Chapter 2
2
Josie
Carla Stevenson's local bakery was a quaint establishment. A gentle tinkle of the bell heralded each newcomer, while the air inside swirled with the scent of cinnamon and yeast, a symphony of warmth that seemed to embrace patrons in a cocoon of comfort. I loved to come here, but usually not until after morning rush.
“Isn't this just heaven?” Molly sighed as she took a delicate sip of her coffee, the steam curling up into her blue eyes. Her laughter, bright and clear, mingled with the clinking of spoons against porcelain from the patrons enjoying their breakfast.
I nodded, my lips curving around the rim of my own mug, the rich aroma of Arabica beans grounding me in this moment of simple pleasures. I watched as a powdered sugar snowfall settled on Molly's nose from the pastry she'd bitten into—a raspberry danish as plump and inviting as the cushions we sat upon.
“Pure bliss,” I agreed, my voice soft. I reached for a cinnamon roll, its glaze glistening under the bakery's warm lights, the perfection of its swirls almost too beautiful to disturb. Carla had the best pastries in Lawson Ridge.
“Carla really outdid herself today.”
“Every bite is a reminder of why I'm never leaving this town.” My heart was anchored to Lawson Ridge as much as to the people who breathed life into it. The pastries were not just confections; they were Carla's love made edible, a sentiment I knew all too well. My life's work—capturing the essence of love through my lens—was my own way of baking sweetness into existence.
Molly leaned forward, her presence as comforting and familiar to me as the bakery itself. “You know, this place isn't going anywhere. And neither are the memories.”
“Or the calories we're consuming,” I quipped back as I took another bite.
“Wouldn't have it any other way,” Molly replied, raising her cup in a silent toast to many more mornings just like this one.
My heart swelled with gratitude, both for Molly's presence and for the sense of belonging that seemed to seep from the very walls of Carla's bakery. But beneath it all lay an undercurrent of restlessness, a nagging whisper.
I chased the thought away with another sip of coffee. For now, this was enough. This moment of friendship and indulgence, this small corner of the world that felt so very much like home. I brushed a wayward strand of my long hair behind my ear.
“Another weekend full of 'I dos' and lace?” teased Mr. Henderson from across the room, his voice carrying over the hum of the coffee grinder.
“Always,” I replied, my grin as wide as the aperture on my camera. “Love is in perpetual bloom in Lawson Ridge.” My floral skirt swirled around my knees as I got up to retrieve my refill.
“Isn't it something, though? To witness all those beginnings?” Molly asked, her curiosity piqued by the carousel of emotions that must play out before my lens.
“Something indeed,” I mused, my fingers tracing the rim of my coffee cup. “Each couple spins their own universe of affection. I just find a way to freeze it in time.”
“Show me the latest?” Molly prompted.
Lifting my phone, I swiped to a gallery of recent shots: a tender look shared between bashful newlyweds, a veil caught mid-dance by the breeze, a tear glistening on an elderly groom's cheek as he beheld his bride.
“Look at that,” Molly breathed, leaning closer. “You've got a knack for catching the uncatchable.”
My smile faltered for a heartbeat, a silent acknowledgment of the irony. I could preserve others' love forever but struggled to grasp its strands for myself. I shook off the thought. “It's just about seeing,” I said, my tone light. “The camera sees what's there; I just follow its lead.”
“Your heart follows, too,” Molly countered, touching my arm, a wordless reminder of the depth of feeling my friend poured into every frame.
“Maybe.” I allowed myself the concession, my gaze falling to the couples in my photos. In their eyes, in their clasped hands, in the joyous tilt of their heads thrown back in laughter, I found echoes of the magic she yearned to claim as my own.
“Your day will come, you know,” Molly whispered, as if reading the wistfulness in my eyes.
“Perhaps,” I replied, my heart skipping a beat. “But for now, I'll keep collecting these little love stories—my vicarious adventures in romance.”
“Fair enough,” Molly chuckled, “but don't forget to write your own chapter someday.”
My lips curved upward, the promise of possibility tugging at the corners of my mind. I tucked away my phone and sipped my coffee. Today, I was a keeper of dreams, weaving happily-ever-afters through the viewfinder, one click at a time. And tomorrow? Well, that remained an open page in the album of my life.
“Remember when we used to think thirty was ancient?” Molly asked.
I chuckled, a sound that mingled harmoniously with the soft clinking of spoons against mugs. “We were naive children of fifteen then.”
Molly leaned forward, her elbows resting on the table. “And look at us now—mere months away from hitting the big three-oh.”
A carousel of weddings spun in my mind, vows exchanged under archways of peonies and string lights, each couple stepping into a new chapter while I remained the observer, capturing freeze-frames of beginnings that weren't my own.
“Does it ever scare you? That life is just... speeding by?”
“Terrifies me,” Molly admitted with an exaggerated shudder, though her laugh betrayed no genuine fear. “But I figure, we've got good brakes and a decent sense of direction. We're not going to crash anytime soon.”
I played along, the corner of my mouth quirking up. “I suppose we're also experts at scenic detours.”
“Exactly!” Molly reached across the table, giving my hand an affectionate squeeze. Her gaze was earnest, piercing even as her lips curved into a playful grin. “Plus, who wants to rush through life without enjoying the journey? The views are too pretty.”
“Pretty views don't keep you warm at night.”
“Ah, but the memories do,” Molly countered, releasing my hand to gesture around the cozy bakery. “Like this moment right here. It's perfect, isn't it?”
My heart danced a complicated step. “Perfect.”
“See?” Molly said. “Life's got a way of unfolding just as it should. And you, my dear Josie, are right where you need to be.”
I nodded, the laughter returning like a ripple across still water. I hoped Molly was right.
The clink of porcelain on wood punctuated the air as I set my coffee cup down a touch too hard. My fingers traced the rim.
“Josie,” Molly began, her tone softening like butter left out on a warm day, “I’ve watched you hide behind that camera of yours, capturing everyone else's fairytales. When will you let it be your turn?”
My gaze flicked up, meeting the earnestness in Molly's blue eyes. I offered a half-hearted shrug, feeling the tightness in my shoulders betray the nonchalance I aimed for. “Maybe some people are just meant to tell the stories, not live them.”
“Baloney!” Molly exclaimed with a spirited laugh that seemed to stir the very sugar granules atop their pastries. “You're just scared, Joss. Scared to let someone see the woman behind the lens—the one who dreams of being swept off her feet.”
A blush crept up my neck, painting my cheeks the color of the peach preserves they often shared. “It's not about fear,” I protested, though my voice wobbled like a fawn on new legs. “It's... I don't want to lose myself in someone else's shadow.”
“Who says you have to?” Molly retorted, her hand reaching out to capture mine, a lifeline thrown across the chasm of uncertainty. “Josie Keller, you're a force all on your own. Any man worth his salt would stand beside you, not in front of you.”
I chewed on my lower lip, tasting the familiar blend of doubt and longing.
“Look at you,” Molly continued, gesturing to me with a flourish that sent a lock of blonde hair tumbling into view. “You've got this firework heart, ready to burst with color and light. Don't you think it's time to let someone light the fuse?”
My laughter escaped before I could catch it, bubbling up from a place of both mirth and melancholy. Molly's words painted pictures in my mind—vivid and vibrant, like my photographs—but I hesitated on the edge of the frame, unsure if I belonged within it.
“Sometimes I wonder if my spark's gone out,” I confessed, tracing the wood grain of the table with a fingertip, as if I could read my future in its whorls and knots.
“Impossible,” Molly declared. “Josie, you're the girl who believes in happy endings more than anyone I know. It's high time you crafted your own.”
My heart thrummed a hesitant beat, daring to dream of a love as sweet and satisfying as the pastries here.