Chapter 4
Chapter Four
IRIS
Sunday morning greeted me with bright sunshine and dry, heavy eyes.
The image of Austin Coleridge’s furious face—his gray eyes narrowed into stormy slits as he surveyed the watery carnage of his hibiscus hedge—was seared onto the inside of my eyelids.
It had replayed on a loop all night, a silent horror film starring me as the hapless, mud-caked villain, complete with a soundtrack of gushing water and my pathetic, squeaked apologies.
“Experimental irrigation,” I groaned into my pillow. “Why did I say that?”
When I dragged myself into the kitchen’s echoing expanse, it did little to dispel the gloom.
Dust motes danced in weak shafts of sunlight struggling through salt-crusted windowpanes.
The ancient percolator sputtered and hissed like a dying dragon before reluctantly producing coffee that tasted faintly of rust, regret, and possibly nineteenth-century despair.
After putting up with this relic for two weeks, I needed a real coffee maker. STAT.
From the window, I could see it.
The scene of the crime. His hibiscus hedge.
Even through the distorting haze of ancient glass, it looked sad.
Accusatory. Yesterday afternoon, I’d caught a glimpse of Austin back out there, his tall, lean frame bent over the damaged plants.
He’d moved with focused, almost tender precision, assessing the destruction I’d wrought and gently snipping broken stems, his dark head bowed.
I’d wanted to run over then, to babble a fresh torrent of apologies.
To offer to personally hand-pollinate every remaining bud with a tiny paintbrush if it would help.
But my feet had remained rooted to the dusty floorboards, my courage shriveling under the imagined weight of his disapproval.
My optimistic smile from yesterday was long gone.
As I sipped my questionable coffee, the guilt gnawed at me, a persistent, uncomfortable itch right between my shoulder blades. When my world spun out of control, one thing always centered me.
Baking.
The familiar ritual was a tangible act of creation in the face of my recent act of destruction.
I rummaged through boxes stacked haphazardly in what I hoped would one day be a charming butler’s pantry, but which currently resembled a cardboard-box shantytown.
I unearthed my mixing bowls, a half-empty bag of flour, a canister of sugar that felt depressingly light, and one precious bag of semisweet chocolate chips I’d bought for just such an emotional emergency.
“Chocolate chip cookies,” I announced to the chipped Formica countertop. “The universal peace treaty. The culinary white flag. No one can stay furious at someone who brings them warm, homemade chocolate chip cookies. Right?”
But as I assembled my meager supplies, another truth emerged. I had exactly zero vanilla or eggs. Operation Apology Cookie was already hitting a logistical snag.
“Okay, Iris,” I coached myself. “Nothing a quick trip to the Island Market can’t fix. Plus, I can pick up a new coffee maker.” I spun around and trotted to my room to change.
Island Market on a Sunday morning was a cheerful mix of locals stocking up for the week and bewildered tourists searching for sunscreen and Key lime pie.
I navigated the bustling aisles with focused determination, grabbing flour, sugar, a carton of eggs, and a brand-new, generously sized bottle of pure vanilla extract.
Then I triumphed by adding a glorious new coffee machine to my cart. Mission accomplished.
Driving back down Dove Key’s charming, sun-drenched Main Street, a sense of cautious optimism filled me.
Then a storefront caught my eye—a splash of cheerful paint and a whimsical, hand-painted sign that read Bookshop in Paradise.
On an impulse born of a desperate need for a temporary escape from my head and the looming specter of Austin Coleridge, I pulled over.
The bell over the door chimed a welcoming, melodic greeting as I stepped inside.
The air was cool and enveloped me in the immediate, comforting aroma of old paper, binding glue, and freshly brewed coffee.
Bookshelves lined every wall, crammed with colorful spines that promised adventure, romance, and mystery.
“This place feels like a hug,” I murmured, my shoulders relaxing.
“Good morning!” a warm, friendly voice called out. I looked up to see a woman with long, auburn hair and kind, intelligent green eyes smiling at me from behind a counter laden with new releases. She looked to be about my age, with an open, welcoming face. “Can I help you find anything?”
“Oh, just browsing. This place is absolutely lovely.”
“Thank you.” Her smile widened. “I’m Brenna. I own the place.”
“Iris Holloway,” I replied, returning the smile. “I’m new in town.”
“Welcome to Dove Key!” Brenna’s green eyes widened.
“Thanks.” I took a fortifying breath. “I just inherited Heron House. Over on Frigate Lane?” I braced myself, expecting the polite but wary look I’d started to recognize.
To my surprise, Brenna laughed, a warm, sympathetic sound. “Oh, Heron House! Wow, that’s quite an undertaking. You’re brave. My brother Austin lives right next door.”
My stomach performed a spectacular dive into my shoes. “Austin Coleridge? He’s your brother?”
Amusement twinkled in Brenna’s eyes, a knowing, almost conspiratorial look.
“That’s him. Don’t worry, his bark is usually worse than his bite.
Mostly.” She gave a tiny wink that somehow made me feel both better and marginally more terrified.
“I’m Brenna Coleridge-Markham. So you’re tackling Heron House? What are your plans for it?”
“Likely unrealistic,” I admitted with a rueful smile. “But I’m turning it into a Bed & Breakfast.”
“That’s fantastic!” Brenna’s enthusiasm was infectious. “Dove Key could absolutely use another charming B&B.”
“And I’m trying really hard,” I added, a self-deprecating grimace twisting my lips, “not to accidentally destroy the neighborhood in the process.”
Brenna raised an eyebrow, a flicker of understanding in her green eyes.
Thankfully, she didn’t press for details.
“Well, if you’re looking to meet people, we have a book club called Sips and Pages.
We read books and drink plenty of wine.” Her smile grew as she smoothed a hand over the slight rounding of her belly. “But no wine for me for a while.”
I clapped my hands. “Congratulations!”
“Thanks. My husband, Hunter, and I are pretty ecstatic. And it’s even more special because my sister is pregnant too. With twins! It’s going to be a decidedly busy year for the Coleridge baby department.”
“You guys will need a babysitter on speed dial.” I smiled at her obvious happiness, unable to deny the sad twist in my stomach at yet another life stage I had missed with my thirtieth birthday.
“Enough baby talk, though,” Brenna said with a casual wave. “Our book club meets next week. We’re reading…” She scanned a nearby shelf, plucked a brightly colored paperback, and handed it to me. “Love on the Tide. Perfect beach read. You should come.”
The invitation, so unexpected and warm, was a lifeline. “Oh! I’d love that. Thank you so much.”
“Consider it your official Dove Key welcome packet,” Brenna said with another easy smile.
I bought Love on the Tide, and as the bell chimed my departure, the warmth of the sun outside felt less oppressive, more welcoming.
That hadn’t been so bad. Brenna hadn’t run screaming when she heard the words Heron House.
She didn’t even seem to think Austin was a fire-breathing ogre, just a typically grouchy older brother.
A brother with shoulders wider than a zip code.
Maybe there was hope for me in this quirky little town yet.
Back in the Heron House kitchen, armed with my new baking supplies, coffee maker, and a fragile, Brenna-inspired sense of optimism, I dove into Operation Apology Cookie with renewed vigor.
The familiar, rhythmic process of measuring flour, creaming butter and sugar until light and fluffy, and stirring in generous handfuls of chocolate chips worked its usual magic.
As I placed dough on my cookie sheets, I sang my own version of “Neon Heart”, which I’d heard recently on the radio.
I crossed my fingers when I turned on the not-exactly-chic, avocado-green wall oven, but it heated up just fine.
The warm, comforting scent of baking cookies gradually overpowered the kitchen’s lingering mustiness, a fragrant symbol of hope and profound regret.
Soon they emerged from the oven, golden-brown and ready for their diplomatic mission.
A wicker basket, rescued from the yawning walk-in pantry, became their vessel.
I lined it with faded floral napkins and nestled a dozen of the most perfect ones inside, like precious jewels.
Finally, I tied a faded blue ribbon around the handle, fashioning a slightly lopsided but undeniably cheerful bow.
“Okay,” I said, holding up the basket for inspection. It looked presentable. Friendly. Hopefully not too desperate. “Just a neighborly gesture. An extremely apologetic neighborly gesture.”
Basket clutched in a hand that was only slightly trembling, I took a deep, fortifying breath and headed for Austin’s front door.
The walk felt a little less like trudging toward my own execution this time, thanks in no small part to Brenna’s kindness.
Knowing he had a nice, normal sister somehow made him marginally less terrifying.
After all, I was the one who had screwed up.
His yard was a picture of serene, almost severe, order.
The white clapboard siding of his house gleamed in the afternoon sun, and the dark-green shutters aligned with a precision that made my haphazard renovation efforts feel vaguely criminal.
Even the shells bordering his walkway were arranged in perfect rows.
My courage wavered as I stepped onto his porch.
No clutter. No fuss. I raised my hand, took another shaky breath, and knocked on the dark-green wooden door.
The sound was a loud, definitive thud in the otherwise profound silence.
I waited, the basket growing heavier in my hand, the scent of the cookies suddenly, overwhelmingly cheerful.
No answer.
I knocked again, a little louder. Still nothing. I craned my neck, trying to peer through a nearby window, but the glass reflected the bright sky, revealing only dim, orderly shadows within.
“He’s not home,” I whispered, a strange mixture of profound relief and sharp disappointment washing over me. I’d psyched myself up for this confrontation, rehearsed my lines, and braced for the impact of his disapproval.
And… nothing.
Defeated for now, I turned and walked back home. The book club with Brenna was next week, so I sat at the kitchen table with a dang good cookie and settled in to read.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a restless, cookie-scented limbo.
After several chapters, I tried to focus on unpacking more boxes, sketching out preliminary plans for the B&B guest rooms, wrestling with the ancient, terrifying fuse box.
My attention kept drifting to the window and Austin’s house, watching for any sign of his return.
Late in the afternoon, as the sun began its slow, spectacular descent toward the ocean, I heard the distinct, welcome rumble of an engine, followed by the crunch of tires on his shell driveway.
“He’s back!”
I rushed to the window, my heart thumping a nervous, erratic rhythm against my ribs—a mix of dread and something suspiciously like anticipation.
Unfolding his tall, lean frame from a dark-blue pickup truck, Austin moved with an efficient, practiced grace.
He reached into the truck bed and began to unload gear—several long, serious-looking fishing rods, a battered cooler that no doubt held the day’s catch, and a worn canvas gear bag slung over one broad shoulder.
I stood on my tiptoes to inspect the words embossed on his truck door more closely.
Sunset Siesta Fishing Charters.
“Fishing charters?” I breathed, pressing my nose closer to the grimy windowpane.
So that’s what he did. If he was driving a work truck, he was likely the captain.
It explained the aura of reserved competence, the way he seemed so at home in the elements.
It also made my idiotic blunder with the sprinkler even more pathetically amateurish.
He probably spent his days wrangling actual sea monsters and recalcitrant, nauseated tourists, dealing with all sorts of unpredictable, dangerous situations.
And on his day off, he discovered me attempting to drown his meticulously tended garden with the finesse of a bewildered, landlocked walrus.
But also… a captain.
There was something undeniably romantic about that, wasn’t there? The man of the sea, at the lonely helm of his ship, wrestling with the elements, bringing home the bounty of the deep…
Focus, Iris! I admonished myself sternly. Apology! Not composing seafaring fantasies about your aggravated neighbor.
A fresh wave of determination, admittedly shaky around the edges, surged through me. Austin was a fishing captain. He dealt with unpredictable things all the time. Surely, he could handle one profoundly apologetic neighbor armed with a peace offering of homemade chocolate chip cookies.
I grabbed the cookie basket from the counter, its ribbon still jauntily tied, and gave myself a stern nod in the dusty hall mirror. My hair was still a bit wild, but my eyes held a new, steely resolve—or possibly just terror masquerading as resolve.
“Okay, Captain Coleridge,” I said to my reflection, squaring my shoulders. “Prepare to be apologized to. Vigorously.”
My stomach did a nervous flip-flop, but I ignored it.
I marched out the back door of Heron House.
This was not the time to wrestle with the possessed front door.
The basket was clutched in my hand like a shield or, perhaps, a fragile, crumbly olive branch.
I set off purposefully, my sensible canvas sneakers making determined crunching sounds on the shell path, heading directly toward Austin Coleridge’s front door for the second, and hopefully final, time today.