Chapter 1 #2
Rayna might be getting a bit batty. Walking into streets without looking, mentioning random people I’ve never heard of.
I shake my head and press the button to start my rented Kia, and I head off, driving extra slow. Apparently a little too slow, as a few minutes later a truck behind me lets out a quick beep.
I glance in the rearview mirror to glare at the out-of-towner—people in Hope Harbor never beep their horns—only to find the road empty again.
“Well, if it isn’t Tally Darling!” a familiar voice calls.
I’m beginning to feel like a celebrity with everyone using my first and last name.
It’s drastically different from my culinary life, where I wince whenever someone calls me “Darling.” The guys find my last name hysterical.
Male chefs are extremely egotistical, and because I don’t have a degree, I’m never called “Chef,” even if I take on that role many a night.
Not that I even want that title. No, the title I want is simple. “Baker.”
And finally, it’s within reach. Just one more summer of dealing with egomaniacs and then it’ll be my turn.
Well, after I help my family get through this spring.
Turning, I realize the vehicle that was behind me is now pulled up beside me—in the opposite lane of traffic—and the driver is none other than Eli Davis.
I smile at the man beside me; honey-brown hair with a wave most women would kill for, chiseled cheekbones covered in more-than-day-old scruff, and blue eyes that still have the same charm they did back when he was in high school with Penny.
“Still driving too fast all these years later,” he says in the flirty way he says everything.
Eli doesn’t know how not to flirt with you.
It’s in his nature. I’m sure plenty of women have been crushed by his demeanor, not realizing that he means nothing by it.
Eli doesn’t date—long-term, that is—nor does he lead anyone on.
But I’m surprised to see him here because last I knew he was still living in New York City and playing in the NHL.
“I almost ran over Rayna McGovern, so I’m just being extra careful. Don’t want to take any chances.”
Eli gives me one of his slow smiles; it spreads across his face and reaches his eyes, making the blue in them twinkle.
It’s impossible not to smile when Eli smiles.
“Heard you were helping out your mama on the farm. Make sure you stop by The Ice Cream Barn one day this week. Your mom loves the cherry cobbler. I’ll put a tub aside for you to bring home for her. ”
At the mention of cherry cobbler, my brain starts to think up recipes for desserts that I could pair with that flavor.
Maybe a cherries jubilee? I’d need the sweetest cherries to simmer with some sugar, lemon juice, and vanilla.
Oh, and the zest of an orange. My mouth waters as I can practically taste the tart, sugary sauce dancing on my tongue.
“Wait, The Ice Cream Barn? What’s that?” And more importantly, where?
“A barn where I sell ice cream. It’s part of my groveling.”
“Groveling?”
“Yeah. Since I played for New York, I have to pay my penance in hopes of forgiveness.”
I laugh because few things are more sacred to New Englanders than their sports teams, and when Eli was drafted to New York—New England’s sworn enemy in almost every sport—a few people took up weekly prayers for him to be traded to their beloved Boston Bolts. Though that never happened.
“Got it. Will do. It was good seeing you, Eli!”
He tips his chin at me, and as I begin to drive forward, he hollers, “Say hi to Walker for me.”
Who is this Walker?
Taking a left, I head toward the farm, which is set back from town on the other side of the harbor.
As I cruise along, I eye the smattering of sailboats bobbing in the deep navy waters, waiting to be taken out for the next boating season.
The view of the farm from here has always been one of my favorites.
The harbor in front of it, the small bridge that connects the town to our land, and, in the distance, the outline of New England’s craggy mountains.
One of my other favorite views? Rosie’s Brewery.
It sits adjacent to our farm in an old barn that she’s worked hard to transform into a thriving business.
It’s angled perfectly so the back faces our fields of flowers and the mountains, giving her customers a show that is constantly changing depending on the season: daffodils and tulips in the spring, sunflowers and dahlias in the summer, and roses and mums in the fall, not to mention the apples for picking and the pumpkin patch.
In the winter, when the farm is mostly blanketed in snow and the flower beds rest in preparation for the next season, the trees are lit up with Christmas lights. Or they were, before Daddy died.
Blinking back the memories, I turn into Rosie’s driveway. I’m not ready to see my mom just yet.
The weathered wooden brewery sign with the red rose welcomes me to my best friend’s business. Shaking my head as I get out of my car, I smile up at the place. She really did it; she created a place for herself in this town, just like she always said she would.
The brewery boasts a walk-up window where you can grab coffee, and I offer a wave to the person manning the counter before pulling on the copper handle on the barn door, which swings open to reveal the whitewashed boards of the main room.
A long black bar lines the back of the space, and oversized chalkboards hang on the wall just above it, decorated with bright writing that details the day’s specials.
I scan the mostly empty room for Rosie. It’s barely lunch time, but in twenty minutes, this room will be full.
“Well, if it isn’t Tally Mae Darling,” a familiar voice sings.