CHAPTER 6
Tally
HOPE HARBOR TOWN CHAT
UNKNOWN NUMBER: Can someone confirm that the Daffodil Festival is still going forward?
RAYNA: Oh, I think that’s why Tally’s home. She’s here to help.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: Tally? Can you confirm? She’s in here, right?
ROSIE: She is! And it is. Rumor has it she was at the brewery last night and chances are if you stop by for lunch this week you’ll get a Tally sighting.
I snort. Rumor has it? Rosie knows it’s not a rumor because she saw me with her own eyes. My best friend is a little marketing genius when it comes to this small town stuff, but I wish she didn’t use me as collateral.
Another five texts roll in, and I silence my phone.
I can’t leave the chat because I want to know what they’re saying about me, although I’m annoyed they’re talking about me at all.
Especially since I don’t know who most of them are.
Although, I did figure out Rayna’s number based upon her last few texts.
I sigh. This so isn’t my day. I’d woken up feeling awkward in my own house—in Penny’s old bed, which oddly still smelled like her—and before I could think too long on it, I decided to sneak out the back to avoid running into Walker.
I headed to my mom’s cottage to finally confront her on all of this insanity, but of course I couldn’t find her.
After a quick walk into the fields to calm my nerves, I found my mother playing house with Walker and his family.
And then there was the little boy sitting in my father’s chair. It’s silly, I know. My father is gone. And it’s just a chair, but jeez, did that one hurt. Everything that once existed on the farm has changed.
I never appreciated it before. Never knew how I’d miss it all. But God, do I wish I could have it back.
Rather than spending the rest of the morning dwelling on things I can’t change, I throw on some running gear and prepare to jog into town.
The first mile offers views of our farm, the brewery, and the beautiful mountains that lie just beyond. The spring air is cool against my skin, but it’s got nothing on the frigid Vermont temperatures.
Running is a way to clear my head. I often use the time to think up recipes or work through a possible menu change. Not that I had a ton of say in the restaurants I worked in.
Today, though, my mind can’t possibly fathom a recipe because all I can think about is how my mother has given away our house.
It’s impossible that Penny is fine with this. I just have to get her to admit it.
Everyone seems cagey. It’s not like I expected the red carpet to be rolled out upon my homecoming, but I thought my mother would be a little bit more excited that I’m here. Even Rosie has been weird.
I’m used to not having many people in my life.
When you travel as much as I do, spending seasons in different kitchens, there’s no time for long-term relationships.
For the most part, I’ve always been okay with that.
I’ve had one goal with every kitchen I’ve worked in: to work under the pastry chef.
We didn’t have a lot of money growing up—my father always said the earth was our wealth.
We got by because he was creative in using the daffodil and tulip season to host weddings on the farm as a source of income, but it wasn’t enough to put both my sister and me through college.
Everyone thinks I ran away, but I did what I had to do so I could chase my dreams and my family could chase their own.
My father would have mortgaged the land—or sold some of it—so I could go to culinary school, but I couldn’t allow that. He was already putting Penny through college, and I saw how it wore on him.
So I made a decision to do it myself. And I’ve had a great time learning, even though it’s nearly impossible to work as a pastry chef without a culinary degree.
Nantucket is my chance, though. A pastry chef I worked with two years ago has been hired as head baker at a prestigious restaurant, and she reached out to me to join her this summer.
It isn’t a long-term position because Nantucket is a seasonal destination that slows down considerably in the fall, but after this season, I’ll finally have enough money saved up to attend culinary school. Then maybe one day I can open up my own little bakery.
I turn onto the road circling the harbor and revel in the beauty before me until I hit Maple Lane, Hope Harbor’s main street, and my quiet peace is interrupted. Traffic rolls in both directions, and I wave at the men drinking coffee on the corner as I run by.
The cobblestone sidewalk tests my balance, but I manage to stay upright and watch workers hang wicker baskets filled with flowers at every street light, the yellows, pinks, and purples waterfalling off the ornate Victorian arches.
There are signs everywhere detailing that Hope Harbor was founded in 1682 and is home of the Daffodil Festival.
They’ll be changed in the fall to remind us that it’s home of the Maple Festival as well.
This town loves its festivals. And fortunately for my family, it loves its flowers, too. That’s the one thing that’s kept my family’s business running for as long as it has.
I slow my pace as I pass Pretty Things and Paper Rings, a boutique for cards and jewelry, and glance at the window display that boasts an entire section dedicated to St. Patrick’s Day.
Continuing on, I pass more windows, each one a glimpse into a different local shop. My mom’s favorite hair salon sits on one corner, its pink-and-white awning reflecting the sun although the lights inside are still off.
I stop at another intersection and turn to look at Mabel’s Bakery. A twinge of longing hits my chest as I glance at the wisteria-covered building, something wild and uncontrolled that calls to me. I shake my head—no time for dreaming today—and force myself to cross toward my sister’s bookstore.
A bell announces my arrival when I open the door. Despite the fact that it’s spring, the store smells of cinnamon and pumpkin spice. Even as a child, my sister’s favorite season was fall, and she was pumpkin obsessed far before the latte craze.
Her gold-and-burgundy bookstore is eclectic with hand-drawn designs dancing across the walls and oversized navy velvet chairs dotted strategically throughout.
Noah Kahan’s smooth voice drifts over the speakers at a low enough volume that I can barely make out his words, but I find myself swaying anyway.
It’s been a long time since I properly danced.
My brain immediately summons Walker, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s the type of man to spin a girl around the dance floor. He doesn’t seem like a romantic. Or like he has much of a personality at all.
Which is a pity because that chest and those strong arms would feel incredible to lean on.
“Welcome to Bonfire and Bliss Books,” my sister says as she peers around a bookshelf, not realizing her new customer is me.
“Why thank you,” I say with a dramatic curtsy. “I’m in the market for a book with sex. The good kind.”
Penny rolls her copper eyes as they land on me and swipes at her bangs.
“What kind of sex do you consider good?”
My eyes stray to the corner where books featuring hot men on the covers line the shelves. “I’m guessing that kind.”
Penny nibbles on her lip and pulls a book with an adorable pink cover off the shelf. “You’d be surprised. This one is very kinky.”
I take the book she hands me and study the illustrated cover. “Go figure. A cartoon character is having better sex than me.”
Penny snorts. “Maybe you’ll have good sex with the hot cowboy.”
I place the book on the counter and glare at her. “There will be no sex with the cowboy. He’s probably bad in bed, anyway. Too selfish and grunts all the time.” I mimic two quick pumps of my hips and a grunt.
Penny shoots me a sly grin. “Bad sex is definitely worse than no sex.”
“Spoken like someone who knows.”
Penny flops down on one of the cozy couches. “I’m sure you didn’t come over here to hear about my horrible sex life with douchebag Dick.”
I plop down beside her and wrap my arm around her. “Oh, we’re going with my nickname for him now? I thought he preferred to be called Richard.” I say the name the way his mother always did, as if he was famous.
“Yeah, well, douchebag Dick doesn’t get to dictate what we call him after ending our engagement, now does he?”
I lean my head against hers. “You okay?” Dick was offered a job in LA and told my sister to sell her little store because his job was real and hers was just a hobby. When my sister refused, he called off the engagement.
“Ha,” she says with a loud breath. “He did me a favor. I’m done with men.”
“Me, too,” I say softly.
“Book boyfriends are better.”
“They sure are.”
“I’m really glad you’re home.”
Her soft admission makes me smile. “Me, too.”
“But?” she says, staring at me. “Come on, tell me what you really think and how you’re dying to get out of here.”
My shoulders fall. Despite the rumor mill, I don’t hate it here. I just don’t fit in like everyone else. Penny and Rosie made a place for themselves in Hope Harbor. They’re so ingrained in the fabric of this town they can’t see it, but I’ve always been like the ball of yarn that never got woven in.
I also might have watched too many YouTube knitting videos due to my lack of a sex life.
“There’s no hot water, Mom gave our house away to a stranger, and it seems like she’d prefer Walker’s sister as a daughter over me.” The words rush out, and I groan loudly. “Why am I like this?”
Penny lets out a breathy laugh. “Mom loves you. She just knows you don’t want to be here. You need to make it clear that you want to be.”