Chapter Three – Bailey
The pigeon is back.
He plants himself on the sill like a judgmental gargoyle and stares at me through the round lighthouse window while I try to drink coffee without reviewing last night like it’s game film.
The espresso machine hisses. The ocean sighs.
The pigeon blinks slowly—as if to say, So.
You let him on your roof, and now you’re surprised there are feelings.
“Don’t,” I warn, pointing my mug at him. “Not before caffeine.”
He doesn’t care. Coral Bell Cove birds are fearless. They know things.
I set the mug down and do the thing I do when life feels like it’s trying to test me: I move.
Lamps on. Front door cracked just enough for salt air and small-town rumors to slip inside.
Rugs straightened. Display tables fluffed like throw pillows.
I take out the day’s cash envelope, stack the fives, and—because the register has a personality—tap the front panel twice like a bribe.
The lighthouse creaks the way it does when the temperature drops. Early fall has its own soundtrack here: wood settling, gulls arguing, water slapping the jetty in a rhythm that says storms are rehearsing offstage. Somewhere down the hill, a delivery truck backfires.
Normal. Familiar. The routine slides over me like a favorite sweater and almost—almost—mutes the memory of a warm palm on my waist.
The bell rings and Daisy herself barrel-rolls in, cheeks flushed, braid half unraveled, carrying a bakery box like an offering to a vengeful goddess.
“Okay,” she announces without preamble, kicking the door shut with her heel.
“The group chat is unhinged, Mrs. Winthrop is high on espresso, and I have at least three customers who asked whether your romance section has a resident consultant who knows her stuff while wiggling their eyebrows like caterpillars. Tell me everything.”
I adopt my most professional tone. “Good morning. How lovely to—”
She flips the pastry box open. Steam rises—maple pecan, glossy and indecent. “A bribe for the truth.”
“Daisy.”
“You’re glowing,” she says, like a detective revealing the murder weapon. “Which is actually rude before nine.”
“It’s my lamp.”
“It’s your feelings.”
I reach into the box, break a muffin in half, and talk around a mouthful of forgiveness. “He fixed a tarp.”
“And your register.”
“And—fine—my pulse.”
She shrieks—quietly, because she respects my shelves—and claps a hand over her mouth. “I knew it. You have the roof-ache.”
“Is that like heartache, but with roofing metaphors?”
“It’s when a man shows up with a hammer, and suddenly, your eaves aren’t the only thing feeling tender.”
“Out.”
“Can’t. I brought carbs.” She perches on the stool by the counter, eyes dancing. “So what did we learn? The man still has a face that could cause a power outage. And?”
“And nothing,” I say primly. “He bought two books and demonstrated unsafe levels of confidence around my personal space. End of report.”
“Did he apologize?”
“Not… exactly.”
She narrows her eyes. “Exactly how ‘not exactly’ are we talking?”
“He didn’t say the words. But there was a tone.”
“A tone.”
“A tone,” I repeat, because my brain has chosen vague nouns over vulnerable honesty.
She slides me a takeout cup with my name scrawled across it in loopy frosting-piped handwriting.
BAILEY, STOP PANICKING. “Sweetheart,” she says more gently, “you are six foot two of bravado away from revisiting your origin story. Of course, you’re rattled.
But men like him don’t usually come back different. ”
“He’s…quieter,” I admit. “And he looked at my roof before he really looked at me.”
“Progress,” Daisy declares. “In this economy.”
The bell jingles. Mrs. Winthrop enters like a weather system in a floral scarf. “Darlings,” she coos, “I have excellent news. I saw Crew Wright at the pier in sweatpants that could have paid my mortgage.”
Daisy elbows me. I choke on coffee air.
Mrs. Winthrop leans across my counter, her perfume doing violence to the concept of subtlety. “He purchased a black coffee like a man with sins and a conscience. Also a blueberry scone, which tells me he’s still redeemable. Men who choose blueberry want a second chance.”
Daisy nods gravely, playing along. “What do men who choose chocolate chip want?”
“Chaos,” Mrs. Winthrop says without hesitation. “Anyway, Bailey, may I please have something tasteful yet invigorating? Preferably with a lighthouse and a man who knows how to wield a rope.”
I hand her a coastal mystery. “Minimal rope play, maximum yearning.”
“Excellent.” She taps the lid then pats my hand. “And you, my dear, deserve both.”
The door swings again and again. The morning becomes a parade: a contractor in need of maps, a toddler who “reads” upside down, a tourist couple who saw my shop on Ivy’s Instagram and gasp at the spiral staircase like it’s a ride at a theme park.
I field questions, make jokes, sell books, and refuse—point-blank, with a smile—to discuss the quarterback in the town like he’s a rare bird sighting.
Underneath it all, the memory of his voice keeps tapping on a closed door in my chest. Help rarely arrives because you need it. It arrives because it wants to stay.
My phone buzzes against the register. It’s Lila, predictably.
Lila: Mom says you’re “looking rosy.” Should I be excited or call an ambulance?
Me: It’s cold. I’m a person with blood.
Lila: Blood that’s been stirred by poor choices and broad shoulders?
Me: Ban. Block. Delete.
Ivy: I volunteer to mediate. But by “mediate,” I mean “stir.” 0:)
Me: Don’t you have a stage to dominate?
Ivy: Not until tonight. In the meantime, send a pic of your roof so I can text a contractor, a lawyer, and possibly a priest.
Me: It’s fine. He nailed things. It held. (That sounded…)
Lila: I’M SCREAMING.
Me: Out. Both of you. I have customers.
Ivy: We are customers. Support your local chaos.
I kill the screen before my smile gives me away and ring up a stack of romances for a shy college kid who whispers, “Do these end happily?” like she’s begging for proof the universe keeps promises.
“They do here,” I tell her, bagging the books like keepsakes. “That’s the shelf rule.”
When the bell rings again, I brace for another wave, but it’s only Grayson from the post office, hat tipped back, carrying a bundle of mail that looks like it lost a fight with a small boat. He thumps it onto the counter and leans his elbows there like he’s about to deliver bad news with a grin.
“Morning, Bailey,” he says. “We’ve got catalogs, a flyer for the Back Bay Harvest Bash, and one fancy envelope that smells expensive.”
“Smelling mail is a federal offense.”
“Only if you get caught.” He winks at Daisy, pockets a muffin when he thinks I’m not looking, and disappears back into the weather.
I sort the stack. Catalog. Catalog. A postcard from a grateful customer traveling through Maine. A flyer asking for volunteers for the pumpkin regatta (no). A cream envelope with an embossed edge and no return address.
My palms go cold the second I touch the paper. Not in dread. Not quite in hope. In recognition.
I slide a nail under the flap and ease it open.
For the children’s corner, the note says in neat, stubborn loops. To keep the light on. — A friend
My throat goes tight. The check is generous without being showy, almost like the person who wrote it knows the exact line between help and insult. I turn the paper over, looking for a signature I already know won’t be there.
I fold the note back in and tuck the envelope under the counter with the care you give fragile things nobody else sees.
Daisy watches me watching myself. “Good thing?” she asks quietly.
I nod. “Good person.”
She doesn’t push. She passes me a napkin and a look that says I’m here if you need to fall apart like wet cardboard.
A gust rattles the windows. The lighthouse answers with a low groan, like an acknowledgment between old friends. I glance up toward the lantern room, praying she holds together this season.
“Okay,” Daisy says briskly, switching gears the way people who love you do when they sense the cliff edge. “Inventory. New arrivals. Which of these would you recommend to a woman who wants a book boyfriend who apologizes promptly and has excellent carpentry skills?”
“Does he also read labels before washing sweaters?” I ask, defaulting to banter because it’s the rope I know the knots on best.
“Hot.”
I laugh, and we fall into the easy rhythm of our morning: me tagging new stock and her taste-testing frosting “for quality assurance.” The bell rings; we serve. The bell rests; we breathe.
By late morning, the drizzle starts—the soft kind that makes the world smell clean and the town move slower.
A class of third graders squeezes in, damp and excited, as their teacher distributes scavenger-hunt lists with items like Find a book with a dog, Find three different fonts, Find the word lighthouse.
They fan out like bees. I answer questions, point to spines, and ignore the kid trying to barter me his plastic dragon for a sticker.
When the last small body bounces out and the door closes, A Page in Time huffs like it’s just finished running a race. I lean both hands on the counter and let the silence fill my bones.
The bell dings once, softly.
“Don’t,” I say without turning around. “If you’re here to tell me he looked positively edible in sweatpants again, I’m going to start an anti-gossip jar and fund the teen reading program for a decade.”
“Rude,” says a voice that is not Mrs. Winthrop. “And weirdly accurate.”
I spin. Lila stands in the doorway, raincoat half zipped, cheeks flushed. There’s a streak of applesauce on her cuff, which means motherhood is still winning on points.
She holds out a paper cup. “You look like you haven’t hydrated since you graduated from high school.”
“I’ve had coffee.”