Chapter 3
The bakery came alive before the sun did.
Hazel arrived just after four a.m., the sky still navy-blue, the sidewalks damp with ocean air.
Inside Rise, the kitchen hummed with potential.
After weeks of scrubbing tile, testing recipes until the pages curled at the edges, and making lists long enough to fill entire notebooks, she was here. Opening day.
She had compared suppliers, ordered in bulk, debated over packaging and pricing and whether or not people would really pay extra for handwritten labels.
None of it had been glamorous. But it was hers.
She stepped through the front door, flicked on the lights, and stood still for a beat, breathing it in: the scent of flour and sugar, the soft hum of the refrigeration units, the quiet promise of everything waiting.
She tied on her apron, tugging it snug around her waist, and reached for her prep list. Her braid was already slipping loose at the nape of her neck, but she didn’t fix it. She had work to do.
Once she’d set the ovens to preheat, the rosemary and sea salt focaccia came first. She pulled the dough from the refrigerator, where it had been cold proofing since yesterday morning.
It was soft and supple now, the air inside it giving it just the right rise.
She turned it out onto an olive-oil-slicked pan, her fingers working gently, dimple by dimple, until the surface looked like something sculpted by tidepools.
She scattered fresh rosemary over the top— clipped from the terracotta pot sitting just a few feet away— and finished it with flakes of sea salt from a coastal farm in Rockport.
Then she slid it into the oven, where the heat kissed the herbs into something heady and alive.
While it baked, she pulled muffin tins from the cupboard and began scooping batter.
The first bowl held her apple crumble mixture, spiced with cinnamon and dotted with chunks of tart Cortland’s from the Ellsworth orchard just outside town.
The second was blueberry, thick and rich with wild Maine berries she’d picked up at the farmers’ market.
She topped both with their crumble, careful not to overfill, then rotated the trays into the open oven just as the focaccia finished, golden and puffed and fragrant with oil.
She transferred the bread to the cooling rack, its crust whispering as it settled, then moved to the counter and reached for the piping bag.
The carrot cake cupcakes had been baked the night before, but now they needed frosting.
She filled the bag with cool cream cheese icing— soft, tangy, touched with vanilla— and began piping, her hand steady.
One swirl, then another. She worked in rhythm, adding a light dusting of cinnamon to each one with a fine mesh sieve.
Just about a month ago, she’d still been in Boston.
She hadn’t told many people what she planned to do, but she’d written the email to her manager, anyway.
In it, she asked to extend her leave, to stay away a little longer and sort out the estate.
When the reply didn’t come, a call did, instead.
Her manager had sounded tight, confused, when she’d tried to explain.
“You’re doing what, exactly? Opening a bakery? In a town like that?”
Hazel had stood at the window with the phone pressed to her ear, watching locals and tourists alike wander past. They had smiles on their faces, sunlight casting warmth over their skin. Watching them was peaceful in a way her job in Boston had never been, not once.
And so she’d quit. Right on the spot.
No explanation. No plan B.
And as summer shifted into fall, she was here, in Bar Harbor, covered in flour. Her hands were full of dough and cinnamon and butter and the choices she’d made.
She eased the sticky buns from their pan next, turning them out onto a plate so the salted caramel glaze could drip over the sides in thick amber rivulets. She spooned extra glaze into the crevices, then scattered the top with toasted pecans she’d candied the night before.
She moved from station to station, her body finding its rhythm in the quiet.
By the time the sky outside began to lighten, the kitchen was warm with heat. Hazel pulled croissants from the proofer, both plain and almond, and slotted them into the final clean baking tray. She moved them gently, almost reverently, and slid them into the last open oven.
She wiped her hands on a linen towel, turned on the espresso machine, and started a fresh pot of drip from Harborside Brews.
The smell was rich, earthy, touched with maple and something darker.
She poured herself half a mug— Malcolm’s checkered one— and leaned against the counter for a moment, letting the steam settle over her face.
Outside, fog had started to drift through town, curling along the sidewalks like something alive.
Hazel stood there, coffee in hand, watching it move.
She’d given up so much to be here. Not just the restaurant job, or the apartment with the window that overlooked a subway stop, or the career path she’d once told herself would define her.
She’d given up the version of herself who thought success had to come with exhaustion, with hunger and sharp corners.
Now, she was standing in a space her grandmother had imagined into being, with her name on the license and her hands shaping every detail. And still, beneath the gratitude and the awe, she was afraid.
What if no one comes?
What if this dream turns out to be as fragile as all the others?
What if, from a million miles away, I disappoint Gram one last time?
She took a long breath. The scent of baking croissants, warm glaze, and sugared pears steadied her like nothing else could.
She turned from the window and began to fill the pastry case.
One by one, she transferred the baked goods into their trays: muffins nestled in gingham wrappers, sticky buns glistening, croissants golden and gently cracked. The cupcakes stood tall, piped and precise.
She stepped back, wiped her hands again, and picked up the chalk that sat tucked just beneath the screen of the register. Affixed to the front of the curving counter, the small slate board awaited her careful customization. Her handwriting wavered at first, but she didn’t slow.
Each letter curled and looped with precision, the soft squeak of the chalk cutting through the quiet hum of the bakery.
She paused now and then to brush her hand over the board, smudging stray marks before continuing.
A pear and cardamom galette, her salted caramel take on a cinnamon roll, and a shortbread laced with lavender made the list— her soft opening menu written less like a sales pitch and more like an outstretched hand that said: Come in, be gentle.
Then she moved onto the far side, where the list of custom drinks she’d spent weeks perfecting began to take shape.
Of the listed options, her favourite’s were the Bar Harbor Fog, an Earl Grey tea with vanilla syrup and steamed oat milk, the Low Tide, a cold brew layered with a touch of maple, and the Verdance by the Sea, an iced matcha topped with lavender-coconut cold foam.
As she stepped back and admired her work, she brushed her hands along the front of her apron, trying to clear the chalk dust that clung to her fingertips.
The antique clock now hung high on the wall above the few tables scattered within the space ticked forward. 6:26.
There were just enough places inside to sit without ever feeling crowded: a mix of two and four-seaters in warm, honeyed wood, each one paired with chairs softened by sage green cushions.
A built-in window seat lined the front window, draped in linen pillows the colour of sea glass and sand.
A low shelf nearby held local travel magazines and neatly arranged brochures: hiking trails, whale watching tours, lighthouses to visit, ferry times.
The kind of clutter that invited lingering. That asked people to stay.
Hazel smoothed a hand over her hair, walked to the front door, and untied the ribbon holding the Open sign flipped backward. She turned it over slowly, though there were still a few more minutes.
And then she stepped back.
She didn’t expect anyone to come right away.
It was early still, the kind of early that felt borrowed— when the town hadn’t quite rubbed the sleep from its eyes. Most shops wouldn’t open for another two hours. She’d flipped the Open sign more out of obligation than expectation.
So when the quiet stretched long and unbroken, she let it.
She moved back into the kitchen and reached for a dish towel to wipe down the last of the prep counters.
Her mind was already spinning ahead, chasing the rhythm of the day.
She planned to start a second round of baking by mid-morning, maybe a third before lunch, but only if there was enough demand. Only if anyone came at all.
Her shoulders ached, but it was the good kind of ache. It was the kind that settled deep, earned and honest. The kind that came from using her whole body, from showing up.
She walked to the small shelf that housed the modem and flipped on the overhead music, something soft and instrumental. Piano notes curled into the air like breath, drifting upward toward the exposed beams of the ceiling.
And that was when she heard it.
A throat clearing, soft but deliberate.
Hazel jumped. Her elbow knocked lightly against the edge of the prep counter, and her heart pitched, catching halfway between inhale and reaction. She turned sharply toward the sound and rushed to the archway that separated the kitchen from the front of the bakery.
He was already there.