1. Hannah
HANNAH
Three months later…
Rachel hunches over the steering wheel as we crawl up Tamara Crescent. A tree came down in Diddington Park, so we bypassed Sycamore Drive, the main street through Hope, and took the back roads through town.
The streets are narrower here and didn’t get the full force of the heavy rains and flooding.
But there’s still debris all over the roads.
Rachel maneuvers around a wooden crate and weaves again to avoid a wet cardboard box that’s upside down and droopy from the rain.
Up ahead, a fallen trash can rests against a pile of newspapers, its contents strewn across the street.
“This is about as far as we can go.”
Rachel pulls the car to the side of the street and cuts the engine.
We had to wait all morning for our road to open before we could drive into Hope. We’ve heard from those who live in town that there’s damage to businesses on the main street, but we have no idea what state Sweet I’m just the baker.
Rachel heads to the street, so I grab the other bucket full of cleaning supplies and follow.
We take the passageway that cuts through to Sycamore.
The alleyway emerges between Joe’s Hardware and Babyland.
There are leaves and trash stacked up by the door, and the sign for Joe’s Hardware hangs loose on one side, but otherwise both shops seem intact.
“It doesn’t look too bad.”
Rachel scoffs. “It’s a war zone.”
I follow her gaze up the main street. The sycamore trees down the center berm have taken a beating.
Mangled branches hang loose and scatter the road.
Bits of paper and other unidentified debris litter the ground.
Some people are converging up by the clock tower carrying brooms and trash bags, the same as us.
“At least the shops don’t look too bad.”
We head up the road and each shop tells the same story, minor damage to signage and dirt from the street. The anxiety that’s been building inside ever since the freak storm hit eases a little.
The bakery is what’s holding the family together.
The farm stopped producing anything meaningful years ago.
The only thing we get from it is honey from the beehives and fruit from the cherry orchard.
The bakery supports seven people: me and my sisters, Rachel’s two kids, and Grandpa.
It’s our lifeline. Rachel has been pacing the house for the past two days while the storm raged outside.
She would have ignored the stay-in-place warnings and driven into town to spend the night here if her boys weren’t so scared of the storm.
A few more paces and we reach Sweet everything I love has a way of dissolving.
Mom and Dad, then Granny. The farm, acre by acre.
I learned young that the harder you grip onto a thing, the more it hurts when it’s taken from you.
So I stopped gripping. I keep my head down and my ovens hot and my cafe open to this town. I look after everyone else in the family, because if I’m the one holding the family together, I never have to be the one left behind.
I set the photo on the counter face up and reach for the next one.
“Your shadow’s here.” Rachel comes in from outside. “He’s talking with Owen by the clock tower, but he’ll be down here in a minute, I guarantee it.”
She has a ghost of a smile, and it’s no use pretending I don’t know who she’s talking about. Grant, the silent veteran who likes to linger in the cafe when I’m working.
“He’ll be here to clean up the town, not to see me.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Sure. And he only comes here for the coffee.”
I shake my head and try to hide my smile.
Grant showed up in town three months ago.
I couldn’t help but notice him. Who wouldn’t?
He’s broad-shouldered with a thick chest and arms that could hold a girl safely all night.
Not that I’ll ever get the chance to find out.
He’s been hanging around for three months, and if he was interested he would have noticed my hints and asked me out already.
Maybe it is just the cupcakes and coffee he comes in for.