Chapter 3 #4
She thought of the recipe tin now tucked away in the back kitchen area.
The galette crust under her fingernails.
The memory of her grandmother’s laugh echoing through this very space when they’d passed by it on walks, Hazel’s finger clutching her nose to protect herself from the scent of what used to be here.
And the letter, creased and softened by touch, still tucked inside her bag next to her wallet.
The ache that rose wasn’t sadness, not exactly. It was something warmer, heavier. A homesick feeling for something that had never truly left her. That never truly would.
“I…” Her voice faltered. She inhaled, slow and full, and then tried again. “I hoped it would feel that way.”
“It does,” Iris agreed, giving a small nod. “It feels like the kind of place people will come back to. Not just for the food… but because it feels good to be here.”
Hazel didn’t speak right away. Something about the way Iris said it, so simply and with such certainty, wrapped around her chest like a warm hand. Not meant to limit or hold back, but to comfort.
She glanced down at the towel in her hands, realizing she’d been twisting it without noticing. Her throat tightened unexpectedly, and for a moment she couldn’t tell if it was relief or grief pushing against her ribs. Maybe both.
She could imagine her grandmother would’ve said something similar. Would’ve said it with pride in her voice and a hand on Hazel’s back.
Hazel blinked once, then again.
“Thank you,” she said finally, voice soft but steady. “That means a lot.”
“Of course.”
Iris finished arranging the bouquet, spinning the vase just slightly so the blush roses faced the front.
The light from the window bent around the glass, pooling on the counter like honey.
Their reflections shimmered faintly in the storefront, two women standing in a bloom-filled, sun-salted room that smelled like stories and beginnings.
Then Iris’s eyes slid past Hazel, toward the pastry case. “Is that a lavender shortbread I see?”
Hazel followed her gaze. “It is. Lavender from your herb bundle, actually, with a local honey buttercream.” Her grin lifted higher on one side. “I was testing the texture all last week. Took a few tries to get the crumb just right.”
“I’ll take three,” Iris said, already reaching for her wallet. “And a Bar Harbor Fog to go. But only if you promise to save me a sticky bun next time. Malcolm got one this morning and won’t shut up about it.”
Hazel chuckled, already stepping toward the espresso machine. “Deal.”
The steam wand hissed gently as she frothed the milk, the scent of Earl Grey and vanilla syrup threading through the air like ribbon. Iris leaned against the counter, watching the bouquet settle, the last few droplets trailing from the stems onto the white countertop in tiny, glistening stars.
The register clicked softly beneath Hazel’s fingers, a stuttering rhythm of receipts and screens and blinking error messages. She tapped again, waiting. Her eyes were fixed to the loading icon as it spun around in circles, taunting her.
Print end-of-day summary?
Yes.
Network error. Check connection.
She huffed, pressing the edge of her thumb into her temple, then tried again. Same result. The screen went grey and then blinked back to life, like it was thinking about cooperating but hadn’t quite decided yet.
Outside, the golden edge of afternoon had begun to dim.
Shadows slipped across the floorboards, long and quiet, stretching in soft angles from the front window.
The pastry case was nearly empty. Only a few scones remained, lonely on their trays.
The coffee urn was drained, a sticky trail of syrup pooled beside the milk jugs, and the scent of burnt sugar still hung faintly in the air.
Hazel hadn’t had the heart to open a window. The wind off the ocean would’ve chilled the place too quickly, and anyway, she wasn’t ready to admit defeat. Not over a single ruined tray of cookies.
She glanced back over her shoulder, toward the oven.
The door was now hanging ajar, the cooling rack still lined with blackened remains.
They were supposed to be brown butter pumpkin spice shortbread, but she’d gotten caught up talking to a sweet couple visiting from Connecticut, and by the time she’d noticed the timer going off, the smell had already turned bitter.
She’d smiled through it, tossed the tray like it didn’t matter.
But her hands had trembled under the weight of it, another small failure in a day that had asked too much and had given too little back.
Now, an hour later, the memory of it clung to her clothes, along with a sheen of sweat that hadn’t quite cooled.
Her braid had given up long ago, hair slipping in soft waves around her face.
A scrunchie dangled from one wrist like a forgotten to-do.
She kept pushing strands behind her ear, only for them to fall forward again.
While she waited for the register to respond, Hazel glanced at the stack of empty to-go cups sitting just a few inches away.
The disposable cardboard sleeves were stacked next to them, embossed with the Rise logo she’d paid a local student to design.
For a moment, she let herself imagine it— that someone might keep one.
Toss it in the back seat of their car, spot it again a week later, and think of her.
Maybe this was the start of something that stuck. Something that said: I’m here. I’m creating something. You can’t just forget that.
The screen blinked back to life, drawing her attention once more.
Network error. Check connection.
Hazel swore under her breath, just loud enough to feel the shape of it on her tongue.
She had flour under her nails and icing sugar on her shoulder.
Her ankles ached from standing and the numbers in the register didn’t quite add up.
There hadn’t been a single customer since that couple had stepped out onto the sidewalk outside, carrying a brown paper bag with two salted caramel cinnamon buns inside.
She hadn’t eaten all day, hadn’t been able to bring herself to do it. She hadn’t sat down properly, either. Her stomach clenched, more from nerves than hunger.
The door pressed open, then, and Hazel looked up, startled. The air shifted, a touch of fall-laced breeze rustling the hair on her shoulders.
A woman stepped in and for a moment, Hazel wondered if she was lost. She didn’t look like the usual late-afternoon customer.
She was tall and impossibly put together, with icy blue eyes and a high, slicked-back bun that gave her a look of effortless precision.
She wore a long cream coat and boots with heels that clicked sharply against the floor as she stepped inside.
She paused just past the threshold, nose wrinkling slightly.
“Never a good sign when you walk into a bakery and it smells like something’s been burnt,” the woman said, voice as smooth as glass.
Hazel straightened slowly, her hand slipping from the edge of the counter. She brushed at her apron, though the flour had long since settled in.
“I— yeah. Overbaked a test batch earlier,” she said, voice light, wobbly around the edges of a smile. “Still working out the kinks.”
The woman’s gaze swept the space, cool and cursory. She didn’t linger on anything. Not the shelves, the soft lighting, the near-empty pastry case. It was just enough of a glance to take it all in and dismiss it.
“Hm,” she said, noncommittal. “I’d heard someone new was opening. Didn’t expect them to actually go through with it.”
Hazel blinked. “Sorry?”
“This spot,” the woman said, glancing toward the front window as though the history might be etched into the glass.
“It never sticks. We’ve had bakeries, cafés, boutiques— and don’t get me wrong, they’ve all been lovely.
But they’ve also all been gone within a year.
Honestly, they sort of blur together after a while.
Names don’t really stick when the doors close so fast.”
Hazel’s throat tightened. “Well… hopefully I can break the pattern.”
The woman looked back at her. “Hope can be very expensive.”
The words didn’t bite immediately, but they landed with a heaviness that sent a trickle of dread down the length of Hazel’s spine.
Her smile thinned. “It’s only day one.”
The woman hummed. “True. But first days say a lot.” Her gaze slipped again to the pastry case and she stepped closer, lips pursed. “Not much left.”
“I had a bit of a rush earlier,” Hazel replied, too quickly. “Didn’t expect so many people to come in.”
“Still learning your volume, then,” she said with the faintest lilt of amusement. “Waste adds up fast, so does inconsistency. But you’ll figure that out. Or not.”
Hazel didn’t speak. She could feel the sweat at the base of her neck cooling now, sticky and cold beneath her collar.
Her hands itched to do something— wipe the counter, tuck her hair back, press the screen on the register just to make it stop blinking.
But she held still, uneasy beneath the pressure of the woman’s sharp gaze.
She turned as if to go, then, but paused at the door.
“Cute branding, though,” she said, that same almost-smile on her lips. “Rise. Very… aspirational.”
It didn’t feel like much of a compliment.
Hazel swallowed, forcing a rough, shaky smile. “Thanks.”
The woman nodded, as though the verdict had been delivered.
“Well, I suppose we’ll see how long you make it.”
Then, with a final look that held no warmth and no malice— just the hollow civility of someone already moving on— she added, “Good luck.”
And the door shut behind her.
Hazel stood alone in the stillness, letting the interaction wash over her.
Her heart had kicked up, not fast, but deep— lodged in her ribs like something had come loose.
That woman hadn’t raised her voice, hadn’t insulted her directly, but she might as well have held up a mirror and whispered: You don’t belong here.
Not really. And we won’t remember you when you’re gone.
The register screen blinked again, drawing Hazel’s attention.
Network error. Check connection.
She stared at it, unblinking, for a long moment. She pressed a hand flat to the counter, just enough to steady herself, then she reached for the scrunchie on her wrist and pulled her hair back with fingers that still shook.