Chapter 5
Julie
I ’m trying to stay busy even when everything feels unbearably heavy. Everyone says that's the best advice when something terrible happens—keep moving, stay occupied. So, I do. I get up early, mix ingredients, pour, and bake. I force a smile at the customers even though inside I feel like I'm falling apart. But today, my usual act isn’t working.
The news hit me like a punch to the chest. The funeral for Mrs. Waverly is scheduled for next Thursday. Pelican Point is organizing it since she didn’t have any family, and she was such a fixture in the town. They’re holding it at the community chapel downtown, with a reception afterward in the town hall. Even the mayor’s office offered to pay for the flowers and printed programs—a thoughtful touch.
She’s really gone.
I pause midway through wiping down the front counter with the damp cloth I've already scrubbed over the same spot three times. There’s a knot in my throat as big as a grapefruit, and swallowing is nearly impossible.
“Julie?”
I jump, spinning toward the voice and nearly dropping the cloth. I never heard the overhead bell ring which is a testament to how much I’m buried in my own head.
Marcus King is standing in the doorway like some kind of tall, broody statue in a uniform. His eyes flick across the bakery like he’s checking for threats before settling on me.
He’s back.
“Hi,” I say, trying to sound normal and failing miserably.
“Hey.” He nods once, then steps inside. His presence fills the room in a way that feels completely disproportionate to the number of words he actually speaks.
“I didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” I say, grabbing the rag and twisting it between my fingers.
“I was in the area.”
I nod and try to look busy, turning toward the stack of delivery boxes that arrived this morning. My supplier got the dates mixed up and sent double my usual order of sugar, flour, and assorted bulk ingredients. I’d asked the delivery driver to leave them near the kitchen door until I could find a second to move them.
Marcus notices. “You need help with moving those to the back storage room?”
“No, it’s fine. I got it.” I wave him off, my voice betraying the lingering tremor of uncertainty.
He arches one eyebrow—so expressive it could be against the law.
“You sure?” he asks. “It’s not a problem.”
I hesitate a moment too long, and he moves past me before I can object. He crouches in front of the heaviest bag—fifty pounds of flour—and lifts it as if it were weightless. I watch his biceps flex under his uniform, and I have to take a deep breath to keep my mind from short-circuiting.
“I’m perfectly capable,” I mumble, grabbing the next lightest box and following him.
He glances over his shoulder. “Never said you weren’t.”
Okay, fair enough.
We make several trips, moving everything into the back storage room. The quiet isn’t awkward exactly; it’s just dense and charged with something unsaid.
Once the last box is set down, I lean against the counter and push my hair off my forehead. “Thanks. That would’ve taken me forever on my own.”
He shrugs, wiping his hands on his pants. “My pleasure.”
I cross my arms. “So… is this your thing? Checking on bakery owners? Moving bulk flour around Pelican Point?”
He smirks. Just barely. “Only the ones who give me coffee and call me Officer King like they’re trying to keep things professional.”
My cheeks flush. “What should I call you?”
“I told you yesterday. Please call me Marcus.”
There’s a beat.
“Well, Marcus,” I say, testing the name on my tongue like it might bite, “what do you do when you’re not chasing bad guys or lifting heavy things for helpless women?”
His mouth twitches again. “You’re not helpless.”
“The flour bag says otherwise,” I tease.
He shrugs. “I do woodworking. Build furniture. I do a lot of sanding.”
I blink in surprise. That… was not what I expected. “Woodworking? Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“That’s really cool.”
He leans one hip against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Keeps my hands busy. Keeps my head quiet.”
There’s something behind his words. Something darker but I don’t push. It’s none of my business.
“Alright then,” I say, straightening up and picking out a cupcake from the display case, “as a thank you for your help, this one’s on the house.”
He eyes the cupcake like it might explode.
“It’s chocolate with espresso buttercream,” I offer, holding it out. “It’s either this or you walk away and break my sugar-loving heart.”
He accepts the treat, our fingers briefly brushing, and a jolt runs up my spine.
He doesn’t really smile, but his eyes soften just enough for me to question if I should let my guard down.
“Thanks,” he says softly.
“Thank you.”
He doesn’t eat the cupcake right there; he just holds it like he’s trying to figure out what the hell he’s doing with it—or maybe what to do with me.
A silence settles between us—not awkward, but something with sharp edges that might grow into more.
“Are you going to be okay?” he asks abruptly, his tone dipping into genuine concern.
I meet his gaze, conflicted emotions swirling within me. “Eventually,” I whisper, though the word itself trembles with doubt.
He nods slowly, studying me for a moment longer than feels safe, then leaves. The bell over the door chimes a melancholic farewell in his wake, leaving me with his lingering presence—an aroma of cedar, the echo of his soft voice, and the ache of a connection I never expected to crave so desperately.
Marcus King might be quiet, brooding, and closed off, but now, despite the chaos, he’s lodged himself in my thoughts and taken up permanent residence in my head, and maybe I don’t want him out. I’m torn between chasing him away and holding on, even as every part of me is conflicted over what that might mean.
* * *
The bell over the door chimes again barely a minute after Marcus leaves.
"Was that Officer King who just drove away in the police cruiser?" Emma asks, arching a perfectly shaped brow as she crosses the bakery and sets her purse on the counter.
My cheeks heat instantly. "Maybe," I murmur, my voice a blend of uncertainty and embarrassment.
She grins, wide and knowing. "So, it was."
I busily arrange a stack of freshly wrapped muffins behind the counter, trying to steady the tremor in my voice. "He was helping me move some deliveries." I add, though it sounds more like an excuse than a fact.
"Uh-huh. Is that what we're calling it now?" she teases, her tone playful yet edged with curiosity.
I roll my eyes. "Nothing happened, Emma."
She leans in, voice softer now. "But you wish it did?"
I glance through the large front windows, watching the slow dance of shifting light on the pavement. "I don’t know. Maybe. He’s just... unexpected," I confess, the words hanging in the air like a secret waiting to bloom.
Emma reaches out, her hand warm and reassuring as she squeezes mine gently. "How are you really doing?" she asks, the simplicity of her query unwrapping layers of hidden emotion.
The question fractures my composed facade. I shake my head rapidly, blinking away the swell of memories. "I’m sad. I’m angry. I keep thinking about Mrs. Waverly walking through that door again. Like she’s only late, or busy with the next flower arrangements."
Emma’s eyes soften. "I miss her, too. But you know she wouldn’t want you to sit in this grief forever. She’d want you to live. To thrive. She definitely would not want you to mourn her, Julie."
A bittersweet laugh escapes me as I sniff, nodding slowly. "She’d probably yell at me for letting the scones go stale," I add, the memory mingling sorrow and a hint of mischief.
"Exactly," Emma says with a light, playful smile that draws a small laugh from me.
Just as the silence begins to wrap the room in familiar comfort, the bell chimes once again. A tall, striking woman enters, her long blonde hair catching the light and a bold red leather jacket marking her arrival. She surveys the cozy interior with bright, inquisitive eyes. "Is this the place I’ve heard about—the bakery boasting the most amazing coffee and pastries in town?" she inquires, her voice rich with enthusiasm.
Emma and I exchange a glance before responding in unison, "Yes."
The woman's laughter rings clear and confident, echoing off the walls. "Well then, I must be in the right place. I’m Crystal Evans. I just moved to Pelican Point."
"Welcome," I say warmly, already reaching for a freshly printed menu. "I’m Julie, and this is Emma. What brings you to town?"
Crystal beams, her smile vibrant as she explains, "I’m here on assignment. I work as a historian and marine archaeologist, researching a legendary sunken ship off the coast. It’s said to be brimming with gold and wrapped in mystery." She hands me back the menu. “Can I get a cup of coffee to go and a chocolate chip muffin?”
Emma whistles appreciatively, her eyes lighting up. "That sounds straight out of a novel."
"Or a movie," I add with a chuckle as I get her order ready.
Crystal grins broadly. "Hopefully not the kind where everyone dies a horrible death.”
We all laugh. It feels good.
Eventually, Emma checks the time. "Crap. I’ve got court in thirty minutes. Love you. Be good." She wraps me in a quick, heartfelt hug before hurrying toward the door.
Crystal glances at her phone. "I’ve got a meeting with the historical society, but I’ll definitely be back. This place? My new favorite already." She hands me some cash and drops her change into the tip jar on the counter.
"Thanks, Crystal. We’ll be here, and welcome to Pelican Point. You’re gonna love it."
When they’re both gone, I wipe down the counter one last time and let myself pause. Emma’s words echo in my mind.
Mrs. Waverly wouldn’t have wanted me to remain tethered to my grief. She’d have urged me to forge ahead—to keep baking, to keep living. I glance toward the empty seat by the window, once graced by her familiar presence, and a bittersweet smile tugs at my lips through the welling tears.
"Okay, Mrs. Waverly," I whisper into the quiet space, "I hear you. I’ll make you proud."