Chapter 10
Julie
T he espresso machine hisses behind me like it knows I’m spiraling. I pour a shot with more aggression than necessary, watching the rich stream fill the tiny glass like it’s going to give me answers.
Spoiler: It doesn’t.
Marcus didn’t stop by this morning.
No tall, brooding cop with his usual raspberry danish and black coffee. No quiet, lingering looks. No sarcastic one-liner about my muffins being too cheerful. Just… nothing.
This morning, I woke up tangled in sheets that still smelled like him, with sunlight slanting across the pillow where his head had been, but he was gone.
Not a note. Not a text. Just nothing.
I replay the night over and over in my head, trying to find where it went wrong. But all I remember is how he looked at me like I was something fragile and precious. The way he touched me like he couldn’t get close enough. The way I felt… seen.
And now… I certainly don’t feel seen. I feel used.
The bell above the door jingles, and I look up to see Emma, Sophie, Candace, and Joselyn stroll in like a caffeine-seeking girl gang on a mission. Emma’s already waving four fingers in the air.
"Four lattes. Heavy on the attitude," she says, then pauses when she gets a good look at my face. "Okay, who do I need to kill?"
Joselyn leans across the counter, squinting at me. "You look like someone ran over your favorite spatula."
I slide their drinks across the counter. "Marcus didn’t come in this morning."
Sophie pauses mid-sip. "Like… for coffee?”
Candace raises a brow. "She means something’s up with Marcus."
"Yes." I groan.
Emma’s voice goes soft. "Jules… did something happen?"
I pour another shot just for the distraction and then exhale. "We slept together last night. After game night."
"WHAT?!" they all say in unison, startling a couple customers near the pastry case.
I gesture for them to keep it down, but it’s no use. Sophie’s eyes are bugging out, Joselyn is fanning herself with a napkin, and Candace is wearing her death plotting face.
"He was sweet," I say quietly. "Really sweet. Vulnerable. He walked me home. We talked. Then we… yeah. Anyways, when I woke up this morning—he was gone. No text. No note. Just… gone. And now… he didn’t even come in for his usual breakfast." I can feel tears welling up, “I feel so stupid.”
Sophie reaches over the counter and squeezes my hand. "Okay, first of all, you are not stupid. I told you he likes you. Give it some time. Maybe he’s had a busy morning or he’s on a call or something."
Emma points with her coffee like she’s conducting a courtroom cross-examination. "You said he was like a brick wall of brooding hotness, but that’s no excuse. I will kill him the next time I see him . "
Candace snorts. "How was it? Did he go… All. Night. Long."
"Guys." I glare at them, cheeks burning. "I’m not in the mood. This is serious to me."
Emma tilts her head. "Do you think he’s ghosting you? Because he doesn’t seem like the type. Did you try calling him?"
"No, I didn’t," I admit. "Maybe he panicked? Or maybe last night meant more to me than it did to him. I don’t know."
"Okay, pause," Joselyn says. "The man built you a table, he saved you from a knife-wielding manic, put in your security system, and he shows up daily for coffee and quiet eye flirting. He came to game night. You don’t do all that if you’re not emotionally invested. Something’s got to be up."
Sophie leans in, grin sly. "Maybe he just needs a little nudge. Want me to accidentally text him a pic of your boobs?"
"NO!" I gasp, horrified. “What is wrong with you, woman?”
She shrugs. "Just throwing out options."
Emma gives me a more grounded smile. "Look, Marcus has walls… that’s totally obvious. He’s not used to letting people in. But he let you in and that’s scary for someone like him. Doesn’t mean he regrets it. Just… might need a minute to figure out what the hell he’s doing. Give him some time."
I nod slowly, her words settling somewhere deep. "Maybe."
"But if he doesn’t show up by tomorrow," Candace adds, taking a sip, "I’m calling in a SEAL team. Because no man in his right mind gives up coffee, raspberry danishes, and you in one swoop."
I laugh despite myself, the tension in my chest easing just enough for me to breathe again. “He’s an Army Ranger, not a SEAL. I think they get touchy about that kind of stuff.”
“Whatever. Tomato, tom-ato.”
My girls may be ridiculous, but they always know how to pull me back from the edge.
So, now I wait… either for him to show up… or for me to find the courage to let him go.
* * *
The bell over the bakery door chimes again, but instead of another caffeine-deprived local, or Marcus, it’s Lila Roberts from the Pelican Point Garden Club peeking her head in like she’s worried she might be interrupting a top-secret operation.
“Julie? Sweetheart, we’ve got someone over at the florist shop you’ll want to meet,” she calls, her curls bouncing as she waves me over.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, my stomach tightening. I look past her through the window and spot a small gathering forming in front of the flower shop where a few bouquets are now propped up like a soft tribute to Mrs. Waverly.
Lila nods gently. “The attorney from her estate just showed up. He’s asking for you.”
I glance toward the back where the espresso machine is still hissing and Joselyn’s helping herself to another scone like it’s her last meal. “Can you guys hold down the fort for five minutes?”
Emma waves me off. “We’ve got it. Go see what the lawyer wants. I’ll make sure Joselyn doesn’t put bourbon in the vanilla extract again.”
“That was one time!” Joselyn protests through a mouthful of pastry.
Candace grins and pulls out her phone. “And it made the best sugar cookies I’ve ever had. Just saying.”
I toss my apron on the counter and follow Lila out into the morning light, the scent of flour and cinnamon giving way to the sharper perfume of roses and earth. The florist shop looks… different. The blinds are pulled halfway up, the door propped open, and the interior is already filled with the flurry of volunteers in wide-brimmed hats and floral gloves. It’s equal parts adorable and chaos.
Inside, four of the garden club ladies are bustling around like they’ve been running a flower empire their whole lives. Trays of begonias sit beside stacks of new orders, and someone is humming an off-key version of “You Are My Sunshine” from the back room.
“Julie!” Ruth Bennett, one of the garden club members, calls. “We’re just tidying up a bit! You know, until the town finds someone new to take over. Can’t have the shop sitting empty.”
Marie waves from behind the counter where she’s already reorganized the register and added a tiny sign that reads In Loving Memory. “We’re just volunteers. Temporary, of course. Unless the town needs us longer. Or indefinitely. Or forever.”
In the center of it all stands a man in a pressed navy suit and polished shoes that cost more than my espresso machine. He’s flipping through a leather-bound folder when I walk in.
He turns and offers a polite smile. “Are you Julie Harper?”
“Yes,” I say cautiously. “That’s me.”
“I’m David Langston, attorney for the estate of Violet Waverly.” He extends his hand, and I shake it, though my palms are already clammy. “You’re named in her will.”
“She left me something?” I ask, suddenly nervous.
He nods and reaches into his bag, producing a wooden recipe box with delicate floral carvings etched into the lid. “Mrs. Waverly said this was to go to you directly. She referred to it as her legacy box.”
My breath catches in my throat, caught off guard by the lump forming. “Legacy?”
“She said you’d know what to do with it,” he adds, then gently places it in my hands. “She also noted that it should be delivered before the funeral so you could… quote… ‘use with love or not at all.’”
That makes me laugh through the tears threatening to fall. “She always hated recipes without heart,” I whisper, blinking fast.
Lila, now standing beside me, wraps an arm around my shoulders. “She adored you, sweetheart.”
I look down at the box, then open it slowly. Inside are dozens of handwritten recipe cards—some pristine, others splattered with stains. Her looping script dances across the cards like music. I pull one at random.
"Violet’s Famous Honey Lavender Shortbread – best served with secrets and good tea."
“She wrote little notes on each one,” I whisper, stunned.
Langston smiles, softening just a little. “She called you her heir in spirit. Not by blood—but by heart.”
And that’s what undoes me.
I clutch the box to my chest and nod, unable to speak.
“Excuse me,” one of the garden ladies calls from the corner. “Does anyone know where she kept the bonsai she threatened the mayor with? I’m not finding it.”
Lila leans in with a snort. “She didn’t keep it. She gave it to the mayor’s wife as a peace offering. After she ‘accidentally’ decapitated the mayor’s hedge swan.”
I laugh through the tears. “God, I miss her.”
“We all do,” Lila says quietly.
I turn back to Langston. “Thank you. I… I’ll take care of it. All of it.” I leave the florist shop in the capable hands of the gardening club, returning to my bakery next door.
Holding the box up when I walk in, Sophie appears next to me. “Holy crap. Is that Mrs. Waverly’s recipe box?”
I nod, still overwhelmed.
“That’s like… baking scripture,” she says reverently. “Is there a lemon tart recipe in there?”
I rifle through a few cards, spotting old favorites—rose scones, lavender honey cookies, something called Midnight Cinnamon Bombs with a note that reads ‘For when the mayor pisses you off.’ I laugh again, my throat tight.
“I think I want to bake one of these each week,” I say suddenly. “Feature them at the bakery. Keep her memory alive.”
“That’s a beautiful idea,” Candace says softly.
I glance at the gathering of women who’ve temporarily taken over the florist shop, now arranging roses and hydrangeas like it’s second nature. Pelican Point might be chaotic and nosy and occasionally overwhelming, but… it never lets you grieve alone.