Chapter 16
T he house smelled like citrus and yeast. The kitchen was full of warm sugar, coffee, and sunshine catching on the whitewashed walls.
Sloane sat across from me in the breakfast nook, curled elegantly in a linen wrap dress, her red-lacquered fingernail skimming the edge of the newspaper. She wasn’t reading. Not really. Just flipping pages with that air of cool detachment she wore like perfume.
We had coffee. French press. Real cream. A perfectly quiet morning.
But then Charlie’s voice floated in from the open living room.
She was sitting cross-legged on the sectional, barefoot in one of those oversized T-shirts she wore that made her look a little disheveled.
Thatcher was next to her, his lazy surfer grin in place, long tan arm draped along the back of the sofa.
He laughed at something she said—too chirpy and enthusiastic for a hangover kind of morning. “ So,” he started, tone casual. “When’s the grand opening?”
Charlie exhaled. “Soon, hopefully. Maybe late August if the kitchen finishes on schedule.”
“You’ve got the space already set up, right?”
“Mhm. Still finishing out the counter install, double-checking ADA stuff.”
“And you’ve got your permits locked in?”
There was a tiny pause. Charlie was good at masking discomfort. Most people wouldn’t catch it. But I heard it in the way her voice lightened. “Well...mostly. The use permit is still in review, but it should go through. It was a commercial space before, so?—”
“So it shouldn’t be a problem, right?”
Another pause. Sloane flipped a page. I kept my eyes on the crossword but didn’t read a word.
“I hope not,” Charlie said. “Bellwater Cove has been working to zone some streets as ‘historic,’ but that zoning change isn’t final. The review board’s still deciding which buildings get grandfathered. Mine qualifies—it used to be a candy shop back in the seventies.”
“Oh shit. I guess that’s tricky, but you should be fine, it sounds like. I mean, what real issue would they have with a charming new bakery—and the charming and beautiful baker that comes with it?” I could just picture him wiggling his eyebrows at her.
Charlie blinked, voice still breezy but not quite as quick.
“Ha, yes, I can’t see why they’d reject me.
The shop should be closed by 5 p.m. every day.
It would be a real bitch for me if they wanted to make an issue of it.
But I don’t think I need to worry. My business isn’t exactly a threat to the ‘historic character of the street.’ I’m making pastries, not blasting EDM. ”
Thatcher laughed. “No, totally. Just curious. You know how weird small-town zoning boards get.” He took a sip of his coffee.Then he added, “Do you know if the structure was added onto at any point? Like after the original plat was filed?”
My spine straightened.
Charlie tilted her head. “What? I don’t know. I mean...it’s got the original facade. I think the kitchen was renovated in the early 2000s, but that’s all I know about.”
“That’s good,” he said quickly. “It’s just—if someone added square footage to it or something, ya know—” He left his sentence unfinished but heavy with implication. “Developers love loopholes like that.”
Charlie made a face. “Well, I’m not talking with developers and I have no interest in selling. Unless I don’t get the commercial use permit—in which case I’m royally fucked so I can’t even go there in my head.”
Thatcher raised his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, I’m just the guy who likes your croissants. I’ll be at the grand opening with bells and whistles.” He grinned and kissed her cheek. She laughed and leaned into it.
Thatcher’s tone was breezy when he broached another question about the bakery. “I’m just thinking out loud—but like, has it always been food stuff? Like, has it always been a bakery, or was it ever something else? Office space, retail, Airbnb-type thing?”
Charlie squinted toward the ceiling, chewing on her lip in thought.
“Huh. I think...yeah. Actually, when I was little and we’d come here in the summers, I do remember my mom dragging me into a dusty little antique store right about where my shop is.
I’d sit outside on the curb and beg to go get taffy instead.
” She laughed softly. “I’ve been meaning to ask her, but she’d probably need to walk the street in person to place it.
I can’t wait for her to see it at the opening. ”
Thatcher reached over and tugged on a loose piece of her hair, affectionate, casual. “I guess I’ll meet the whole Winslow clan then.”
Charlie smiled, softer this time. “The ‘rents are actually coming next week for a beach vacation and will be staying at the house for a few days. You’ll like them—they’re sweet, dangerously charming, and obsessed with feeding people.
My mom will probably make her lemon dill crab cakes and my dad will pour you two fingers of bourbon before he even asks your name. ”
Thatcher chuckled. “I like them already.”
And I sat frozen in place with my coffee halfway to my mouth. Not because I was pissed that Charlie would introduce Thatcher to her parents as if he were serious boyfriend material, but because that little story about the antique shop wasn’t sweet nostalgia. It was a fucking landmine.
What was that fucker up to asking her about use continuity . Not like Charlie understood this, but his line of questioning raised all the red flags, if I had had any left to be raised.
It’s like he knew that in zoning law—especially historic district zoning—there’s a principle called use continuity.
If a property was used for a specific purpose consistently over a long period of time—like food service—it’s usually eligible to be grandfathered in when zoning laws change.
You keep operating because you always have.
But if the use breaks —if someone has run a different kind of business there, even for a short time—that continuity is gone. The exemption evaporates. The zoning board can deny new use permits without blinking.
Charlie’s bakery—the one she just spent all her savings and then some renovating—could be ruled non- conforming . And just like that, she’d be left holding a kitchen she couldn’t legally use. It would be a financial disaster with no way to operate—and no resale value.
I looked over at Thatcher, and he was smiling like a man who’d just drawn a card to a winning hand.
I glanced down at the paper in my lap. I hadn’t turned the page in the last fifteen minutes. I could hear Sloane’s soft intake of breath across from me, the soft flip of another magazine page she wasn’t reading either.
Charlie had no idea what she’d just given away. And he knew exactly what to do with it. I folded the paper. Took another sip. Sloane looked up. “Something interesting?”
“Not yet.” But I could already feel the case building in my head. And I wasn’t going to let him win.
L ife on Lemondrop Lane had settled into a rhythm over the past few days—a soft kind of summer hum that disguised the tension running underneath.
Jack and Jazz moved through the days like honeymooners, making cocktails by noon and disappearing for long, giggling beach walks before dinner.
Charlie had been in and out—busy in the beach house kitchen testing new recipes, then gone again, checking tile samples and custom signage for the bakery.
She worked too late, came home smelling like sugar and stress, always brushing past me without quite looking.
Thatcher hadn’t been around much. He came for dinner once midweek—brought a bottle of wine, kissed Charlie’s cheek, and left early.
I’d taken calls on the porch, finished contracts on my laptop with one eye on the document and the other on the way the light hit Charlie’s collarbone when she leaned over the counter.
I’d also spent three nights digging through Bellwater Cove’s zoning board archives; I had flagged five properties with denied permits under the new historic district reclassification, and—quietly—hired a private investigator to look into Thatcher’s professional affiliations.
I hadn’t said a word to Charlie. Not yet. I needed to be sure before I told her the man she was dating was a con artist schemer looking to manipulate her out of her business.
It was Friday now, and we were expecting Mr. and Mrs. Winslow anytime. Jack had offered to pick them up from the ferry, but they said they’d rent their own golf cart and show up whenever they could.
They arrived just after noon. Mr. Winslow wore a button-down rolled at the sleeves and tortoiseshell sunglasses. Mrs. Winslow stepped out in white linen pants, gold bangles, and a lemon-colored scarf tied loosely around her throat like a nod to the house name.
They hugged Jazz first, of course—she was warm and easy to love—and then Jack, who accepted their embraces with his usual golden boy grin. And then they turned to me. They hugged like I’d always been their kid too.
“Fitz,” Mrs. Winslow said, folding me into her arms, voice laced with affection and nostalgia, “you always look more handsome every time I see you. Still not married, still driving your mother mad?”
“Always,” I murmured, hugging her back. Her perfume hadn’t changed in twenty years. It was clean and light, lilies, maybe.
Mr. Winslow clapped me on the back, strong and fond. “How’s work? Still keeping the coastal pirates from stealing the shoreline?”
“I try,” I said. “But they keep buying waterfront condos.”
They laughed, and I felt such a sense of comfort that I never quite managed with my own family.
They felt like home. I couldn’t remember the first time they welcomed me into this family, only that I’d never felt like an outsider.
I’d just shown up in Jack’s third-grade class, seated next to him alphabetically—Whitmore, Winslow—and we had stayed in those assigned seats all year.
Jack had passed me notes during our history lesson, punched a kid in the nose when he’d called me a teacher’s pet, and invited me home for dinner when my parents forgot I had a piano recital.
And from then on, the Winslows had been mine, too.
They’d been after me for years to drop the Mr. and Mrs. and use their first names, but old habits — and aristocratic parental expectations — die hard.
I’d been on their Christmas card countless times.
Ski trips. Beach weeks. Graduation brunches.
My parents—pressed, proper, philanthropic—had never hugged me the way Mrs. Winslow did.
Never laughed around a fire pit. Never called me sweetheart with a hand on my cheek.
They weren’t cruel. Just...polished. Stiff.
Cold in the places I had never learned how to thaw. And this family had filled in the rest.
Charlie appeared on the porch steps a few minutes later, hair pulled back in a loose braid, a sundress brushing against her thighs. Mrs. Winslow lit up. “There she is—my sweet girl,” she said, pulling Charlie into a tight hug. “Tell me you’ve saved me something yummy.”
“Mom, you’re not even in the house yet,” Charlie said, laughing.
“I can smell sugar,” Mrs. Winslow said. “And I brought a bottle of Pimm’s for when we sit on the porch. Let’s pretend we’re in the South of France and none of us have aging knees.”
Mr. Winslow reached for the bags. “Crab cakes for dinner?”
“Of course, dear. I’m going to putz in the kitchen with Charlie and you can go chat with the boys—unless you’re ready for a nap.”
I watched it all—smiling, warm, a little lived in and messy—and felt that old, aching envy press at my ribs. God, how I wanted this. Not just to be included in it. But for it to be mine.
S loane stood in the corner of the kitchen, casually leaning against a cupboard. She gave barely more than a nod of hello when Mrs. Winslow hugged her.
“So nice to see you again,” Mrs. Winslow said, her voice soft and warm.
Sloane smiled, thinly. “A pleasure.”
There was nothing in it. No enthusiasm. No real warmth. Just surface polish, like an email sent out of obligation, signed with ‘regards.’ I saw it, and so did Mrs. Winslow. She didn’t flinch, but her hand lingered a little longer on Charlie’s back as they headed inside.
Later, when I passed Sloane by the kitchen door, I said, low, “You could try to be a bit more sincere.”
She arched an eyebrow. “What, you want me to squeal and ask to see childhood photos?”
“No,” I said evenly. “But you could try to not be an ice queen to the woman who basically helped raise me.”
Sloane replied, eyes sliding over me. “I wasn’t an ice queen; I was polite. I’m sorry I don’t radiate effusive charm like Jazz does.” She turned and walked away, and I watched her go, jaw tight, chest too full. Because she was right, and also entirely wrong.
Mrs. Winslow loved people openly. She’d loved me like her own. And now I was realizing—with gut-punch clarity—that Sloane would never have that. Not toward future children. Not toward family. Not toward me.
Not the way Charlie still looked at her mom like she was the center of the orbit. Not the way she laughed when her dad poured her bourbon with a wink. Not the way this family fit around her like a quilt she never had to question. And I had no doubt Charlie would be that for her own family one day.
Maybe I didn’t want a woman who stood politely and spoke with restrained pleasantries.
Maybe I wanted one who made crab cakes and lemonade and pressed her face into her mother’s shoulder like she was still ten years old.
Maybe I wanted less polish, less sophistication, and more messy hair, messy laughter, and a messy heart she didn’t bother hiding.