Chapter 13
What Feels Right
The bike is a clunky cruiser with a wicker basket on the front and a bell that sounds like a child’s toy. I found it in the shed behind Gavin’s house before he left to join Olivia in LA. He gave me one raised eyebrow when I asked if I could use it.
“Be careful,” he said. “The brakes are... optimistic.”
I took that as a yes.
Now I am coasting down Enchanted Forest Lane with the wind in my hair, the basket rattling with a water bottle, a notebook, and a bag full of cherries from the farm stand I just passed. There was no vendor, just a wooden table, a hand-painted sign that read Pay what feels right, and a coffee tin with a slot on top for bills.
I left ten dollars and a note that said Thank you for growing joy.
I pass a tiny two-room schoolhouse—white clapboard with a bright red door—and then Girl Meets Dirt, which turns out not to be a local gossip rag, but a charming little shop that sells award-winning shrubs, preserves, and wine with labels that look like they were designed by woodland fairies with impeccable taste.
Somewhere to my left, I hear the rustle of leaves, followed by the sudden, high-pitched gobble of what can only be described as small-winged dinosaurs in feather boas.
Turkeys.
Wild, unapologetic, vaguely vengeful turkeys.
Patricia warned me that they own parts of the island. She’s seen them stop traffic at the ferry landing, stalk toddlers, and once—very aggressively—chase a tourist back into his Tesla Cybertruck.
This particular flock stares at me as I pedal by, unimpressed.
“Good morning, your majesties,” I mutter.
One flares its tail in response.
I round a curve, and suddenly, the trees thin. Eastsound Bay comes into view, the water so calm it looks like glass, sailboats bobbing next to mooring buoys. In the middle of the bay, a small rocky knoll edged with tidepools rises out of the water. A single windswept evergreen clings to its crown, surrounded by low, salt-hardy shrubs. At low tide, a slender sandbar stretches out from the shore, serving as a natural bridge for someone to cross.
Main Street unspools in front of me like a postcard. Just before the road dips into town, I pass The Outlook, a storybook inn with a past that reads like a historical fiction montage. Founded by settlers in 1888, reborn as a hippie commune in the ‘60s, and now a hideaway coveted by honeymooners and wedding photographers in equal measure. Down the street, Brown Bear Baking has a line out the door for their version of Croque-monsieur, and across from it, the White Horse Pub leans casually on the corner like it’s just waiting to pour someone a pint and tell them an island secret.
I slow down to take in the white wooden Episcopal church on the shoreside and its stained-glass windows. It’s from another time, its black steeple stoic against the cloudy sky as it stands watch over the sound. After that, there’s Darvill’s, a real old-fashioned independent bookstore, adorned with hanging pots of bright orange weeping begonias and windows filled with staff picks and clever chalkboard quotes.
Across the street, wedged between Gavin’s two-story Venture Haus building and an old two-story brick building that houses the coffee shop Gavin warned me about, I spot it. An empty lot, half-eclipsed by vines and a sagging fence. Maybe it’s the way the light hits the ginkgo tree in front, throwing golden shade across a mess of dry earth and stubborn weeds, but it makes me pause.
There’s no reason for me to stop.
But I do.
Because something about the place feels ... abandoned. In a way that I understand.
I walk the bike to the edge of the fence, then duck through a gap in it, barely wide enough for me and my canvas tote. The soil is hard and cracked, scattered with wild nasturtiums, patches of rosemary, and a few brave herbs doing their best to look like they’re gonna make it. Pear, pomegranate, and apple trees reach their spindly arms toward the sky—neglected but alive.
Tucked in the back of the lot, half-hidden by tangled morning glory and lilac bushes, is a large glass greenhouse, the kind referred to as a l’orangerie. It looks like it wandered out of a French fairytale.
The l’orangerie isn’t grand. Like the island, it’s modest but charming. The walls are paneled in glass, their iron frames streaked with salt and time. Moss curls around the stone foundation, and one of the hinges sighs when I nudge the door open.
Inside, the air is warmer. Earthier. It smells like damp citrus peel and wild thyme.
The citrus trees—one lemon, a sad little lime, one heroic blood orange—aren’t thriving exactly, but they’re surviving. Their leaves are waxy and curled at the edges, and someone once strung fairy lights through the rafters that still blink stubbornly to life when I flip the old switch. There’s a long wooden table lying on its side, dusty, but sturdy, like it’s been waiting for someone to remember it’s still useful.
Back outside, near the base of the ginkgo tree, a patch of mint stops me mid-step. I kneel, and the scent hits before my fingers even touch it. Bright and green and heartbreakingly familiar.
Suddenly, I’m six. Barefoot in the neighborhood community garden, overflowing with mint and thyme. Dad picking tomatoes like they were heirlooms and gold rolled into one. “If you can, pick them when they’re warm,” he always said. “That’s when they’re sweetest.”
We’d walk the half-block home together, him balancing a box of tomatoes and other vegetables, me clutching the soft, speckled mint like it was treasure. Inside, Mom would be waiting, humming as she chopped, turning whatever we brought into something that smelled like comfort and tasted like home.
I blink hard against the memory and will back the sting of tears.
When I look up, I can see straight across Eastsound Bay. I hadn’t noticed it when I whizzed by, but at the church’s feet, tucked into a garden in front of the sea, is a labyrinth. A grass and stone spiral of intention, laid by the hands of the community decades ago. Cari told me that locals say you walk it when you don’t know what you need but know something has to change.
I haven’t walked it yet.
But I will.
I don’t know how long I stand there, but eventually, my stomach grumbles loud enough to nudge me back into motion. I brush off my jeans, sneak one last look at the fruit trees, and head to the café next door. It looks tired, a little lopsided, with a flickering “Open” sign in the window that feels like a dare.
Inside, a woman in her sixties, her hair in a loose grey chignon, speaks animatedly to a man in his fifties as he sweeps the floor. Her accent is rich and musical. Middle Eastern, maybe Turkish? There are no customers. The woman smiles pleasantly at me, and I order a scone and a latte from her. Then, I sit at a table waiting for both.
She disappears behind the counter, and I sit near the window, admiring the ginkgo tree.
A moment later, she returns with the scone and a latte in a heavy ceramic mug. I see her watching me out of the corner of her eye as she wipes down a table next to me.
I take a bite. It’s so dry that I choke on the crumbs. I quickly grab the latte and take a gulp. I can’t help it, even with the woman watching, I scrunch up my face from the bitterness.
There are several factors that can make espresso bitter, including using inferior coffee beans, excessive water flow through the espresso maker, or an incorrect grind size. I have a feeling that multiple reasons might be contributing to this one being undrinkable. Gavin was not exaggerating when he warned me it’s the worst coffee and scone he’s ever tasted.
To my surprise, the woman sits down in front of me, exasperated. I look up from my mug at her. She is the opposite of many women I knew in New York, who are meticulously manicured, with all their hard edges, tucked and pinned, and polished. She’s soft and round, wearing a flowing tunic over gauzy harem pants. Her face is etched with lines that make me wonder about the things she’s experienced to earn them.
“It eeess terrible. I know. I know.” She throws up her hands. “You look like a woman who would tell me the truth. You have an honest face. What is wrong with the scone?”
“I mean—it’s not—”
“Do not lie. I want to hear it.”
“Okay. It’s dry. Did the chef forget the butter, or maybe add too much baking soda?”
“Or, probably both! No matter what he does, they come out like that. Terrible. I never understood why Americans like scones.”
“If you don’t like scones, why do you sell them?”
“My husband. God rest his soul. It, this,” she gestures to the café, “was his dream. To have a café, a place for locals to come every day and share a memory … So far, the only memories we’ve shared are ones we would all like to forget.”
I want to distract her from her negative spiral. I shift in my seat. “I’m Ava.”
“Isabel,” she says, reaching across to squeeze my hand. “You’re not from here.”
“No, I’m not. I’m working as the summer chef for the CEO of Venture Haus.”
“Ah. That one.” Her eyes twinkle. “Very handsome. Lucky me, I get to see him every day.”
“Every day?”
“He stops by every morning for a scone and a coffee on his way to his office.”
“Are you sure you’re not mistaking him for someone else?”
“What woman would forget that face?”
That’s interesting. Gavin, who claims to hate Isabel’s coffee and scones, buys one of each every day from her?
“Do you run this place yourself?”
“My husband, Ahmet, passed six months ago. I haven’t even had time for a memorial. This place keeps me too busy.”
“I’m sorry.”
She nods, not brushing it away. “He was kind. And proud. Even made that little garden outside. Always said food should come from the earth, not a box.”
My heart catches.
“The garden next door?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
“He tended to it, but I’m not patient enough for gardening.”
“Would you mind if I tried?” I ask. “To bring it back?” I am not sure where that came from.
She gives me a long look. “It belongs to the landlord.”
“Do you know who that is?”
She gives me a wry smile. “I do. Meet me here tomorrow at 5 pm, and I’ll introduce you.”
I’m halfway to leaving when I turn back. “You ever think about cooking the food Ahmet loved? To remember him by.”
Her face stills. For a second, I think she might cry.
“I haven’t had time.”
“Well,” I say, slowly. “I’m coming tomorrow, and I think we should cook for him. What was his favorite?”
She meets my gaze. Her chin wobbles, then steadies.
“Shish kebab.”
“I just happen to know a great recipe for shish kebab,” I tell her.
She smiles. “And, I will teach you how to cook something that will make you forget that awful scone forever.”