Chapter 5 Grant
Grant
I'm in the middle of explaining the difference between Madagascar and Tahitian vanilla beans to a customer when I hear it—music drifting across the sand, sweet and clear as summer rain.
The sound catches me off guard, making me pause mid-scoop.
For a moment, I'm back at my piano in Willow Bay, stealing moments of jazz between board meetings and profit projections.
But this isn't jazz. It's something lighter, more playful. The notes seem to dance on the breeze, carrying with them an inexplicable sense of joy that has absolutely nothing to do with proper business practices or projected revenue streams.
"Is that coming from the snow cone cart?" my customer asks, and I realize I'm still holding the scoop suspended over her bowl. "Wow, she does something fun every day."
"My apologies," I murmur, completing her order with practiced precision. "Enjoy your vanilla with sea salt caramel."
She accepts the cone, but her gaze remains fixed down the beach, where Rachel Williams has apparently transformed her cart into an impromptu concert venue.
She's set up a small speaker, and what I initially thought was a recording is actually live music—a handful of kids with instruments arranged in a loose semicircle around her cart.
Rachel stands among them, conducting with one hand while serving snow cones with the other, her movements so natural it's as if she's dancing between both roles.
Touché, Ms. Williams. She found a loophole in the regulations even I can't dispute.
Live music on public beaches requires no special permits, just like street performers on the boardwalk.
My hand tightens around my empty tip jar as I watch another group of customers drift toward the impromptu concert.
Despite the very real possibility of losing my cart if sales don't improve, I find myself fighting back a smile. She's clever—more than clever.
I recognize some of the musicians as regulars at my shop in the evening—the girl with braces who always orders strawberry, the lanky boy who hovers indecisively between chocolate and vanilla.
But this is different. I've never seen them like this—each of them radiating confidence, their focus sharp, their music soaring through the air like an enchantment, carrying across the beach and sweeping up everything in its path.
The sound grows, like a living thing, swelling with power as more kids add their own melodies into the mix.
Rachel’s friends arrive, and they feel like a familiar presence, a part of the town's pulse I’ve come to recognize from around town.
Zoe, ever the social one, who gave me an uncomfortably thorough critique of my "boring" flavor selection just last week when I stopped by The Whimsical Whisk bakery—while of course enjoying one of Ethan's lavender honey scones in the process—begins passing out brightly colored flower leis to the gathering crowd. Her wife Mia, the quiet observant member of the group, who works at the bookstore and carries a paperback in her bag wherever she goes, starts to sway with the music, letting the rhythm fill her. Others follow her lead, feet shuffling as the energy of the moment pulls them all in. Even Tom, who coaches the local little league baseball team is there, tapping his foot along with the beat while chatting with that upbeat librarian—what’s her name again?
Rhianna, I think it is, from one of Grammie Rae's stories about everyone in town.
It’s almost like some sort of collective magic—a wave building steadily, pulling everyone in. And before I can even blink, half the beach has shifted in time with the music, a free-flowing current of movement, all of them drawn toward the snow cone stand as if that’s where everything’s headed.
My father would hate every single second of this, I know.
The chaos, the impromptu dance, the way it all shatters the careful, ordered routine of how things are supposed to go.
The lack of precision. It would drive him mad.
"Pierce & Sons is about consistency," he always tells me, his voice like polished steel. "Excellence through precision."
It would anger him that someone has outshone us—that a scrappy little snow cone stand has stolen the spotlight from Pierce & Sons' polished legacy. He'd say it's a reminder that chaos appeals to the masses—though it wouldn't stop him from seething over the fact.
I use the break in customers to wipe down my cart, though it hardly needs it. The chrome gleams in the sunlight, every surface immaculate, every container perfectly aligned.
But there's something magnetic about the chaos unfolding down the beach. The way Rachel's laugh carries over the music when she misses a beat. The genuine delight on her students' faces. Even the slightly uneven rhythm of the drums adds character rather than detracting from the performance.
I glance her way more than I'd care to admit. All day I've caught myself hoping she might stop by—maybe to argue about regulations again or critique my "dull" flavors like her friend Zoe did. It's unsettling, this want.
Back home, everyone wanted to be seen with a Pierce. The moment I turned eighteen, I became an eligible prospect.
And that is exactly what I'm running from. The orchestrated encounters and social media opportunities. Here, I've started leaving my phone at my apartment. Most don't even work on the island, and it's refreshing to see people walking around Magnolia Cove, unhurried, never glued to their screens.
The pace here is slower, the smiles friendlier. People ask about you with genuine interest—or maybe they're just fishing for a bit of gossip—but it's not for status or favors. It's… grounding.
Which is why it's so disorienting to find myself hoping to catch Rachel Williams' attention.
But she doesn't seem to notice me at all, and I'm discovering I have no defense against that.
Against someone who looks right past the Pierce name and sees only an inconvenient competitor taking up her beach space.
It's maddening. Refreshing. The first genuine thing I've felt since leaving California, and I have absolutely no idea what to do with it.
A young boy holding a trumpet says something to Rachel. Even from this distance, I can see how her entire demeanor shifts—softening at the edges while becoming more present. The boy tells her a story using hand gestures, the trumpet waving around under the summer sunshine.
I've never so desperately wanted to hear what a kid was saying before, to know what's making her grin like that. The way she leans in, fully captivated… it makes me wonder what it would be like to be on the receiving end of her attention.
The breeze catches her hair, sending loose strands floating around her face.
Apparently, she doesn't mind that her braid always falls loose in the ocean breeze.
And the way she's smiling—unrehearsed and radiant—is like seeing a lighthouse after a rough month at sea.
She's nothing like the people I grew up with or my family.
They only express appropriate emotions, but she's radiating with real, unfiltered joy, and I want to bottle it like one of our specialty flavors.
"Excuse me?"
I jolt, nearly dropping the ice cream scoop I’d somehow managed to suspend over an empty bowl, oblivious to the fact that I’ve been holding it there for who knows how long. A woman is standing at the cart now, cash in hand, her gaze curious.
"My apologies," I stammer, heat creeping up my neck. In fifteen years of serving ice cream, I’ve never had someone catch me daydreaming at the counter. My father would be appalled. “What can I get for you?"
Much later, when the last of the crowd finally trickles away and the sun dips low, casting the sky in hues of pink and amber, I make a decision that would send my father into a spiral.
I shut down my cart early—an unthinkable breach of Pierce & Sons protocol—and, without a second thought, I walk down the beach.
Rachel's hair has become some wild, wind-tangled halo, framing her face in a way that's both chaotic and beautiful.
She doesn't even seem to notice, laughing as she tucks a stray strand behind her ear, only for it to spring free again.
She's talking animatedly with the last few students as they pack up their instruments, her fingers tapping against her thigh in a rhythm I wish I could hear.
"One rainbow snow cone, please," I say when I reach the cart, surprising myself as much as her. My father's voice echoes in my head: Pierce men don't eat colored ice. Pierce men don't support the competition. Pierce men don't cavort with public school teachers who have no connections.
The familiar litany of rules and expectations follows me even here, three thousand miles and an entire coastline away from home. But that's exactly why I chose Magnolia Cove. This small, magical town where people care more about the quality of your conversation than the quality of your connections.
I straighten my shoulders, silencing my father's voice.
Let him disapprove from his climate-controlled office in Silicon Valley.
Here, with sea grasses tickling my ankles and the sunset painting the sky in colors no screen can capture, I'm just Grant—a man buying a snow cone from a beautiful, passionate woman who couldn't care less about my family name.
Rachel's eyebrows shoot up, but she reaches for a paper cup. "Slumming it with the competition?"
"Market research," I reply, though we both know it's a lie. She creates the perfect arch of shaved ice, then adds dye so that each color bleeds into the next, reflecting the sunset. There's an artistry to it that reminds me of the way she conducts her students—intuitive, flowing, alive.