9. Beck
NINE
BECK
Friday is the first cloudy day since my arrival in Rosedale, so I throw on a thin light blue cardigan over my jeans and dark blue V-neck before grabbing my keys. Cleo’s happily snoozing in her bed in the kitchen, and Donovan’s probably upstairs. He spends most of his mornings upstairs in his room. Supposedly he’s working on his play, but every time I ask him about it he turns grumpy, so I haven’t mentioned it for a couple of days.
I can’t believe it’s already Friday. At this rate, the summer is going to fly by faster than a shooting star. Taking care of Cleo isn’t a chore, but feeding her, walking her, and sending lots of pictures to her daddies is more time-consuming than one might think. The rest of the week I’ve spent poolside, cooking, and trying a different molasses cookie recipe every night. So far I haven’t cracked the code of Donovan’s aunt’s recipe, but it’s just a matter of time.
We’ve eaten dinner together each night this week. It’s been nice to cook for more than myself, and Donovan enthusiastically eats everything I put in front of him. Not sure how he maintains that body of his, since the couple of times he’s joined me in the pool he floats around lazily more than doing actual laps, but I think he’s used the workout machines in the basement once or twice. I’m trying really hard to stay on my best behavior and not follow him around like a puppy—we already have one of those in the house, thank you very much.
We don’t spend every minute together, but our shared meals have been a bright spot. Donovan tells me stories about his theater experiences, some of them redacted to protect the identities of his more famous friends, and I’ve made him laugh with some of my more epic baking and higher education fails.
I think we might be getting to be real friends.
And if I still think Donovan is basically the handsomest man I’ve ever met, well, I can handle myself.
Between all the dog care and cooking and working on my tan (I know I shouldn’t, but a guy can’t help it), I haven’t made it back to town. I’ve been wanting to return to the thrift store and explore the bookshop Jack told me about. But the first thing I do after parking my GTI in a shady spot on a side street is make for Hot Brew.
I was too hungover the last time I was here to appreciate the cute black and white tile and the array of baked goods in the pastry case next to the clean white counter. The morning rush is probably over, because there are only a couple of people in line, but almost every table is full of chatting, caffeinated patrons. I take my time perusing the short but appealing food menu and what’s on offer in the way of croissants and muffins. I don’t see any cookies, which is disappointing until I remember I’ve got about five dozen leftover molasses cookies at home.
I’ve earned a stimulant after taking Cleo for an extra-long walk this morning, so when it’s my turn I ask the petite redhead behind the counter for a matcha latte. I think I recognize her from my previous visit, but my memory of that morning is mostly the splitting headache and Donovan being way too sweet to someone he just met.
Of course, at the time, he didn’t know we’d have to spend the rest of the summer together. It shouldn’t sting that he completely stopped flirting after he found out he’d actually be living with me. I guess it’s good we’re getting along, but it makes me sad that he doesn’t seem to believe he can get companionship and sex in the same relationship. I wonder, not for the first time, if he’s just one of those guys who’s not built to settle down, or if something happened to turn him off to the idea.
“What’s an Everything Muffin?” I ask the red-haired employee, hoping it doesn’t involve caraway seeds. I’m not a huge fan.
“Right now, it’s got blueberries, raspberries, and blackberries, with a hint of lemon,” she explains. “We change up the flavor every season.”
“Sounds delicious. Who does your baking?”
“Who wants to know?” A woman with ink-black hair, painted on eyebrows, and black lipstick leaves the espresso machine to stand next to the redhead.
I’m taken aback by her question until I notice her grin; I’m pretty sure I’ve met her somewhere before.
“Beck, right?” she says. “I’m Meadow. We met at your cousin’s wedding.”
“I remember,” I say slowly, the memory filtering through the drunken haze of that night.
“Jack told me you were house-sitting this summer. How’s it going rattling around in that big house?”
“Turns out Pete asked his friend Donovan to house-sit, too, so it’s not as, uh, rattly.”
The redhead lets out a small squeak and her cheeks turn almost as red as her hair.
“You okay, Ruth?” Meadow asks her coworker with a hint of concern.
Now I definitely remember Ruth from the other morning, and the way she seemed to melt every time Donovan threw a smile her way. Since I can relate, I give her a sympathetic look. “Anyway, so far, so good. But I haven’t had a chance to explore Rosedale yet. I’m fueling up here first.”
“Well, the muffins are terrific, but we don’t make them in-house. The croissants and other pastries come from the city—some poor schmo drives them up from a bakery in Manhattan every morning. But the muffins and quick breads come from a local baker, Stacy Robinson. She also makes the bread we use for our sandwiches.”
“I can’t wait to try everything,” I enthuse. “But I have to point out a hole in your menu. No cookies?”
“No, we’ve never carried cookies. I’ve mentioned it to the owner a couple of times, but she’s pretty happy with our current offerings.”
“Good to know. Well, this place is adorable.”
“Thanks,” Meadow says warmly. “Ruth, you can give him the friends and family discount.”
Ruth charges me what seems like a ridiculously low amount and passes me a wax paper bag with the muffin inside.
I thank them both and tuck an extra big tip into the jar next to the computer. I nibble on the muffin until the matcha latte is up a few minutes later. The drink is strong and not too sweet, and I’m instantly addicted.
“See you soon,” I call to the women when I leave, getting twin waves in return.
Outside, the sky is still overcast, but it’s not cold. Still, I’m glad for the warmth of my drink as I saunter down Main Street. The thrift store is up on the right, and the bookstore is somewhere a bit farther along. I see a cute-looking Italian restaurant not yet open for the day, and a real estate firm with photos of local properties in the window. I stop and browse the listings—a twenty-acre farm, a small ranch-style house, a one-bedroom apartment. I look for the abandoned dark blue house I’ve seen on my walks with Cleo, but it’s not there.
Second Time Around, the thrift store, is cool and dark inside. Before I pounce on the kitchenware, I reintroduce myself to the lady rearranging the window display, who says her name is Beth, and that she owns the place.
After poking around for a while, I decide I absolutely have to have some really cute vintage cocktail glasses I find on an out-of-the-way shelf. Beth rings me up, carefully wrapping each glass in tissue paper.
“Where’s your young man today?” she asks.
“Who?” I look around as if I can conjure up a boyfriend by sheer willpower.
“Your friend from the other morning,” she says, handing me a paper bag with my purchases.
“Oh, him. He’s my…roommate,” I say awkwardly.
Beth gives me a knowing smile. “It’s all right, dear. Rosedale is a very open-minded place.”
I’m about to correct her, but figure there’s no point and just smile at the sentiment. I guess it’s better she accepts Donovan and I are together than being appalled at the possibility. People do like to make assumptions, but since this one is rather nice, I let it go. “Thanks. I’ll be back soon,” I promise.
Still shaking my head over that exchange, I head in the direction of the bookstore, but my attention is grabbed by a couple of guys attempting to move a large couch through a small doorway. I step out of their way, surveying the building. They seem to be moving someone out of an upper floor apartment, which is over an empty storefront. I glance through the ground floor window. The inside is dusty, but looks like it used to be a shop at one time, with built-in shelving on the walls and unfinished sections of the floor where it looks like a counter used to be. I step back and survey the building. It’s attractive, warm red brick on top, big plate-glass windows at street level. This block seems to be thriving otherwise—I wonder what happened to this store. It seems to be the perfect place for a little boutique or—not a coffee shop, because Hot Brew’s got that covered—some kind of eatery.
I can’t stop thinking about the empty space as I walk to the bookshop. Cheerful bells sound as I let myself in, and I allow myself to be distracted by the comforting smell of new books.
“Hi there,” a tall woman with short wavy brunette hair greets me. “Oh, I know you. Jack’s cousin, right?”
I’m still not used to just how small a town Rosedale is. Everyone seems to know me and I’ve only been here a week. I smile at her, trying to place her. “Beck Avery,” I confirm.
“Melissa Sanchez,” she says. “Jack told us you were going to be house-sitting. And I see you were at Hot Brew. Meadow’s my girlfriend.”
“Oh! Cool.” I lift my almost empty takeout cup. “Bookstore and coffee shop? Power couple.”
She laughs. “Can I help you find something?”
“Cookbooks?”
“Over here.” She shows me the section and leaves me to browse. I find two cookie-centric books that have promising molasses cookie recipes and take them both to the counter. I’m about to pay when I have a thought. “Do you have any books about writing?”
“A few.” She takes me to the nonfiction section and I scan the titles. Nothing specific about playwriting. Which is probably for the best. Donovan hasn’t exactly invited my input on the subject. And I don’t want to make him uncomfortable with an unwelcome present.
“Didn’t see what you wanted?” she asks when I return empty-handed.
“It’s okay. The cookbooks are perfect.” I throw in a couple of cute pencils I spot at the register and then notice a plain black notebook in a rack. “Wait, this too,” I say, adding it to my small pile. I’ve seen Donovan write in a similar book. Maybe he needs another one. And if I chicken out of giving it to him, I can use it myself. I usually take recipe notes on my phone, but I can try something new.
While she scans my items, I ask, “Do you know what’s up with that empty storefront down the block?”
Melissa thinks for a moment, then her brow clears. “Oh, that was a sandwich shop, but the owner decided to move to Florida. It’s been empty for a couple of years now. I keep hearing rumors of things going in, but nothing so far.”
“Hmmm.” I wonder what the rent would be on a place like that. Not that I know anything about retail. Or even know what kind of store I’d want to run. But the possibility nags at me, just like the possibility of that cute blue house.
“Are you a baker?” Melissa asks as I pay and add my purchases to the bag from Second Time Around.
The question flummoxes me for a second. “Strictly amateur,” I say. “Cookies, mostly.”
“Well, if you ever need a taste tester, you know where to find me,” Melissa says.
I think about the five dozen cookies at home and grin. “Be careful what you wish for.”