Chapter 8
Cakepops and Fireflies
June
The morning was already warm when June pulled into the small parking lot behind Bean There, Done That, the local coffee shop that had become her and Lila’s regular stop on their errands around town.
The shop occupied a converted Victorian on Maple Street, all weathered brick and cheerful blue trim, with mismatched chairs around round tables and a chalkboard sign advertising the day’s specials.
“Can I get a cake pop?” Lila asked as they climbed out of the car.
“After we order drinks. And only if you eat lunch later without complaining.”
“I never complain about lunch.”
“You complained about the cucumber slices yesterday.”
“Cucumbers are icky, that’s fact.”
June bit back a smile. Two and a half weeks with a seven-year-old had taught her that Lila had an argument for everything, delivered with calm logic that would serve her well in a courtroom someday—or in politics, like her mother.
Like her mother.
She pushed the thought of Senator Brandt aside and held open the door.
The shop was busy for a Saturday morning, a line snaking back from the counter where a young woman with blonde hair in a ponytail was efficiently working the espresso machine. Lina, according to her name tag, was one of the regular baristas there.
“Good morning!” Lina asked when they reached the front. “What can I get you today?”
“Iced oat latte and apple juice, please,” June said.
“Absolutely,” Lina said. “Anything else?”
“A cake pop,” June said, glancing at Lila, who grinned widely. “What color do you want?”
“Pink one,” Lila said decisively. “With the sprinkles.”
They sat down at a small table by the window while Lina prepared their drinks. The shop hummed with conversation—a group of older women in the corner discussing a book club selection, a young couple sharing a muffin, a man in a rumpled suit typing furiously on his laptop.
“Miss Hollis?” Lila was stirring her apple juice with the straw, watching the ice cubes spin. “Why do you like cooking so much?”
The question caught June off guard. “What do you mean?”
“You cook all the time. Even when you don’t have to. And you always look happy when you’re doing it.” Lila tilted her head. “My mom doesn’t look happy when she works. She looks… frowny. But you look happy when you cook.”
“I guess… cooking is how I understand things,” June said slowly.
“When I’m stressed or confused, I cook. When I’m happy, I cook.
It’s like—” She searched for the right words.
“You know how some people write in journals? Or run, or paint? Cooking is my version of that. It’s where I figure things out. ”
Lila considered this. “What are you figuring out now?”
Your mother. This summer. What I’m supposed to do with my life.
“Lots of things,” June said. “That’s the nice part about cooking, and life. There’s always more to figure out.”
“I thought adults already figured things out,” Lila said.
“Maybe some do, but I’m not very good at being an adult,” June said with a grin.
Lina appeared with the iced latte and cake pop, pink and covered in rainbow sprinkles, and Lila’s attention shifted immediately. June watched her eat it with methodical bites—even her indulgences were controlled—and felt a familiar ache in her chest.
She’s so careful. So watchful. She shouldn’t have to be, at seven.
“Ready to go shopping?” June asked when the cake pop was gone and the glass of juice empty.
“Ready.”
Fourth of July was less than a week away, and Main Street was already decorated with flags and bunting, red-white-and-blue banners stretching between the old-fashioned lamp posts.
June had promised Lila they could pick out supplies for a celebration—sparklers, decorations, maybe ingredients for a festive dessert.
They wandered through the small shops, Lila examining everything with her usual intensity.
At the general store, she selected a pack of star-shaped cookie cutters.
At the craft shop, she found patriotic ribbon for a wreath she wanted to make.
At the boutique on the corner, she fell in love with a red sundress with white polka dots and tiny blue flowers on the hem.
“Can I get it?” she asked, holding it up against herself. “For the Fourth of July?”
“Let me check the price.” June looked at the tag and winced internally—it was more than she’d spend on a dress for herself—but Melissa had been clear that June should use the household card for anything Lila needed. And Lila so rarely asked for things for herself.
“We’ll get it,” June said. “But you have to promise to wear it, not just look at it.”
“I promise.”
While Lila tried on the dress in the fitting room, June wandered toward the front of the shop, where a display of greeting cards caught her eye.
HeartLine Cards, the local company—she’d seen their products all over town and far beyond it, distinctive designs, some with hand-lettered messages and delicate watercolor illustrations, others with bold colors and funny statements.
June liked the ones with lots of glitter.
The Fourth of July selection was arranged in a small rotating rack. June spun it idly, scanning the options. Flags and fireworks, eagles and stars, the usual patriotic fare.
She reached out and plucked a card from the row. The front was simple—a night sky with stylized fireworks exploding in bursts of gold and red. The message read: Freedom looks different for everyone.
June opened it. Inside, in elegant script: May yours be bright this Fourth of July.
She read it twice.
She thought about Melissa. About the way she’d looked at the lake, wearing June’s sundress, her usual armor stripped away.
About the tea, and the late-night conversation.
About the careful control Melissa maintained over every aspect of her life—her schedule, her image, her emotions.
June wondered what freedom would even look like for someone who held herself that tightly. Whether Melissa even knew.
Her face was warm. She could feel herself blushing, which was ridiculous—it was just a card, just a generic holiday sentiment, nothing personal at all.
She put it back.
Don’t be stupid, she told herself. She’s your employer. She’s a senator. She’s—
“Miss Hollis?” Lila’s voice came from behind her. “What are you looking at?”
“Nothing.” June turned, forcing a smile. “Just cards. How does the dress fit?”
“Perfect.” Lila did a little spin, the skirt flaring out around her. “See?”
“You look beautiful.”
They bought the dress and headed back to the car, bags swinging between them. June loaded everything into the trunk while Lila buckled herself into the backseat, and then they were driving through the familiar streets of Redwood Hollow, sunlight streaming through the windows.
“Miss Hollis?” Lila’s voice was thoughtful. “Is June your real name or a nickname?”
“My real name. Why do you ask?”
“I just wondered. It’s a month name. Like April or May.”
“It is. My mom loves the month of June—she says it’s when everything starts to feel possible. Long days, warm nights, the beginning of summer.” June smiled at the memory. “She says she knew the moment I was born that it was the right name for me.”
“That’s nice.” Lila was quiet for a moment, looking out the window. “My name means ‘night’ in some language. Mom told me once, but I forgot which one.”
“It’s a beautiful name.”
Lila shrugged. “Miss Hollis?”
“Yes?”
“My mom works a lot.”
June glanced in the rearview mirror. Lila was still looking out the window, her profile soft in the afternoon light.
“I know she does.”
“She always worked a lot. Even before daddy left. But she’s different now.” A pause. “She smiles more. Since you came.”
June’s throat tightened. “I’m glad she’s smiling more.”
“Me too.” Lila turned to meet June’s eyes in the mirror. “I think maybe she was lonely before. But she doesn’t seem as lonely now.”
She smiles more. Since you came.
June didn’t know what to say to that. She focused on the road, on the familiar turns toward the Brandt house, and tried not to think about what it meant that a seven-year-old had noticed something June had been trying very hard not to see.
Her phone buzzed with a text from her mom as they pulled into the driveway.
Dinner tonight? Dad’s grilling. Tyler says he’ll be there if there’s potato salad.
June smiled despite herself.
Can’t. Working.
You work every day. It’s summer. Take a break.
That’s not really how live-in jobs work, Mom.
A pause, then:
We miss you. It feels like you moved across the country instead of twenty minutes away.
The guilt settled in June’s chest like a stone. She’d been so wrapped up in this house, in Lila, in Melissa, that she’d barely thought about her own family. A few texts here and there, a quick phone call on her mom’s birthday the week before, but nothing substantial. Nothing real.
I miss you too. Maybe next week?
That would be nice. Dad wants to know if the senator is treating you okay.
She’s treating me fine. It’s a good job.
I’m sure it is, but I have to agree with your dad. You seem to work an awful lot.
I like it. And Lila’s a wonderful kid. It doesn’t really feel like work.
Okay then. Love you.
Love you too, Mom.
Senator Brandt came home early.
June heard the front door open just after five, hours before the usual time, and looked up from the vegetables she was chopping to find the senator standing in the kitchen doorway.
She was still in her work clothes—a grey blazer over a white blouse—but something about her seemed different. Softer, maybe.
“You’re home,” June said, then immediately felt stupid for stating the obvious.
“I am.” The Senator set her bag on a chair. “I thought… it’s Saturday. I should be here.”
“Lila will be thrilled. She’s upstairs working on a secret project. I think it involves the ribbon she bought today.”
“Ribbon?”
“For a Fourth of July wreath. She’s very invested.”