Chapter 4
Iris and Malcolm were both leaning against the front counter, the kind of casual stance that said we’ve been here a while and we’re not going anywhere soon.
Iris had a maple iced tea in hand, her sunglasses perched in her curls like a crown.
Malcolm sipped slowly from a plastic to-go cup with his name and that same smiling face etched on the side.
It was late morning, the lull between the bakery’s second rush and the lunch crowd.
It was Hazel’s favourite kind of quiet. The kind that still held the buzz of energy, but softened a bit around the edges.
Music hummed low from the speakers overhead, a lazy jazz instrumental weaving between the creaks of old floorboards and the occasional hiss of the espresso machine as it cooled.
Hazel had started to look forward to their daily visits, those late morning lulls when Iris and Malcolm would appear like clockwork, order a couple of drinks and a baked good pick me up, leaning against the counter as if it belonged just as much to them as it did to her.
It was easy, the way they slipped into her space, and over the last week, she’d begun to gather pieces of their lives like recipe cards tucked into a tin.
She learned that Iris was originally from Oregon but had moved to Bar Harbor with her wife, Claire, a local-born geneticist who worked at the nearby research labs.
Iris, who confessed she’d once been allergic to the idea of small-town life, now said she couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.
She grew all her own flowers in a sprawling garden and accompanying greenhouse behind their house and had been trying to recruit Hazel into the yoga classes she attended three times a week at the Northlight Collective down Main Street— a place Hazel had never even stepped foot in. She was intrigued, though.
Malcolm, quiet and steady, had taken over Greyfin Studios after his mom passed, and while he hadn’t changed much from the boy she remembered, he carried himself with the kind of intention that came from deep roots.
He spoke with quiet conviction about his hope to start a youth art program in the winter: sculpting, painting, anything to get kids creating.
Hazel found herself hoping he would do it— at that age, it was the sort of program she would have sacrificed almost anything to be a part of.
Their presence, together, was like the steam that rose off fresh bread: grounding, real, and warm in all the ways she hadn’t known she’d needed.
She wiped the counter in slow circles that morning, her cloth moving in lazy arcs.
She was content to let them linger. She liked having people in the space.
Friends. Familiarity. The scent of lavender shortbread and espresso lingered in the air, mingling with the floral heaviness of the bouquet Iris had brought the day before to replace the one she’d brought on opening day.
Hazel glanced up at them as she moved and paused.
They were looking at each other, not talking. Just... looking.
Not like a moment— they certainly didn’t have those, given that Iris was married and Malcolm was on a self-proclaimed celibacy journey, from his own admission earlier in the week. No, this was something else entirely. Something performative and coordinated.
Iris’s brows arched meaningfully toward Malcolm and Malcolm gave the world’s tiniest shrug in response, then nodded, though just barely. It appeared to be a silent standoff.
Hazel blinked, then narrowed her eyes.
“All right,” she said, stilling her cloth mid-wipe. “What’s going on?”
Iris blinked, all wide-eyed innocence as her gaze swung in her direction.
“Nothing,” she said, though the word did nothing to soothe the suspicion clawing up the length of Hazel’s spine.
Malcolm didn’t even try to lie. He simply took another sip of his coffee, wiggling the black and white striped paper straw as if it would help redistribute the liquid inside over the ice.
Hazel leaned forward on her elbows. “No, no, no. I know that look. Just say it.”
Iris bit her lip and then glanced at Malcolm again. He just raised his brows and gestured, wordlessly passing the responsibility her way.
“Fine,” Iris said, drawing out the word like she was laying cards on a table. “It’s just… well… there’s a rumour.”
Hazel tilted her head, unimpressed. “A rumour.”
Iris nodded, eyes gleaming now.
“And?”
“And,” Iris said, drawing the word out again, “We were just wondering— casually, of course, no pressure— if it’s true that a certain man who responds only to a shortened version of his last name has been coming by every morning. You know. Right after you open.”
Hazel blinked, her spine slowly beginning to straighten as she rose to her full height, no longer leaning forward onto the counter. She set the cloth down beside the espresso machine, her fingers trembling ever-so-slightly.
She tried, very hard, not to smile.
In an attempt to buy herself a little more time, she turned slowly, crouching to tuck the cloth into the bucket under the counter. She took a brief, steadying breath.
But the smile kept tugging at the corners of her mouth, soft and involuntary, like muscle memory. Like her body had already decided something her heart hadn’t yet put into words. She kept her gaze low, fingers brushing over the rim of the bucket like it needed adjusting, even though it didn’t.
Because Beck.
Of course it was Beck.
His name alone stirred something in her— something warm and slippery, like honey on a hot spoon.
Since that first morning, since he’d walked through the door and stood there like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to belong, he’d become part of her days.
Not loudly, not dramatically. Just there.
Quiet, steady, and real. She’d begun listening for the creak of the door at 6:30 on the dot, the soft click of his boots against the hardwood, the way his eyes always scanned the room like it might be different this time but hoping it wasn’t.
She didn’t know what it meant, not really. It wasn’t the kind of crush that made her stomach flip or her thoughts spiral. It was something more grounding than that, something slower. The kind of draw you didn’t notice until you realized your body was leaning toward it without permission.
Hazel stood again, wiping her hands on her apron. Her chest felt full, like something expanding, unfurling in the space behind her ribs.
Malcolm and Iris were staring directly at her, eyes wide, awaiting something— anything. A weak point in her armour.
“I mean…” she said, aiming for casual, even as her pulse quickened. “He likes coffee and I’m open early. Not a lot of other options before seven.”
She didn’t look at them, not directly.
Because if she did, she was pretty sure they’d see it all over her face.
“Mm-hmm,” Iris hummed noncommittally as she leaned both elbows onto the counter, her fingers circling the condensation ring at the base of her cup. Her dark eyes landed on Hazel, pinning her to her spot. “He’s never struck me as a chat-over-coffee kind of guy.”
Malcolm made a soft sound of agreement, the ice in his cup shifting as he gave it another lazy swirl. “Honestly? I’ve been back three years and I think he’s said maybe ten words to me. Total. And one of them was ‘yeah.’”
Hazel blinked. “Really?”
Her voice came out more surprised than she intended.
She didn’t know why, except that maybe she hadn’t realized how little Beck gave to the rest of the world.
How rarely he offered up pieces of himself.
And yet, she had them— moments, quiet comments, lingering looks.
Even now, she could picture his hands wrapped around the same dark ceramic mug each morning like it was something that belonged to him, something he had earned.
“He doesn’t mingle,” Iris added, her gaze still on Hazel, searching for something that she was trying very hard not to give away.
“Like, at all. We’ve seen him at the co-op, the hardware store, even that community clean-up back in May.
And don’t get me wrong, he was helpful. Like, chop-wood-and-carry-water helpful.
But he just… doesn’t linger. Doesn’t talk. He does the thing, then he’s gone.”
“Exactly,” Malcolm said, nodding his head in agreement. “He’s not rude. Just… very good at solitude.”
Hazel opened the pastry case, the hinge creaking softly.
Her fingers adjusted one of the scones, though it didn’t need moving.
The air around them was warm with sugar and butter, cinnamon still lingering from that morning’s bake.
The smell grounded her, even as her mind spun.
Even as she tried to make sense of their version of Beck, and her own.
“Maybe he just likes baked goods,” she said, eyes fixed on the rows of them in the case. “Lots of people have sweet tooths, you know.”
“Maybe he just likes your baked goods,“ Iris said, a note of teasing bright in her voice.
“Maybe he just likes you,“ Malcolm added flatly, entirely without apology.
Hazel turned slowly to glare at him, eyes narrowed. “Oh, stop.”
Malcolm lifted a shoulder to shrug in response, the picture of innocence.
“I’m not saying it’s a thing,” Iris said, lifting her free hand in faux surrender. “But we’ve heard things.”
Hazel squinted, skeptical. “Heard things? From who?”
“Marcie.” Malcolm replied without missing a beat. “She said she saw him coming out of the bakery yesterday morning. Said he looked very caffeinated. And very reluctant to leave. She might have even seen him smile.”
Hazel didn’t even know who Marcie was. Whoever she was, she clearly needed a new hobby. She bit the inside of her cheek, still trying not to react.
“And he’s been in every day?” Iris pressed, one brow arching toward her hairline like punctuation. Hazel nodded, confirming the question she wasn’t even sure Iris had needed an answer to. “Come on, that’s not nothing! He’s basically the town recluse. And you’ve got him on a daily routine.”