Chapter 17 Missy
Missy
The autumn air shimmers with caramel apples and childhood dreams as we make our way through the Harvest Hoopla.
Grammie Rae calls out from the honey candy stand, her voice carrying over the cheerful chaos of carnival games and excited chatter.
The scent of pumpkin spice and cinnamon wafts from the Whisk’s booth where Ethan and Zoe draw crowds with bubbles that burst and release the warm, cozy aromas.
The council, apparently, had taken little convincing to approve that pinch of easily explainable magic.
“You have to try one of these,” Alex insists as she pulls me toward her fiancé’s booth. “Ethan’s been experimenting with the recipe for weeks.”
Next thing I know, she’s pressing a paper cup with a miniature maple crème br?lée into my hand and giving Ethan a quick kiss before steering us back into the festival crowd and toward our friends again.
The dessert’s still warm, and wisps of steam curl up from where Ethan’s just finished torching the sugar top.
The crystallized surface cracks under my spoon.
I pop a bite into my mouth and the creamy sweetness has me closing my eyes so I can focus more of my attention on the taste.
Which is exactly what Ethan’s baking always does.
No wonder my sister fell in love with him.
As caramelized sugar dissolves on my tongue, I watch iridescent bubbles floating up from his booth catch the autumn sunlight.
Children try to catch them on their tongues and squeal with delight when they burst into puffs of cinnamon-scented air.
It’s exactly the kind of whimsical touch that makes the Whisk special, though now I understand the magic behind it isn’t just metaphorical.
As we reach our group again, I force a smile, trying to match everyone else’s festival spirits.
But Dean’s words from this morning echo in my head.
I don’t know how to do this halfway. The raw honesty in his voice haunts me, making even the twinkling lights and warm laughter feel somewhat bittersweet.
Jules examines a caramel apple with the same critical eye he uses to analyze sheet music. “Quaint,” he declares, but his tone suggests he means provincial.
Rachel catches my eye and we share a knowing look.
She’s been graciously fielding Jules’ opinions on everything from the local coffee to the charming but limited music program all week.
Now she steers us toward the performance area.
Emma stands near the front of the stage practically vibrating with energy and clutching her violin case with a death grip.
“Oh my gosh,” she says as I walk up to her. “I can’t believe I’m actually going to do this.”
“You’ve got this,” Rachel says firmly before giving her a hug then heading to find her seat.
The rest of the group—even Jules—follow her and take their place, but I linger with Emma another moment.
Dean’s containment charm glints on the necklace at her throat.
The necklace that shouldn’t work—technically couldn’t work, according to magical theory—but somehow does.
Dean had explained it to me, voice low as he admitted bypassing council permission to try his experimental magic.
She deserves a chance, he’d said simply. Everyone does.
Looking at Emma now, seeing how her hands have steadied around her violin case, I’m struck by how much he risked helping one young musician follow her dreams. It’s so perfectly Dean—gruff exterior hiding a heart that cares almost too much, willing to bend his beloved rules if it means protecting someone who needs it.
“This never would have happened if it wasn’t for you, Missy.” Emma’s eyes shimmer.
“It’s been my pleasure.” The words come easily because they’re true. Even as everything else in my life feels like it’s splintering apart, this—helping Emma find her voice through music—feels real. “Here, I have something for you.”
My hands tremble as I pull out the envelope. Emma accepts then her eyes widen as she reads the contents.
“Wait, is this…”
“A copy of my letter of recommendation for Juilliard that I’m ready to submit whenever you put in your application next year.”
Before I can think, she launches herself at me in a fierce hug that nearly knocks us both over. As I hold her, I realize that even if everything else is falling apart, I’ve done this one good thing. I’ve helped someone else's dream take flight, even as my own hopes feel increasingly uncertain.
“I mean every one of those words,” I whisper into Emma’s curls. “Remember them when you’re playing.”
Emma gives me another squeeze, wipes her cheeks, and clutches her violin case to herself before walking toward the stairs.
Finding my seat beside Alex, I try to push away the gnawing questions.
What am I besides a cellist? I’ve spent my entire life becoming one specific thing—would I even know how to be anything else?
The thought of trying to build a life here, of being something other than the person I’ve trained to be since I was twelve, terrifies me in a way I can’t quite articulate.
My heart, more and more, wants to stay in this magical place where the pecan pie tastes like snuggling under a blanket on a rainy day and the friendship feels like coming home again. Where Dean’s rare smiles feel more valuable than any standing ovation. But what is here for me, really?
I don’t have a teaching certificate, and besides, Rachel is already the music teacher at the local school.
Private lessons could never support me full-time in a town this small.
I can barely make grilled cheese without setting off the smoke alarm—it’s always been takeout and room service between performances since I stopped living with Alex.
I’ve put every waking moment since middle school into becoming Margaret Sinclair, world-renowned cellist. And that woman doesn’t belong in Magnolia Cove.
Alex nudges my shoulder. “Remember your Juilliard audition? I was so nervous I almost threw up in Mom’s favorite houseplant.”
“You were always more nervous than I was at my performances.” I laugh, the memory warming something inside me. “Remember how you used to squeeze Dad’s hand so hard during my solos that he’d pretend they’d gone numb the rest of the night?”
Alex grins. “Someone had to be nervous! You were always so composed, even back then.”
The familiar banter settles something in my chest. We’ve stayed close despite the distance, despite my hectic touring schedule. Maybe… maybe other relationships could survive as well. But the thought slips away as Emma takes the stage.
Her performance is flawless. I hold my breath as I watch. It seems the council members do too, but not a whisper of magic escapes. Her music flows true, exactly as we practiced.
Dean stands tucked into the back corner of the stage, a shadow in his black leather jacket.
Not long ago, I would have read his stance as intimidating, his presence as just another example of his need to control everything.
Now I see the way his shoulders carry the weight of protection, how his focus remains on Emma, ready to intervene should her magic spiral.
He’s positioned himself perfectly—close enough to help if needed, but far enough that Emma won’t feel watched or pressured.
My heart does that familiar flutter when his gaze briefly meets mine.
Even across the distance, that connection zings between us like a perfectly tuned string.
I want to go to him, to feel his arms around me, to lose myself in one of those kisses that make the world fade away except for the hum of magic in the air.
He shifts slightly, adjusts his stance, and I have to bite back a smile. Because I see past the cranky council member and the biting two-word responses. He still moves like he’s carrying the weight of the world, still trying to protect everyone. It’s no wonder I fell for him so hard.
Emma draws her bow across the strings in a perfect crescendo, her eyes closed in concentration, completely lost in the music.
Just watching her, I can feel every hour of practice, every small victory, every breakthrough we’ve shared coming together at this moment.
Pride swells in my chest as she takes her bow to enthusiastic applause.
I gather my empty cup, intending to find Dean—to try to explain the mess of emotions I haven’t quite sorted out myself—but Jules materializes in front of me.
“Your prodigy does her teacher justice.” He beams that herculean smile he loves to wield.
“Thanks, Jules.”
His eyes twinkle in the setting sun and I understand how his charm is so easy to fall for, when those emerald eyes glisten under stage light and he looks at you like you’re the only melody worth listening to.
It’s the same charm that’s carried him through three albums and countless performances, that makes audiences lean forward in their seats.
But now it feels like a familiar song I’ve heard too many times—all technical perfection with no real heart behind it.
“So, this evening after our performance, we’ll work on the album?” he asks. “When will you be done here?”
“I’m enjoying the Hoopla today, Jules, we’ve discussed this.”
His smile tightens. “You keep giving one excuse after another. I’m only here for a couple more days. When else are we going to work on it?”
He’s right, of course. We do need to finish the album.
I’m being unprofessional, disappointing our label, our fans, our manager.
And him. Just because maybe I don’t want this career anymore, doesn’t mean Jules doesn’t.
He’s yoked his career to mine and I’m letting him down. “I’m sorry, Jules. I’m distracted.”
He shrugs. “It’s this town—charming as it may be. It’s thrown off your focus. You remember I told you it would.”
“You did.” I struggle to keep the words from sounding bitter.