Chapter Seven
I was late.
Not fashionably late, and not even I-overslept-through-my-alarm late. More like I-looked-at-the-disaster-zone-of-my-life-and-hit-snooze-three-times late.
By the time I trudged down Main Street, my hair was still damp from the world’s fastest shower, my hoodie had a questionable coffee stain, and my sneakers squeaked faintly from yesterday’s disaster. Not exactly an outfit that made me feel confident confronting the ruins of my business.
The door of the Morning Bell chimed as I slipped inside.
Stark midmorning light streamed in through the windows, casting a bright sheen on the already half-full cafe.
After a beat of hesitation, I pushed the hood off my head and plastered on my usual smile.
I waved to the Wednesday book club ladies in the far corner and the owner of Cove’s Treasures, Lorenzo, stationed at the bar.
He returned to his newspaper with the arch of an eyebrow.
“What happened to you?” Rachel all-but shouted from the espresso machine.
“Is it that bad?” I responded, smoothing my hair and frowning down at the faded stain on my chest. In this light, it looked twelve shades darker.
She poured the shot in a tiny cup, placed it on a saucer, and slid it to Lorenzo. “You look like you need a quad shot and twelve hours of sleep,” Rachel teased as she leaned beside the register.
I rubbed my eyes and groaned. “Marigold’s is in really bad shape,” I whispered through my fingers, “I just don’t—actually, never mind. You know what?” Dropping my hands, I retrieved a scrunchie from my pocket and began gathering my wild curls into a ponytail. “I’ll take you up on that quad shot.”
Rachel watched me with thinly veiled concern as I rifled through my other pocket and pulled out a handful of crumpled, half-soggy bills.
“Found this in the couch cushions last night,” I mumbled, flattening them on the counter before handing them to her. “My jeans didn’t have enough time in the dryer. That’s why they’re-”
“Damp,” Rachel finished, wrinkling her nose as she held them between two fingers.
“Well, yes, but—”
“Still money,” she continued again.
“Right.”
Rachel shook her head and laughed under her breath as she rang me up.
“Could you add a black coffee? Not for me, obviously.” For some reason, I glanced behind me, but no one was there. My eyes caught on the display case to the right, which boasted an entire shelf of donuts. “How much are those?” I murmured, mouth watering.
“Don’t worry about it,” Rachel replied, setting the cash in the register and closing it with her hip.
Before I could protest, she spun away toward the espresso machine. Sometimes it felt like a contest of who could take care of the other better—to be fair, she often won. One day I would pay her back for it all.
When Rachel returned and handed me the drinks and a paper bag, she was on the other side of the bar.
“I’m coming with you,” she said in a no-nonsense tone.
My eyebrows shot up. “Rachel, you have a job.”
In response, she rolled her eyes and shouted, “Cam! Get out here!”
Lorenzo clucked his tongue at the disturbance, and she dismissed him with a playful flick of her hand.
From behind the curtain at the back of the cafe, a lanky boy appeared, dark coils bouncing as he approached. His face broke into a wide smile, his familiar honey-colored eyes sparkling. “Hey, Georgie,” he greeted and dipped his chin.
“Cameron!” I replied, clapping my hands together and earning a clear of the throat from Lorenzo. “When did you get taller than me?”
He shrugged, a deep blush blooming warm against the bronze of his skin.
“Cam, you’re in charge.” Rachel pointed at him with a mock-stern look. “Don’t disappoint me.”
In response, he swallowed and grabbed the rag from his apron, blindly wiping the counter below. Rachel and I poured out onto the sidewalk, and after I took a much-needed sip of my drink, I flicked her shoulder.
“Hey! What?”
“You scared Cameron,” I said, peering in the paper bag as we crossed the street. “That poor kid isn’t going to stop moving until you come back.”
“Yeah, trust me, that poor kid was more terrified that you spoke to him.” Rachel snorted, plucked a donut from the bag, and shoved it in her mouth. “Cam’s been in love with you since he could walk,” she added, words muffled by a piece of donut.
I scoffed. “That’s ridiculous. And when did you hire Wes’s little brother, anyway?”
She began to respond, but it died in her throat with a squeak as we stepped through the doorway at Marigold’s.
It looked worse in the daylight. The pipe water had retreated, but it left rings of water stains on the floor, a faint smell like wet cardboard, and windows fogged with dried splatters and drips. I braced myself for the worst.
Rhett was kneeling by the baseboards with a crowbar, sleeves shoved up, shoulders bent forward in concentration.
He noticed us and scowled. “You’re late.”
“Good morning to you too,” I shot back. “Forgive me for not waking up at the crack of dawn to— what are you doing?”
“The pipes,” he said, as if that was an explanation and not a very short sentence. “Figured I should keep the shop from falling apart, or I might get a bad review.”
Was that a… joke?
“Well, that’s why I’m here,” I huffed, stepping around a stack of drywall. “To help.”
Rhett grunted in a way that said he very much doubted I could help with anything heavier than a piece of paper.
I planted my hands on my hips as he shifted to me.
“Listen, I appreciate your help, but I’m not completely useless.
I swear. I can mop. Or organize. Or—” I glanced around helplessly at the floral coolers that had been moved to the middle of the shop, the massive garbage bins, and some extremely large power tools. “—supervise,” I finished weakly.
That earned me the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Almost a smile. Almost.
“And I got you coffee.” I beamed and held it out for him.
Rhett accepted my peace offering, eyes appearing to soften. “Thank you,” he replied gently and set it on the floor beside him to continue his work.
Rachel shuffled further inside and leaned against the counter like this was nothing out of the norm. Meanwhile, I hovered two feet from Rhett’s shoulder, pretending to understand what he was doing with the crowbar.
He grabbed his hammer and swung it, the sound making me flinch; metal against stubborn wood, then a groaning snap as the baseboard popped loose.
Dust puffed into the air, catching the weak, clouded light.
It smelled like damp plaster and something vaguely earthy, as if specks of soil had found a home in every crevice of the shop.
Rhett grunted. “You gonna stand there daydreaming or are you gonna hand me that trim puller?”
“I wasn’t daydreaming,” I lied, handing him the tool closest to my feet.
His hand stilled midair. He turned, looked at it, then at me. “This is a wrench.”
“Right. Test passed,” I said brightly, setting it back down. “Just making sure you knew.”
Rachel coughed into her fist, which sounded suspiciously similar to a laugh.
Rhett shoved his hair out of his eyes and went back to prying a new section of baseboard. “This would go faster if you didn’t hover.”
“I’m not hovering. I’m… learning.”
He shot me a look that could’ve burst another pipe.
“Fine,” I muttered, retreating half a step. “Consider me un-hovered.”
For a few minutes, the only sounds were the scrape of his tools and Rachel’s soft humming as she sorted through a box of old receipts.
My hands twitched uselessly at my sides.
I hated feeling like dead weight, like someone who had to be rescued from her own mess.
The shop was mine now, but every slam of Rhett’s hammer reminded me that I no longer had any idea what the future looked like.
Finally, I crouched down beside him again. Anything was better than the arena of chaos in my head. “So, hypothetically… what happens if you pull something out of that wall and the whole place collapses?”
He didn’t look up. “An open-concept floor plan.”
Rachel snorted. Did Rhett Briggs just make another joke?
I grinned despite myself. “Wow, funny. Careful, Rhett, people might think you like it here.”
That earned me silence. I watched as he pulled his buzzing phone from his back pocket, glanced down, and promptly ignored the call.
Rhett yanked another strip of baseboard loose and leaned back on his heels, forearm swiping sweat from his temple.
His shirt clung damply to his uncharacteristically slumped shoulders.
He rapidly drained the coffee and resumed his work.
A sharp pang of guilt hit my chest as he yawned for the twelfth time. I wanted to remind him that I could handle it. That none of this was his responsibility—he clearly had more important things to do. But Rachel beat me to it.
“You two don’t have to do this alone, you know,” she spoke up from across the shop. “We can figure out a way to—”
Rhett cut her off with a shake of his head. “It’s fine. I’ve got it.”
He stood, gathering the loose boards and dumping them into a nearby bin without glancing at either of us.
I blinked and swallowed the thick lump in my throat. “Okay, well, clearly I’m just in the way.”
“Georgie,” Rachel warned.
“No, it’s fine,” I replied in a rush, though my stomach twisted.
Rhett’s jaw tightened as he appeared to chew on a potential argument. Instead, he smacked his gloves on his pants and sighed. “You’re helping with the booths, remember? Trust me—this is a one-man job.”
I know he was just being nice—no doubt scarred by my blubbering the previous day—but it warmed the layer of frosty self-reproach that had settled over my every thought.
Rachel offered a small smile as I approached.
Leaning against the counter hard enough to feel the edge bruise my elbow, my eyes flicked to the shop window, where the bright midday light poured in and ignited a cloud of fine dust. This was supposed to be the part where I proved I could fix it all on my own.
That I could make a success of myself in Bluebell Cove.
That there was a good reason why Marigold’s was left to me.
Instead, all I’d done was confirm what I already feared: I was in over my head.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Rachel interrupted my thoughts. “I mean… you shouldn’t have to be dealing with planning community events when—”
“I want to,” I cut in. “It’s important to me. And this— none of this is new. It’s okay.”
“Sure, but you don’t have to do it alone.”
“I’m not alone.” I waved my hand with a laugh that was far from convincing. “I have Oscar the Grouch over there, and you’re doing my… taxes?”
“I am not a grouch,” Rhett grumbled from the corner in a very grouch-like manner.
Rachel blew a fire-engine red lock of hair from her eyes and grabbed another handful of receipts from my shoebox.
“Georgie, your idea of organization frightens me.” She fanned them out on the counter between us and clucked her tongue.
“Is the shop doing okay? I mean— there are a lot of expenses here.”
I swiped a donut from the bag to distract myself. “This is always a slow season, you know. Tourists are gone, the weddings are over, and there are no contracts until Fallfest.” It was a half-lie. My grandmother always knew how to keep business steady, even in the off months.
She tapped her chin. “I’ll talk to my bosses about getting fresh flowers in the cafe once your repairs are done. A little something on every table would be nice.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I blurted out.
That kind of steady income could be the difference between a stocked fridge and a constant stream of angry emails from credit card companies.
I sucked in a sharp breath, eyeing the growing hole in my wall and the floral coolers covered in a thick layer of drywall dust. Making it all stretch until after the repairs were done, on the other hand, was a completely different matter.
“Duh, I know I don’t have to.” Rachel pulled out her phone and her thumbs immediately began to fly across the screen. “You’d do the same for me, wouldn’t you?” Her eyes narrowed at me for a split-second as if to say, Don’t lie to me, Georgette.
I shifted uncomfortably in place, a flush spreading across my cheeks as I glanced from one person fixing my problems, to the other.
My grandmother never faltered. She never allowed anything—not floods from a storm or a baby left at her doorstep—stop her. If something broke, she fixed it; if someone needed her, she showed up. Her hands were always sure.
She left Marigold’s to me so I could carry that steadiness forward and be the same pillar she was.
Lately, I could almost hear her disappointment in the silence of the shop.