CHAPTER THREE
T he hardware store in town was nestled on the corner of Main Street. The charming red-brick building had been in the Grayson family for generations. The scent of fresh wood, engine oil, and a hint of dust filled the air. The smell propelled me back to my childhood every time I entered the creaky wooden doors.
I’d spent three summers working alongside Cooper, who eventually branched out to acquire the diner. I needed some work experience. Cooper was reluctant to allow a teenager around hundreds of objects that could cause serious bodily harm, but as a favour to my mom, he obliged. I was confined to the aisles that housed the less dangerous tools. I couldn’t do much harm with a paint brush. Well, I could now. Painting wasn’t my DIY strongpoint.
Aisle one of Grayson’s Hardware wasn’t just a store filled with tools, like much of Magnolia, it held nostalgic memories for me, memories in the form of a girl.
Her name was Eleanor. I was fourteen when I first spoke to her. She had this curly auburn hair that framed her face. Her hazel eyes sparkled whenever she smiled. She was intelligent, more so than me. My crush developed over a number of weeks and months until I finally found the courage to ask her to—tutor me. I wasn’t going to ask her out, God no. She was in my English class. Luckily for me, I was terrible at English.
The more time we spent together, the more my feelings deepened, but I feared she wouldn’t reciprocate, so I kept my feelings to myself. Eventually, she moved away. We lost touch, but the friendship we established that summer made my time at Grayson’s bearable. When I thought about my teenage years, Eleanor always came to mind. She was my first real crush.
I made my way towards the plumbing aisle. The neatly stacked shelves stretched all the way to the back. The building was deceiving; from the outside the store looked small, but it was rectangular and vast in length. Cooper’s brother was in charge of the store. He stepped from behind the worn-out cash register, carefully placing his tip jar underneath the counter for safe keeping.
“Lieutenant Wilson.”
“Hi, Keith.”
“What brings you in today?” he asked. Keith was the older brother. He leant slightly against his walking stick, a consequence of an old boating injury.
“I’m having trouble with the kitchen sink; there’s a slow leak. I suspect I need a new washer or strainer, but I’ll try both.” My plumbing knowledge was only as exhaustive as the internet allowed. I first experienced plumbing issues two years prior, and my father insisted I have a ‘man’ take a look at it. From there I became fiercely determined to make sure I didn’t require a ‘man’ of any kind.
“Do you remember where they are?”
“I think so.”
Keith began tending to another customer, trusting in my knowledge of the store, and rightly so; it hadn’t changed in over ten years. The store was always buzzing with activity, especially on the weekend when the residents of Magnolia dedicated their time to improvements. I heard the old-fashioned doorbell chime several times as I searched for the right parts.
Once I found what I was looking for, I doubled back to pick up a few essential supplies. I didn’t expect to find Amelia knelt in the middle of the aisle intently reading some microscopic instructions.
Amelia’s curly hair was held back by a cream-coloured bandana. She wore a pair of denim overalls and a white cotton vest. Her brow furrowed in concentration.
“Morning, Amelia,” I greeted.
She stood, her eyes wide. “Morning, Riley,” she said, flashing me a nervous smile.
“It’s good to see we’ve moved past, Lieutenant.” I smirked.
“Well, I figured being on first name terms with the future sheriff clears me of any crimes, right?” She bent down to pick up a roll of heavy-duty rubble sacks.
“Something like that.”
Amelia gathered her basket, it was already full with a selection of household cleaning items, paint brushes, and sanding equipment.
“What are you up to?” I asked.
“I’m making a start on clearing the house out. Do you think ten sacks is enough?” she asked.
“That depends, are you coming back tomorrow for ten more?”
“Hmm, you’re right. I need more.” She swiped another three rolls from the shelf. She stared into her basket and then looked up at the signs for guidance.
“Need some help?” I asked, struggling to hide my amusement .
“Uh, yes, please,” she admitted. “Where do I find a nail gun?”
I gulped. “Why do you need a nail gun?”
“There’s a bunch of skirting boards coming away in the kitchen, so I figured I’d nail them back on... No?”
“Follow me.” My smile widened as I guided her towards the skirting board adhesive. “Personally, I would recommend this.” I handed her the tube. “You can use a nail gun, but I’ve seen enough accidents to put me off for life.” I cringed.
It’s amazing how quickly life can change. One minute you’re nailing some hard wood floor, and the next you’re being rushed to the emergency room with a nail protruding through your skull. The gentleman in question survived, by some miracle.
“This does seem easier.” She observed the long white tube.
“What else do you need?” I asked.
“I eventually want to stain the fireplace in the main living room... what do you suggest?”
“It depends, there’s oil-based, water-based, gel-based,” I said.
“What’s the difference?”
“I think it’s something to do with the way it penetrates the wood or the visibility of the grain, but don’t quote me. I can get Keith to help you choose.”
Keith advised her on the perfect stain based on her description of the fireplace. Amelia placed the large tin in her basket after much deliberation; her arm strained under the weight.
“Allow me.” I pulled the tin from her basket.
“I like this shirt.” Her eyes twinkled. She reached out and touched the green flannel shirt that covered my otherwise naked torso. I felt self-conscious in my worn- out denim shorts and worker boots. A quick trip to the hardware store didn’t require much in the way of self-care. I was about to spend the afternoon buried under the sink. “Where’s it from?”
“Erm, the thrift shop in town,” I admitted. “It’s just round the corner from here. If you’re looking for unique pieces to decorate the house, I’d definitely recommend it.”
The owner also happened to be my best friend.
“I’ll check it out.” Amelia opened her mouth to say something else but hesitated. I hadn’t noticed the night before, but her sun-kissed skin bore a few distinctive freckles.
“Is the coffee shop that my grandma used to own close by?”
“Sure, it’s just down the road.”
Amelia nodded. Her gaze dropped to her overflowing basket.
“Would you like to see it?” I prompted.
“Can I?” Her curiosity piqued.
“Of course.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want to intrude on your day.”
“Honestly, it would be my pleasure.” I averted my gaze to the far wall; in and amongst all the old photos of Magnolia Springs establishments through the years was a circular clock.
“How about you meet me back here in an hour? I just need to run a quick errand and then I’ll grab the keys.”
“You can get the keys?”
“It’s a small town, Amelia.”
“Of course, you know the owner, right?” She rolled her eyes, hilariously.
“Something like that.” I laughed.
The sign on the outside still read, Baker’s Coffee House , except the U had fallen, creating a rather unique name. The once illuminated open sign was barely visible through the discoloured newspaper that covered the windows. The chime that once welcomed customers remained silent. I ducked through the entrance trying to avoid the cobwebs that clung to the corners of the doorframe.
The coffee shop, now silent and empty, was once a bustling spot filled with locals. If I inhaled deep enough, I could still smell the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee. The hardwood floors were covered in a thick layer of dust. The bright green booths where customers used to sit and enjoy their coffee remained. They were faded, but in relatively good condition. The long wooden counter had seen better days; old crinkled leaflets and dull cutlery covered the surface. Anything of worth had been stripped out when the previous owner sold the premises.
The swirly handwriting on the chalkboard that used to display the daily specials was still visible.
“Can I get you a...” I stepped closer to make out the wording. “White chocolate and strawberry muffin?”
Mmm. My mouth watered.
Amelia nodded politely. Her eyebrows furrowed. She was deep in thought. I found myself focusing in on the delicate curve of her cheek and the softness of her lips. They were slightly parted as if she wanted to say something, but she didn’t right away. She was beautiful; there was no denying that.
“What was she like?” Amelia asked .
“Mrs. Baker?”
Amelia nodded.
“Honestly, I didn’t know her all that well, but I’m sure my parents would be able to tell you a story or two.”
“Did they know her?”
I nodded. “My dad used to drive her home in the squad car with her groceries.”
“Really?” Amelia chuckled. “That’s cool.”
“We used to come here every Sunday morning for a coffee before we went to Katherine’s volleyball games. Well, my parents had a coffee, and I begged them to let me have a cupcake for breakfast.”
Amelia ran her finger over the cups and saucers stacked high in the corner.
“What kind of cupcake?” she asked.
“Mrs. Baker made the best blueberry muffins.”
“I love blueberry muffins,” Amelia whispered.
There was a rectangular shadow in the corner where the jukebox once stood.
“This display case used to be filled to the brim with pastries. She’d bake them fresh every morning: croissants, muffins, cinnamon rolls, banana bread. She had everything,” I said.
Amelia pressed her hand against the empty display case; only a few dry crumbs remained.
“It’s such a great space,” Amelia observed. “I bet she loved it here.”
In the corner were stacks of mismatched chairs. Some had chipped edges and missing legs. Amelia picked up the porcelain mugs one by one, and the clinking echoed through the empty space.
“I can’t believe someone left these behind.” The mugs themselves were works of art. A mixture of hand-painted intricate designs and abstract patterns. She ran her finger around the rim of one as though it was as precious as a genie’s lamp.
“Unfortunately, they’re useless to another coffee shop—” I reached out to turn the mug over in her hand. “They’re inscribed with the logo.”
“They’re so beautiful,” Amelia said, in awe. “What was this space purchased for? Do you know?” she asked.
I did know. It was my job to know most things in Magnolia.
“A floral shop.”
“Oh, nice. When will it open?”
“I don’t know. The plans were drawn up initially, but circumstances changed, and the owner decided to take a step back for a while.”
The owner being my sister, Katherine. The moment she decided to take a leap of faith and open her own business was the moment she found out she was pregnant—the first time. She fell victim to the Wilson pregnancy curse nine months after my niece was born. Katherine was about to be a mom to two children under the age of two. She took it surprisingly well, me on the other hand, I was terrified for her.
Amelia positioned herself behind the empty old-fashioned cash register. “Does it suit me?”
“Oh, absolutely,” I encouraged.
Her attention turned to the wooden countertop, and her smile faded. She reached out to touch the edge as though she was wiping something away. There was a look of disbelief and confusion on her face.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
“Come and look at this,” she muttered.
Upon closer inspection, I could see a faint inscription etched into the thick wooden edge of the countertop .
“What does it say?” I leaned in closer. The inscription was hard to make out due to its rough carving.
Amelia read it out loud, “If I . . . forget . . . you, remember me.”
“What’s that?” I pointed towards the last bit. It looked like an initial. “Is that an F ?”
“I think so.”
“If I forget you, remember me,” I repeated.
Why did the words sound so tragic? What did they mean? Mrs. Baker’s first name was Caroline, which ruled her out.
“Do you think someone wrote that for my grandma?” Amelia questioned.
“Potentially. I could always ask Grace. She was the woman who ran the shop for a few years after Mrs. Baker. It might be something to do with her, although her husband is called Colton, so the F is confusing still.”
I could feel the warmth radiating from Amelia’s body as I became hyper-aware of just how close we were. It felt like we were uncovering something. The small quote was the piece to a bigger unknown puzzle. Katherine had plans to remove the work surface completely and replace it with the industrial metal equivalent as part of her floral shop plans, but the lengthy piece of timber seemed to hold more value now.
“Thank you for bringing me here. I really appreciate it,” Amelia said. Her eyes lingered on me for a few seconds longer than I expected.
“You’re welcome.” I smiled.
“I should go.” Amelia turned to leave. “I have a long day ahead of me.”
“Let me give you a ride home,” I suggested.
“I don’t mind walking,” Amelia countered .
“I can’t let you do that with a can of paint and a bag full of supplies. It wouldn’t be very welcoming of me would it?”
“I guess not.”
I looked down at my shirt; the openings between the buttons revealed my bare torso no matter which way I stood. Note to self: keep the shirt for household use only. Thankfully, a quick shower that morning meant my exposed summer legs were nice and smooth. My work boots and shorts combo might’ve looked like some sort of labourer gone wrong, but Amelia didn’t comment.
“Where will you start?” I asked as I locked the coffee shop door.
“I have a debris box coming today. I guess I’ll just start by stripping back and throwing away anything that can’t be salvaged.” She shrugged.
“On your own?”
Amelia nodded. “I’m a big girl, Lieutenant.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I’m joking,” Amelia bantered. “Unless you want to help?” She laughed.
“Okay,” I said, too quickly.
Amelia studied me. “Really?”
“Sure. I’d be happy to help.”
“Are you always this accommodating?” Amelia raised her eyebrow.
“Are you questioning my character?” I smirked.
“No, I’m just curious. I don’t meet people like you very often.”
“You don’t have nice helpful police officers in Texas?” I asked.
“We don’t have the kind that put CCTV cameras up, search houses out of hours, and offer to help complete strangers clear out old houses. ”
“Huh, that’s a shame. I happen to like doing all those things.” I smiled.
Amelia was quiet for a moment. She seemed to be contemplating what to say next.
“You’re different,” she concluded.
“Erm, thank you. I think.”
“It’s a compliment.” She pursed her lips.
We began in the dining room removing old pieces of furniture. Amelia asked my opinion on each piece. She’d developed a knack for upcycling after breathing life back into numerous pieces for her old coffee shop. It had been an exercise needed to keep costs low.
We removed a six-seater dining table, much like the skirting boards, the legs of the table had seen better days with wood rot seeping in. The carpet came up with ease; it was rippled and wrinkled beyond repair. The exposed wood floor underneath looked damage free. I took a hammer to the lose boards whilst Amelia swept the piles of dust from the room.
A large mahogany-stained sideboard was the only thing salvageable from the dining room. The three drawers were filled with old photo albums, trinkets, and tat acquired from a long life lived. Amelia opted to save a few of the photos; her selection process seemed random, but I didn’t question it.
We moved on to the kitchen next. The debris box was soon filled with old appliances and overused utensils. Mrs. Baker had a large cupboard dedicated solely to cookbooks and recipes torn from newspapers and magazines. Amelia discovered a small black notebook in amongst them titled, My Recipes . Inside was at least one hundred different pages of recipes; some were titled, others not. Around the edge of the paper, scrolled in different handwriting to the actual recipes, were pieces of commentary—all positively critical. I left Amelia to analyse the contents whilst I proceeded to salvage the skirting boards with the adhesive she’d purchased earlier that day.
“This recipe for strawberry cobbler is making me hungry for dessert,” Amelia admitted. “There’s a comment on the side of the page. It says, the best southern-style cobbler in existence ,” she chuckled.
“Well, you know what they say about recipes in Alabama?”
Amelia shook her head.
“You should always try making them before you judge them.” I smirked.
“Nobody says that, do they?”
“No.” I grinned.
Amelia began searching through the kitchen. With a clatter she removed a baking dish and a saucepan from the ‘keep’ box. She set them aside and clawed her card wallet from the wooden bowl by the back door.
“I’ll be back in five.”
Amelia stood in the middle of the unfamiliar kitchen, determination etched on her brow as she prepared her workspace. She returned from the store with a gleam in her eyes. After gathering all the necessary ingredients in record time, she began preparation.
“Would you like some help?” I offered .
“No, it’s okay.” She smiled.
I finished up with the skirting boards before moving on to the lose kitchen cabinets; it was nothing a screwdriver couldn’t fix. I was being painted as quite the handywoman, but the jobs were fairly straightforward, and I hoped they remained that way. If Amelia asked me to rewire the electrics or use a wet saw to tile the kitchen I was in serious trouble. I tried tiling once. I managed the straight lines with ease, but when I had to strategically cut into the corners the whole thing started to look like an art project gone wrong. I’d quickly decided against devaluing my home any further and opted to hire a professional.
Amelia carefully washed and sliced the fresh strawberries. They were vibrant in colour.
“I tried growing strawberries once.”
“Oh really? How did that go?” She handed me a small slice.
“Thank you.” They were sweet but slightly sour at the same time—delicious. “I had this optimistic vision of plump juicy strawberries bursting with flavour.”
“But––” She laughed.
“They failed to thrive.” I rolled my eyes. “I may have underestimated just how much water they needed.”
“So, you killed them?” Amelia smirked.
“Erm, killed sounds harsh. I prefer to say, their growth was stunted.”
Amelia added a touch of sugar to the strawberries. The recipe clearly stated the importance of enhancing the strawberries’ natural sweetness.
“Did you grow any strawberries? Even tiny ones?”
I shook my head.
“Nope, not even a pea size.”
“Oh, well, maybe you’ll have better luck next time? ”
“There won’t be a next time. It’s too hard. After the fact, Mr. Henderson kindly told me I had to consider sunlight exposure, adequate hydration, pests, fertilisation techniques, general pruning and maintenance.”
“And you didn’t consider any of those things?” Amelia raised her eyebrow.
“I thought planting the seeds and watering them a few times a day was the extent of it.” I shrugged.
“I’m surprised at your lack of due diligence, Lieutenant,” she teased.
Amelia scooted past me. The move was careful. Our eyes met but quickly averted. I tried not to draw attention to how close her body was to mine in that moment.
She searched through the kitchen cabinets for the necessary utensils before preparing the cobbler crust. I watched her delicate hands mix flour, sugar, and butter, to create the dough. The crust was soon prepared. She spread the strawberry filling next. I reached around her to gather and clear away the used ingredients in an attempt to help. She looked over her shoulder as I leant forward. I was too focused on the feel of her breath on my neck to stop our hands brushing against each other. The brief contact caused an electrical current to pass through my body from my hands all the way to my feet.
“Sorry,” I mumbled.
The feeling was quickly replaced by a cool detachment. Amelia held a cut of strawberry in her fingertips. “You ready?”
She threw the juicy red cut into the air. I bent my knees slightly, my head snapped back, and my mouth opened wide for the catch. Score.
“Ayyyy,” she clapped.
“You try. ”
We continued to play like children whilst the cobbler cooked. Amelia lofted a neat throw from her position beside the fridge to my crouched stance by the doorway. If fruit throwing were a sport, it would’ve been a touchdown.
The anticipation built as the baked aroma filled the kitchen.
“The pressure is on,” I joked.
“This will be the best strawberry cobbler you’ve ever tasted,” Amelia said confidently.
“Did I tell you that my grandad won a national award for his strawberry cobbler? Five years in a row.”
Her face dropped.
“I’m joking.”
Amelia reached for the flour, a mischievous grin on her face. She was ready to unleash. She took a handful and threw it in my direction; a cloud of white powder filled the air, and her laughter erupted. The kitchen was our battleground. I taunted her, daring her to make another move. The island acted as the referee. It separated Amelia and her flour-filled hands from me and my empty hands. I needed my food weapon. My eyes darted from one surface to the next—water.
Not one to back down I grabbed the glass of water from the sink and proceeded to flick the liquid in retaliation.
“Water and flour is a bad combination,” Amelia squealed.
Her aim was good. She threw another handful; the powdery substance found its mark for a second time, and half of my face was covered, leaving me momentarily hindered.
Laughter burst from my core. The food fight was light-hearted and joyous, two things I found fleeting. We chased each other around the island, ducking and dodging until our bodies began to tire. The kitchen Amelia had spent the better part of a day cleaning was now a playful mess with flour covering almost every surface.
In the midst of the chaos, our eyes met. A moment of connection passed between us. The laughter faded into the background, and we shared a breathless moment. I stood panting and grinning. Amelia reached for a dish towel and wiped at her damp face. She closed the gap between us. I stepped back automatically, cautiously aware of an ulterior motive.
“I’m not going to get you again.” She laughed.
“I don’t know if you can be trusted,” I challenged.
Amelia reached forward, the space between us reduced to a few inches.
“I can,” she whispered. Time slowed down as I caught my breath. Amelia reached to wipe the remnants of flour from my face. Her hand trembled slightly as her fingers hovered inches away from my skin, but I pretended not to notice. The action felt intimate, and for a fraction of a second the tension built. There was a fragile silence, and I became painstakingly aware of my heart racing.
The timer beeped, breaking us from our conversation and signalling the cobbler was done. Amelia withdrew immediately. Suddenly, the oven became the most important thing.
“I’m nervous,” Amelia said, coyly.
The cobbler was golden-brown, and the sight of strawberry filling bubbling over the edge perfectly complemented the thick crust.
“It looks incredible,” I observed .
She presented the dessert with a shy smile. The first bite was mouth-wateringly good. I savoured the flavour.
“Wow.” I sighed.
“You like it?” She beamed.
“I love it.”
And I quite like you.