a snowstorm in July.
“Moved back from the city, they say,” murmurs someone else, not too far from where I stand.
“She won’t last long,” floats another comment, a bit too loud, a bit too sharp. It stings more than I care to admit.
Self-consciously, I tug at my sleek jacket, suddenly conscious of its sharp contrast to the cozy sweaters and worn jeans around me. My heels click against the wooden floor, too loud, too harsh. I definitely stick out like a sore thumb in this town. They’re right, I won’t last.
My spiraling thoughts are interrupted by the creak of a swinging door. I turn to see Paul and McKay emerge from the back, faces alight with a joy and ease I haven’t seen in years. Trailing behind is a tall, ruggedly handsome stranger, with an air of quiet confidence.
“Lou,” Paul’s voice booms across the café, ensuring every set of eyes fixes on our family reunion. I brace myself as the trio approach.
“Hey, you,” I greet softly, finding my voice.
Paul wraps me in a bear hug, his laughter filling the space around us. McKay hangs back, offering a gentle hand squeeze and kind smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She’s probably still upset at me, and I don’t blame her. It’ll take a long time to convince her that I’m sorry for my actions. It’s okay, though, I have plenty of time and a lot of patience.
“So glad you made it safe,” she says gently before her gaze darts toward the man at her side. “Sorry to hear about . . . Tony and the kids.”
The stranger clears his throat, and McKay quickly adds, “This is Bishop, my fiancé.”
Bishop extends a hand, his grip firm yet kind. “Nice to meet you, Lou. I heard a lot about you.”
I feel a blush creep into my cheeks, wondering exactly what it is that he heard about me. Probably McKay has told her husband-to-be something like, “She’s a bitch who shouldn’t be three feet near me.”
“Nice meeting you too,” I manage, hoping my palm isn’t terribly clammy.
