The Possibility Wing (GraceTown #8)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

“Nora, go help bus.”

“It’s Cora,” she murmured under her breath, but Dodger Marks—shift manager, clipboard wielder and apparent guardian of chaos—was already barking orders at someone else.

Cora grabbed a bus tub, pasted on a polite smile and wove through the crowded floor of Cuppa Joe, GraceTown’s bustling caffeine hub.

One of several coffee shops in town, this location was a mix of cozy charm and cheerful chaos.

Mismatched chairs circled weathered tables.

A bulletin board near the entrance overflowed with handwritten flyers for everything from piano lessons to lost cats.

Strings of Edison bulbs crisscrossed overhead, casting a golden glow on soft green walls and exposed brick.

Behind the counter, Shelby, a barista with purple streaks in her braid, danced her way through an order, humming along to the ’80s pop song playing through the speakers.

A chalkboard menu hung above the register, the names of drinks like Lake Effect Latte, Cherry Orchard Mocha and Grumpy Farmer Brew all scrawled in looping chalk script.

The first thing Cora had noticed when she’d stopped in to apply was the noise. Everyone seemed to be chatting with someone—exchanging greetings, teasing one another, laughing like this was the town’s unofficial meeting place.

Dodger probably couldn’t be blamed for getting her name wrong.

She was new, and there were so many part-timers that he’d joked it was like the coffee shop had a revolving door.

Still, she never had trouble remembering his name.

With a moniker like Dodger Marks, she couldn’t help picturing a Dickens character who forgot people’s names unless it suited him.

Plus, she had a mental trick for remembering people’s names, a holdover from when she’d been earning her MLIS, or master of library and information science, in grad school. When she met someone new, she matched their name with a book character. Everyone became someone from a story.

Two weeks into her barista gig, Cora knew dozens of names scrawled on coffee cups in black Sharpie, but not one person who belonged to any of them. Their lives outside of whether they preferred oat milk or caramel drizzle remained a mystery.

She, of course, was a mystery to them. No one knew she’d been born right here in GraceTown. No one knew she sent out résumés every morning, hoping for a library job so that she could retire her green apron.

To everyone who walked through the doors, she was simply the petite brunette behind the counter who never messed up a latte order. A worker bee in black jeans. Efficient. Forgettable.

When she’d taken this job, she’d hoped it would help her make friends. But the neighborhood where she was house-sitting was full of married couples and strollers. They waved politely, but that was about it.

She’d hoped that maybe caffeine would do what proximity hadn’t.

She reached a cluttered table and set down the bus tub. Crumpled napkins, lipstick-stained mugs, and half a blueberry muffin greeted her.

She was ready to move on to the next mess when a pair of voices at a nearby table caught her attention. They weren’t loud, but they weren’t whispering either.

“I’m just saying it’s not going to be the charming little artisan village he’s promising,” a woman said, exasperation threading through her tone. “You pave over a community green space, and that’s it. You don’t get it back.”

A man replied, quieter and more measured. “The good thing is we’ve got the council’s attention. If enough people speak up, they’ll have to listen. It’s not rezoned yet.”

Cora glanced over discreetly. The couple looked to be in their early fifties. The woman, wearing capris and a vivid blue top that matched her eyes, tapped her spoon against her cup.

The man, a messenger bag at his feet, looked like he’d been up since dawn.

“Even if more people speak up, what makes you think they’ll listen?

They ignored the petition, and that had hundreds of names,” the woman said, her voice tight with frustration.

“It’s just so infuriating. Calling it Village Market Square doesn’t make it any less of a developer cash grab.

You slap wood paneling on shipping containers and call it quaint, but it’s still a shopping plaza. ”

He nodded. “The problem is, Larry Soukup has money and connections. He’s smart. He wouldn’t pitch something unless he was sure he could push it through.”

The woman leaned in, lowering her voice, but not so much that Cora couldn’t hear. “You know he’s been cozying up to Mick Ramsey and the rest of the pro-development bloc on the council. You think that’s a coincidence?”

The man sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “No. Not a coincidence at all.”

Cora moved on, not daring to linger. She’d learned early on that people talked freely only when they assumed no one was listening.

The next table over belonged to women she’d seen before—two regulars who always seemed to bring sunshine with them and Dori, a fellow Cuppa Joe employee here on her day off.

“Are you going to the festival with us this weekend, Brooke?” asked Hannah, finishing her latte. “It’d be fun to get a large group together like we did last year. I can coordinate.”

Cora had associated her with baker Hannah Swensen from those cozy mysteries. Fitting, since this Hannah ran a cupcake business.

She hid a smile. The week had barely begun, but the buzz about the Fall Festival was already building.

“I’m planning on going,” said Dori. The cheerful part-timer had shown Cora the ropes her first week. Like the fish in Finding Nemo, this Dori had boundless energy and, no matter how slammed the shop was, made every customer feel welcome.

“I’m not sure yet.” Brooke shrugged.

“Why not?” Hannah asked.

“That petition ate most of my free time the past month,” Brooke said, pushing back a strand of hair. “I thought maybe we’d stay home, unless the kids push too hard to go…then maybe.”

“I’m sorry it didn’t go our way,” Hannah said softly. “If they build a strip mall on that green space—”

“Don’t.” Dori lifted both hands, mock horror in her tone. “I refuse to picture a discount-mattress outlet where a library once stood.”

“Village Market Square, remember?” Brooke drawled, sarcasm dripping. “Quaint little shops.”

Cora swiped crumbs into the tub, pretending not to listen, even though she very much was.

Two lines formed between Hannah’s brows. “We all know ‘quaint’ is not what it’ll end up being.”

“It’ll be a strip mall. Discount-mattress outlet or something equally abhorrent.” Dori’s optimism, for once, faltered. She shook her head and sighed.

“If Collister College’s sale to Larry Soukup goes through, I’m thinking that’s exactly what we’re in for,” Brooke said, staring down at the Honey Cardamom Latte that Cora had made for her, a drink Brooke had barely touched.

A petition? A land sale? Cora’s curiosity flared, but, of course, they weren’t talking to her.

“Hey, ladies.”

A tall man in jeans and work boots approached. He had tousled brown hair that caught the light and confidence that came as easily as his smile. “Mind if I join you?”

“Eli,” Dori teased. “Since when do you need an invitation?”

“I thought you’d be working,” Hannah said, gesturing to the only empty seat.

“Finished early,” he said, dropping into the chair and flashing a grin that could probably power the espresso machine. “Didn’t expect to find all of you here playing hooky.”

The women laughed, easy and familiar. His gaze drifted. Found Cora.

Their eyes met. His smile—friendly, warm, maybe a little curious—hit her with unexpected force.

That was when she realized she’d been standing there, bus tub in hand, obviously eavesdropping. The table gleamed. There was nothing left to clean.

Heat climbed her neck like she’d swallowed steam. She looked away, lifted the tub and hurried off.

Two tables later, she exhaled and tried to pretend her face wasn’t still tomato-red.

So far, her great plan for “meeting people in a lively environment” was going splendidly. As long as she changed the goal to “spying on people in a lively environment.”

Dodger appeared at her elbow just as she slid the bus tub onto the back table. “You good out there?”

“Define good,” she teased, tugging a stray napkin free.

He gave her a blank look—sarcasm clearly wasn’t his first language. “Customer at the register wants a decaf caramel latte, half almond milk, half oat.”

“Coming right up.”

By the time she washed her hands and turned toward the espresso machine, the customer was waving cash and calling her Nora.

Cora pasted on her polite smile again. It had started to feel like part of her uniform.

“It’s Cora,” she said quietly, but the woman was already scrolling through her phone.

Steam hissed. Beans ground. The scent of roasted coffee filled her nose and settled in her chest, something that wasn’t quite comfort but wasn’t defeat either.

Maybe it didn’t matter if no one here knew her real name. With any luck, by the time her house-sitting gig was up, she’d be in another state, working as a full-time librarian again.

When the clock finally edged toward four, the line had thinned to a trickle, leaving only the low hum of conversation and the soft clatter of cups being stacked.

Cora rinsed the last bus tub, wiped her damp hands on a towel and clocked out. The smell of espresso followed her out the door, an invisible souvenir no amount of dryer sheets could ever compete with.

GraceTown’s historic district glowed in the late-afternoon light. Old brick facades leaned companionably against one another, flower boxes overflowed with mums, and a banner stretched across the street announcing “Fall Festival This Weekend!”

Couples walked by her, some with fingers intertwined, some with children skipping between them.