Chapter 3
Julie
T he soft clink of a coffee cup on porcelain, the comforting scent of vanilla and warm cinnamon, the occasional puff of flour in the air—this is my happy place. Seaside Sweets is bustling with the kind of energy only a Saturday morning can bring, and I’m riding the sugar-fueled wave. It’s been three months since we opened our doors, and every morning still feels like a small miracle.
The bell over the front door of Seaside Sweets jingles with a cheerful ring, and I glance up from the tray of freshly baked croissants I’m arranging in the display case. The scent of vanilla and warm butter fills the air, and even after all these months, it still feels like magic. My bakery. My dream. Real and thriving.
“Two almond croissants, one raspberry danish, and a dirty chai,” I call over my shoulder, boxing the pastries with practiced ease. “Janet, don’t think I didn’t see you eyeing that last apple fritter. You want it?”
Janet blushes and tucks a lock of gray-streaked hair behind her ear. “Only if you swear it’s calorie-free.”
“It’s filled with lies and cinnamon,” I tease with a wink, sliding the fritter into a bag and handing it over. “The best kind.”
“Morning, Jules!”
I don’t have to look up to recognize the voice. “Hey, Sophie.”
Sophie sweeps in like she owns the place—and let’s be honest, she kind of does. Or at least, she has that kind of confidence. Her wavy hair is pulled into a high ponytail, and she’s already dressed in winery chic: denim skirt, flowy blouse, and boots that cost more than my rent used to be. She’s followed closely by Emma and Joselyn, both chattering like they haven’t seen each other in years instead of hours.
“I swear,” Emma says, nudging the door closed with her hip, “if Miles buys one more vintage wine fridge, I’m going to start stacking them like Legos in the garage.”
Joselyn snorts. “Brennen’s solution to everything is ‘just build a new room.’ Like walls don’t cost money.”
Sophie plops onto a barstool at the counter. “Let’s not even start on Alex’s latest barrel obsession. He’s sniffing oak like he’s auditioning for a cologne commercial.”
I laugh as I round the counter, handing out their favorite pastries before they can even ask. “Caramel pecan scone for you, Soph. Chocolate hazelnut cruffin, Emma. And Joselyn—lemon tart with extra zest, just how you like it.”
“You are an actual goddess,” Joselyn sighs, lifting the tart like she’s about to propose to it.
Emma eyes me over the rim of her coffee. “You look good. Like, rested. Did you finally take a day off?”
I shrug, grabbing a cloth to wipe the counter. “I slept in until five instead of four-thirty. Totally wild.”
Sophie snorts. “Rebel.”
The bakery door opens again, and I smile instinctively. “Hi, Mrs. Reilly! Got your usual warming up now.”
The sweet older woman gives me a grateful wave and makes her way to the cozy corner table she’s claimed as her own since opening day. She always orders a blueberry muffin and chamomile tea and stays for exactly forty-five minutes, reading the same dog-eared romance novel by Sophie Quinn who happens to live one town over, Hibiscus Harbor.
“Honestly,” Sophie says, leaning toward me with a conspiratorial grin, “this place is the best thing to happen to Pelican Point since the Murphy clan decided to bankroll a new tasting room.”
Joselyn’s eyes sparkle. “Speaking of Candace—she mentioned at dinner last night that she wants to talk to you about something. She’s got that look again.”
Emma raises a brow. “You mean the ‘I’m about to change your life with a single investment’ look?”
I raise both hands. “Please don’t start rumors. I’m barely keeping up with demand as it is with one location. I’m not ready to expand.”
Sophie points her fork at me. “Exactly why you need someone like Candace to help. Think about it. Bigger kitchen. More seating. Outdoor patio for the summer crowd. You’re turning people away by nine every morning.” She pops her bite into her mouth. “Candace is looking to help this area. She’s determined to redevelop all of Pelican Point… especially this harbor district.”
I open my mouth to argue, but the bell chimes again. This time, it’s a rush—three customers all at once, chatting and laughing as they scan the glass case.
“I’ll think about it,” I tell them as I slip away to help.
The next thirty minutes are a blur of espresso shots, warm cinnamon rolls, and small-town chatter. I field questions about cupcake flavors, give directions to the waterfront, and swap cookie recommendations with a pair of tourists from Ohio. It’s busy, but in the best kind of way. Controlled chaos wrapped in the scent of sugar and caffeine.
When the rush slows, Emma leans against the counter, watching me. “You know what I think?”
I arch a brow. “That I should double the size of the espresso machine?”
She smirks. “That too. But mostly, I think you need a date.”
Joselyn perks up. “Ooh. Yes. A hot, spicy one. Preferably with arms that make you rethink everything.”
“And abs!” Emma adds. “Don’t forget the abs.”
I groan. “You guys. I just got my feet under me. No distractions.”
Sophie grins wickedly. “Famous last words.”
Before I can give her a dirty look, the bell above the front door jingles again, and I catch sight of Mrs. Waverly shuffling in from the sidewalk. She’s bundled in a lavender cardigan despite the warmth outside, her white curls perfectly styled, her lipstick a vibrant pink that doesn’t match her shoes and you can tell she absolutely does not care.
“I need my lemon poppyseed muffin,” she declares to the café like a queen returning to her throne. “And a latte with extra foam. You know how I like it, Julie.”
“Of course,” I say, already reaching for a muffin. “You want to sit with the girls?”
“I’m just going to rest my legs a minute. Don’t fuss over me.” She winks and perches precariously on a bar stool.
She’s been part of Pelican Point for longer than I’ve been alive, her florist shop next door has been a fixture in town since the Carter administration. Every homecoming, every graduation, every random Tuesday bouquet—that was all Mrs. Waverly. She always has a story to share, or a memory to sprinkle into your day like glitter.
“Here you go, Mrs. Waverly,” I hand her the muffin and latte in a to-go cup.
She takes her order and slides down, “Thank you, dear. Have a lovely day.” She calls over her shoulder as she leaves the bakery and I watch her walk down the street towards her shop realizing she forgot her usual mantra to me, but I don’t mind.
I turn to help another customer when a scream erupts from outside. The door whips open and someone shouts, “Call 911!”
The bakery falls silent.
My heart stutters as a teenager, wild-eyed and breathless, points toward the flower shop.
“It’s Mrs. Waverly! She collapsed! She’s not moving!”
I don’t think. I just move.
“Becky, call 911!” I shout over my shoulder to my barista. Then I’m sprinting out the front door, my apron still on, my hands trembling.
The sidewalk feels too long. Too far. I don’t remember running down the cobblestone sidewalk, but suddenly I’m kneeling beside Mrs. Waverly, her body crumpled on the brick path outside her shop, her head rests awkwardly against the concrete, eyes closed and her body still. The muffin and latte have spilled on the ground.
“Mrs. Waverly?” My voice cracks. “Can you hear me?”
Her skin is pale. Too pale. Her lips tinged blue. I press my fingers to her neck. No pulse. I start CPR, counting compressions in my head, blinking back tears as I internally beg her to wake up.
People are gathering, watching as sirens approach. The fire truck arrives first, followed by a patrol car. Uniformed paramedics swarm the scene, gentle but efficient, checking her vitals and asking me to step back.
A deep male voice cuts through the commotion. “Who called it in?”
I lift my gaze.
The man walking toward me in a Pelican Point PD uniform, his expression unreadable beneath a strong brow and a mouth set in a hard, straight line. Dark hair, cut short. Broad shoulders. The kind of presence that immediately shifts the energy in a room—or on a sidewalk. He moves with a kind of precision I recognize. It’s Officer King… one of my regular customers.
He crouches beside me, eyes scanning my face. “Are you okay?”
I nod automatically, then realize I must look like a mess—flour on my apron, pink sneakers streaked with coffee from my mad dash out the door. “I—I didn’t see it happen. I just heard someone shouting and came running.”
He glances past me to where the paramedics are still working. “Do you know her?”
I swallow hard. “Yeah. I mean, she’s my neighbor… more than that. She’s… a friend.”
His jaw ticks. “I need to take your statement. But not right now. Let’s get you inside first.” He stands and offers me a hand and I notice how solid it feels, how warm… and the shiver it sends through my body annoys me.
I’m too stunned to speak.
He guides me gently toward the bakery, where the bustle has quieted to a hush. My friends are inside, waiting, watching. Sophie whispers something to Joselyn and crosses the room with a cup of water in hand.
“I just gave her the muffin,” I murmur, mostly to myself.
Marcus hears me anyway. He sits beside me, his voice low. “You care about her.”
“Everyone does.”
The movement outside of my bakery window catches my eye. Tears fill my eyes as I watch the paramedics shake their heads and cover Mrs. Waverly with a white sheet.
She’s gone.
My hands shake. My chest aches. And for the first time in weeks, my sunshine is covered in gray clouds.
Officer King sees my reaction and he’s quiet for a moment. “You don’t have to do this now. I can come back tomorrow, okay?”
I nod.
He stands, gives me one last look—steady, grounded—and then he’s gone. But the moment stays. Not the moment he left but the moment he looked at me like he saw the grief bleeding through my flour-dusted smile and didn’t flinch.
I exhale and grip the edge of the table, bracing myself against the weight of loss of my friend and now Seaside Sweets doesn’t feel sweet at all.
* * *
The bakery is quiet now.
The door is locked. The display case is empty, the smell of cinnamon, sugar, and stale coffee lingering in the air like a memory.
My friends haven’t left.
Emma sits beside me at one of the window tables, her hand on mine. Sophie leans against the counter, arms crossed over her chest. Joselyn and Candace, who came running when they heard what happened, have taken seats nearby, silent for once. Even Ryan’s here, hovering by the front door like a watchdog.
I stare at my untouched cup of tea, my throat raw.
"She was like… like a grandmother to me," I say softly. "Not the baking-cookies kind, though she did do that. But she gave me advice when I was just starting out. Told me what wholesalers to trust, what days would be best for the deliveries to come, how to charm the health inspector without selling my soul."
Emma squeezes my hand. "You two were close."
I nod, a tear slipping down my cheek. "She told me stories about what Pelican Point was like forty years ago. She said people underestimated flowers. Thought they were just pretty things. But she said they were the first and last gift most people ever received. That they mattered. That how you presented them, the care you took—it all told a story."
Sophie wipes at her own eyes. "Sounds like she was a badass."
"She was," I whisper. "She believed in this town, in small businesses. In me. When I was scraping every last dime together to get the bakery open, she gave me a check for five hundred dollars and said it was a donation to the future of Seaside Sweets."
"She obviously believed in you," Candace murmurs.
"She said if I made it, she’d consider it a good investment. And if I didn’t, she’d pretend it was a bad bet on chocolate croissants." I chuckle at the memory of that day.
The silence that follows is heavy with shared grief. Pelican Point isn’t big, but it’s close. Everyone knows everyone, and Mrs. Waverly was a cornerstone.
I inhale slowly, trying to find my footing. "The officer who showed up today… Officer King, I think his name was. He was calm. Quiet. He looked at me as if he could see I wasn’t okay and didn’t push. Just… told me he’d come by tomorrow to finish the statement. That was nice of him."
Sophie arches a brow. "Tall? Dark hair? Blue eyes that could melt steel?"
I blink. "Uh… yeah."
She shares a look with Emma.
Emma grins. "That’s Officer King all right. I’ve only had limited interactions with him at the courthouse, so all I know of him is based on rumors. Former Army Ranger. Transferred to Pelican Point PD about a year ago. Keeps to himself. Doesn’t talk much. But he shows up when it counts."
Candace hums. "Grumpy but hot. Love it."
I shake my head, not ready to go down that road. Not today.
"All I know," I whisper, "is that today sucked. And tomorrow might be worse when I look at that empty flower shop."
Emma pulls me into a hug. "Then we’ll be here. For all of it."
And I believe her. Because in this town, in this bakery, I’ve found more than a business. I found a family.
Even if it just lost one of its best.