Chapter 9 Missy
Missy
A clatter of laughter and conversations fill the town square and light spills across the space like honey dripping from a spoon, catching on the half-constructed leaf arch that looks more like a botanical disaster than the elegant entrance Grammie Rae seems to have envisioned.
It took precisely thirty seconds of me meeting the woman before she insisted I call her Grammie. She also told me she was Emma’s actual grandmother and listed off all the town’s most eligible bachelors.
She stands beneath the arch now, silver curls tucked beneath a ball cap, wrinkled hands fisted on her hips over a pair of practical overalls.
“Tom, honey, those mums need to be at least six inches to the left. No, your other left.” She throws her hands in the air.
“This is why I told the council we needed a professional.”
Tom shoves the flowers a third direction and laughs. “Last time I’ll spend my day off volunteering.”
“Good.” Grammie Rae weaves more leaves into the arch. “Maybe the council will actually become useful and hire people who know what they’re doing.”
“I heard that,” Dean calls from where he’s helping arrange pumpkins by the gazebo. His all-black ensemble makes him look like a crow among autumn leaves, but somehow he pulls it off. Not that I’m noticing.
Rachel appears beside me, two steaming cups in hand. “Your sister’s cinnamon lattes are dangerous,” she says, passing one over. The rich scent fills the air between us as the heat warms my hands. Rachel laughs before taking a drink. “I’ve had three already, and it’s not even noon.”
“Alex’s specialty is making things addictive.
She didn’t get a cookbook deal for nothing.
” I take a sip, the creamy richness blending seamlessly with the nutty flavor of espresso.
I try not to think about how many things in Magnolia Cove fall into the addictive category.
Like the way certain council members look when they’re concentrating on perfectly spacing gourds.
“Speaking of addictive,” Rachel says like she’s read my mind.
I can’t help the heat that flushes my cheeks.
“Emma’s been different since you’ve started teaching her.
There’s something about the way she plays now…
” She trails off, watching Emma twirl in her burnt-orange dress and laughing with other teens from the music program.
“I can’t explain it in words really, but thank you. ”
She keeps dancing around whatever she really wants to say, keeps exchanging strange looks with Dean although they seem to barely tolerate each other.
There’s some mystery happening here. When I shared that with Alex last night, she’d become flighty, tossing her wedding magazine to the side and jumping up to ‘do the dishes’ despite me having already washed them earlier.
I try to think of a careful question I could ask that might unravel whatever Magnolia Cove hides. There’s a part of me that wonders if Alex really joined a cult. Part of me wonders if I want to join it as well.
Just as I’m about to speak, Mrs. Delehay’s Pomeranian makes a break for freedom, then gets tangled in the raffia streamers Tom’s trying to hang. The chaos that follows prompts Grammie Rae to throw her hands in the air, dramatically calling for divine intervention.
Iris, the florist, giggles and covers her laugh with her fingers. “At least the dog has good taste. Those streamers are a crime against autumn.”
Tom untangles himself then freezes and gapes at her. “You act like I chose the material. I’d like to see you do better.”
“That’s what she’s been trying to explain for twenty minutes,” Grammie Rae says with a wink that makes Iris laugh harder. Tom sticks his tongue out at her, and without missing a beat, Iris does the same, her grin wide as she mimics him. They burst into laughter together.
I hide my smile in my coffee cup. There’s something about this town that makes everything feel like a story waiting to happen. Even now, watching Emma with her friends, I can see her future unfolding like sheet music—full of possibility and promise.
A warm breeze carries the scent of fresh baked goods from Main Street and mingles with the sweetness of Iris’ chrysanthemums. A group of children toss a baseball around and wave at Tom.
Their laughter rings under the cloudy sky as a wind picks up fallen, brown magnolia and maple leaves, tumbling them across the clearing.
My fingers itch to pick up Giuseppe, to capture this moment in music.
Not with the desire to write something that would match the polished pieces Jules keeps sending, but something real. Something that tastes like cinnamon and feels like belonging.
Speaking of Jules… My useless phone is like a weight in my pocket.
It’s filled with emails—messages from Jules asking for updates and complaining about me gallivanting off to a small town with no cell service, just like he’d expected.
Then there are the messages from our tour manager, fans reaching out, interview requests piling up. And I’ve answered none of them.
My stomach twists. Later. I swear to myself I’ll deal with it later.
“All right everyone!” Rachel claps her hands. “Let’s run through the music once before lunch.”
The kids file into chairs or position themselves behind music stands, some adjusting their instruments, others fumbling with their sheet music.
Emma takes her spot for the violin solo, tucking the instrument under her chin.
The opening floats out perfectly, her bow gliding effortlessly.
The sound is clear and resonant, a stark contrast to the hesitant playing and occasional jarring notes from other students.
But then—a fumble. Emma’s bow skids across the strings and the wind picks up, sending sheet music scattering and flowers tumbling.
Something shifts in the air, like pressure building before a storm.
I take a step toward Emma, but Dean’s already there, crouching beside her chair. His voice carries just enough for me to catch the words.
“Overwhelmed?”
She bats back tears and bows her head. “I’m not going to be able to do this. Play at the Hoopla, much less go to Juilliard. I’ll never get it.”
I expect Dean’s usual stern council member response. Instead, his voice softens into something that makes my heart do complicated things in my chest.
“Someone once gave me advice about what the difference between a good musician and a great one is.”
She sniffles and looks up. “What’s that?”
“A good musician practices until they get it right. Great ones practice until they can’t get it wrong. That’s true for… other things as well. At least, that’s what an annoying perfectionist of a sister used to tell me.”
Emma’s laugh comes out watery but real. “You have a sister?”
“Once upon a time.” Something flickers across his face and I remember the black-and-white print in his office, pointed where only visitors can see it, nowhere within his own line of sight.
Dean couldn’t have been more than eight in the picture.
His younger sister, with hair just as dark as his, rests her head on his shoulder, her toothless grin wide and full of mischief.
“My sister was a lot like you—too much talent to contain sometimes.”
The tenderness in his voice hits me like a physical thing. I’ve seen Dean frustrated, amused, even almost playful on rare occasions. But this—this unguarded moment—feels more intimate than any of our almost-kisses.
Which is exactly why I need to stop watching him like he’s a puzzle I want to solve. Stop noticing how his broad shoulders fill out his jacket, how the curve of his jaw catches the light just so, or how his eyes darken when he’s deep in thought.
I have a career to save, an album to finish, a life waiting in cities with names that taste like ambition. I don’t have time to join a cult, charming or otherwise. Anyway, I’ll leave Magnolia Cove in a few months.
And maybe most importantly, I don't need to complicate Alex’s life here. She’s happy and at ease. Her sister dating the most difficult guy in town would only stir up things. I can’t risk…
Emma’s violin sings out again, steady and sure this time. The wind settles. Tom and Iris throw leaves at each other and laugh. Then Tom ducks behind hay bales to avoid the next round.
Dean stands and our eyes meet. The look he gives me feels like recognition, like seeing and being seen, like…
No. Absolutely not.
I turn away first and focus on Grammie Rae who’s now muttering something about how ‘herding cats would be easier than organizing this festival’ and how she’s ‘too blessed to be stressed, but current circumstances are making me reconsider that.’
I’m just caught up in the romance of a small-town life, in the way everything here feels touched by some kind of everyday magic.
But I know better than anyone—magic isn’t real, and some songs are meant to stay unfinished.
“Dessert at Sinclair’s?” Rachel appears at my elbow, her eyes bright. “Alex is testing some new fall recipes and the whole gang’s coming. We’re extremely qualified and helpful when it comes to taste-testing. It’s basically our favorite activity.”
The weight of my phone tugs against me again. Jules’ last email burns like an accusation against my hip. This is exactly what I expected to happen. When you’re done falling off the face of the earth, could you message me back?
The compositions for our albums still sit untouched in my room, his careful notations awaiting my response. His career partially rides on this collaboration, on the trust he placed in me as his partner.
I should say no to Rachel. Should head home and lose myself to the complex harmonies we’ve been building together for months. Should be the responsible artist he needs.
Dean looks up from where he’s still speaking with Emma as she packs up her violin.
Something in his gaze makes my breath catch—like he sees past all my carefully constructed walls to the messy truth beneath.
To the part that’s tired of being perfect, that wants to choose joy over obligation just once.
I smile at Rachel and shrug, as if my heart isn’t racing, as if this isn’t another minor act of rebellion against the life I’m supposed to want. “Sure, that sounds great.”
The compositions can wait another day. After all, some of the best music comes from the space between the notes—the moments that allow for a breath.
Jules would hate that kind of thinking. But watching Dean help Emma to her feet, seeing the way his stern expression softens when she hugs him impulsively, I’m starting to wonder if that’s exactly why I need to think it.