Chapter 10 #4
Hazel blinked once, then again, feeling her heart start to settle in her chest. Her pulse had picked up during that exchange.
There was something about Imogen that unnerved her.
Not because of her power or her polish, but because of how quickly she wielded both as weapons.
How effortless it was for her to fold people under her thumb, like it was just part of the choreography.
But Iris. Iris had held the line like it was nothing, like she’d done it before.
Hazel turned just as Iris reached across the table and picked up Hazel’s fork, holding it delicately between two fingers.
“Do you think she polishes her soul with the same microfiber cloth she uses on this cutlery?”
Hazel laughed. Full and startled and true.
And just like that, the warmth returned.
Not all at once. But enough to hold onto.
“I’m going to need every detail on your history with her. Immediately.”
The bell above the door gave a low chime as Hazel stepped inside Bar Harbor’s oldest bookstore, the sound muffled by the thick air of the shop— warm, slightly dry, the scent of paper and something faintly spiced, like old cinnamon sticks tucked between forgotten pages.
The Captain’s Rest hadn’t changed much since she was a kid.
The floorboards still creaked in familiar spots, worn smooth from decades of soft-soled shoes and the shuffle of stories being carried home.
Light filtered in through the low windows, golden and slanted, catching on dust motes that hung like lazy snowflakes in the quiet.
The shelves rose high and narrow around her, built from dark, reclaimed wood and packed with spines of every color.
There were hardbacks and paperbacks, some so worn the titles had faded into their covers.
It smelled like history and safety, like a place that held secrets gently.
She moved farther in, letting the door sigh closed behind her.
Her footsteps softened with each step, her shoulders uncoiling from their habitual brace.
The tension from brunch, the heat in her cheeks from Imogen’s smug precision, the whirlwind pull of Iris’s affection, still lingered in the edges of her awareness.
But here, in the hush of the bookshop, everything slowed.
The Captain’s Rest didn’t rush you, it invited you to linger.
To touch, to browse, to forget the clock entirely.
Hazel wandered between the aisles with no particular direction.
Just the soft pull of memory, the echo of younger versions of herself.
Her fingertips brushed the spines as she passed, cookbooks stacked near the entrance, worn copies of classic poetry further in.
A quiet little alcove held well-loved romance novels, their covers bright and defiant against the antique wood.
She paused near the contemporary fiction section, head tilted, eyes scanning titles.
A flash of movement caught her off guard.
Two children— both girls, maybe eight or nine— darted past, giggling as they wove between shelves. One brushed Hazel’s back as she passed, and she startled, her heart catching in her chest. She stepped sideways, one hand flying to her collarbone.
The second child followed close behind, strawberry blonde curls bouncing, and then both were gone, vanishing through the front door with the jangling of the bell and a gust of sharp autumn air.
Hazel exhaled and pressed a palm to her chest until she felt the edge of the tremor fade.
A third figure appeared in their wake, moving with the kind of weary grace only parents seemed to possess.
Shoulder-length dark hair framed a face flushed with motion and mild exasperation, the warmth of it still clinging to her cheeks.
She wore a burnt-orange sweater, oversized and cozy and a pair of loose jeans cuffed at the ankle above worn leather clogs.
“Burn off some energy!” she called after the girls, her voice a practiced mix of threat and affection, tempered with dry amusement.
The door swung shut behind the children with a soft sigh, muffling the laughter fading down the street.
Hazel turned, blinking. The woman’s face stirred something— familiar, but sideways. Like a photograph that had once been pinned to a fridge she no longer had access to.
Then the woman caught sight of her, too.
Her expression lit instantly, surprise giving way to warmth that spread across her features like sunlight through leaves. “Oh— Hazel, right?”
Hazel hesitated, nodding. “Yes. I’m—“
“Wendy’s granddaughter,” the woman said, stepping forward, eyes kind. She reached for Hazel’s hands and took them within her own, giving them a gentle squeeze. “Of course. You have her eyes.”
Hazel smiled faintly, caught off guard. “Yeah. That’s me.”
As the woman pulled her hands away, Hazel’s eyes drifted down to the point of contact between them. Her fingers were ink-stained at the knuckles, a little chalk dust beneath the nails.
“Elise March,” she introduced, her smile bright. “This place technically belongs to both me and my husband, Connor, but he mostly hides in the back with the spreadsheets when he’s not teaching. I get to do the fun part.”
“Nice to meet you. I’ve been meaning to stop in.”
Elise waved that off. “No pressure. I figured you’d find your way here when you were ready.”
“I wasn’t really planning on it today. Just…” Hazel glanced around, the calm of the bookstore settling gently against her shoulders. “Needed a quiet place.”
“Well, you found the right one.” Elise said as she glanced toward the window, where the two girls from earlier could still be seen, chasing after each other up and down the sidewalk. “Well, usually. Sorry about the chaos… one of those was mine.”
“They’re sweet.”
“They’re feral,“ Elise deadpanned. “But thanks.”
Hazel smiled.
They stood there for a moment— two women in the middle of a quiet store, both slightly out of breath in different ways.
“You looking for anything in particular?” Elise asked, stepping toward the counter, gesturing for Hazel to follow. “Or just here to soak up the nostalgia?”
“A bit of both,” Hazel admitted. “I used to come in here all the time as a kid. My grandmother would give me a twenty and let me pick out whatever I wanted.”
Elise’s expression softened. “Wendy had good taste.”
Hazel’s throat tightened. She nodded, glancing away.
Elise let the moment hang, unrushed. Then she gestured toward the stack of new releases on the counter, still waiting to be shelved.
“We just got a few in— some contemporary fiction, some historicals. Want a recommendation?”
Hazel drifted toward the counter. She let her eyes scan the covers, fingers trailing along the raised lettering of a paperback spine.
She chose one almost at random, drawn to the cool blue of the cover, the rough edge of the pages. A quiet domestic novel. The kind her grandmother used to pass her when she was too sad to read anything about love.
Elise rang it through, chatting absently about a local author’s event coming up in a few weeks.
Then, just as Hazel reached for the little paper bag she’d slid across the counter towards her, Elise paused.
Her lips pursed and she leaned back a bit, eyes searching Hazel’s face as if it might hold exactly the answer she’d been looking for.
“You ever think about catering?”
Hazel paused, tilting her head just slightly to one side. “Like, for an event?”
Elise nodded, adjusting the stack of bookmarks in the little holder beside the register.
“Yeah, just something small. That book signing I mentioned is for a local poet… it’ll probably pull a modest crowd, maybe two or three dozen people, nothing too elaborate.
I’ve been trying to find someone local to do pastries and coffee.
We want to make it a more regular thing. ”
Hazel hesitated, her fingers brushing the folded lip of the paper bag Elise had packed for her. “It’s still just me at the bakery,” she admitted, her teeth digging gently into the edge of her lower lip. “I’m not sure I’d have time to prep for something extra.”
Elise didn’t push. She just smiled, warm and patient. “Well, you’re doing too much. You should think about hiring on another set of hands.”
Hazel opened her mouth— maybe to deflect, maybe to say I’m fine— but the words never made it out. Because she wasn’t. Not really.
The tiredness in her bones had settled weeks ago. It had a shape now, a weight, like something she’d been carrying so long it felt like part of her. This was the exact thing her grandmother had wanted her to escape— this constant state of exhaustion, of doing everything on her own.
And she still hadn’t even begun to deal with the house. The closets remained closed, the attic untouched. She hadn’t yet found the strength to brush open the bedroom door at the end of the hall— the one where the scent of lavender lingered the strongest.
Her life back in Boston sat in the same kind of limbo, too. Still waiting, still unfinished. She hadn’t decided whether to pull the plug permanently or brush aside the to be continued sign and try again.
“I don’t even know where I’d find someone,” Hazel said after a beat.
Right then, the back door of the shop creaked open, and a man stepped into view— shorter than most, dark-haired, with wire-rimmed glasses and a button-down with wrinkles around the collar, like he’d tugged on it a few times too many.
He carried a clipboard in one hand and a to-go coffee in the other, the strap of a messenger bag slung over his shoulder.
He moved straight to Elise, leaning over to press a quick kiss to her temple, one arm curling against her back.
“Heading out,” he murmured against her hair. “Meeting with my TA. Trying to scare some clarity into the midterm.”
Elise smiled without turning. Her dark eyes had warmed significantly, a soft gleam in them at her husband’s closeness. “Be kind. They’re trying.”
He gave a mock-scandalized look, then caught sight of Hazel. His smile brightened by a few degrees. “Hi there.”