Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
ZOE
For what felt like the nine-hundredth time, Zoe told herself what a shame it was that Jackson didn’t want the same things she did.
The thought chased her the next morning as she walked toward the Pumpkin Pie Bakery, the air still crisp with dew and smelling faintly of lilac from the planters lining the main street. Storefronts gleamed from last night’s rain showers, the whole town humming with that post-festival glow.
Last night had been perfect. Fake or not, it was everything she longed for in a partner.
Someone who laughed easily, helped set up tables, stayed through the concert, and then danced with her beneath the lanterns like there was no one else in the world.
Someone who looked at her with warmth—and yes, love—in his eyes.
And yet, Jackson was still keeping her at arm’s length.
He’d been painfully honest about it. The kind of honesty that cut clean because it came from a good heart. It’s not you. It’s me. I’m not ready. I don’t know if I ever will be.
He’d meant every word, and she’d understood. But that didn’t make it hurt any less.
The hardest part wasn’t wondering whether he wanted her, because she knew he did. It was wondering if he’d ever feel safe enough to trust her with his whole self, no matter how broken it was.
She’d lain awake after getting home from the walleye festival, staring at the ceiling and replaying their dance. His hand warm at the small of her back, the way he’d looked at her right before the fireworks. That one heartbeat where she’d thought he might kiss her again.
He hadn’t.
And that was the difference between them, wasn’t it? She reached for what she wanted; he pulled away from what he feared.
Her heart squeezed as she slowed outside the bakery. Maybe she could wait for him. She wanted to believe she could. But what if waiting meant watching her own dreams drift further out of reach, even into impossibility?
What if, by the time Jackson was finally ready, she wasn’t the same woman anymore? Would he still want her then? What if she was a single mom, raising a child on her own, building the life she’d always pictured?
Zoe pushed open the glass door of the bakery and was hit with a wave of warm air and sweeter scents than any candle could ever capture.
Butter and sugar. Yeast and cinnamon. A faint trace of lemon glaze carried on the steam rising from trays just pulled from the ovens.
Her stomach growled in immediate response, reminding her she’d skipped breakfast.
Spring had arrived even in Emily’s bakery window.
Instead of Christmas garlands and twinkle lights, pastel bunting fluttered across the glass, and the display case was filled with seasonal temptations: strawberry shortcake cupcakes swirled high with whipped cream, almond scones dusted with powdered sugar, pale-green pistachio macarons nestled in neat rows.
At the far end, a tray of lemon bars gleamed like little squares of sunlight.
Behind the counter, Emily was already buzzing with energy, a lavender apron tied snug around her waist, blonde hair twisted up.
“Zoe! Perfect timing. I was hoping you’d try the new lavender matcha latte.
I’ve been tweaking it all week.” She tapped the menu board where the special was scrawled in cheerful cursive.
Zoe smiled, leaning on the glass case to study the rows of pastries. “I was eyeing that already. You know I can’t say no to lavender.”
Emily grinned, grabbing a cup. “I’ll make it extra foamy, just how you like it. And don’t even think about leaving without trying one of my strawberry cupcakes—they’re selling out faster than I can bake them.”
As Zoe waited for her drink, she glanced toward the back corner and smiled when she spotted Krista and her grandmother, Alice, seated at their usual table.
Alice’s snow-white hair was neatly pinned back, and she wore one of her signature cardigans. Today’s was pale pink and dotted with embroidered daisies. Her expression had a kind of faraway look that Zoe had learned meant she was trying to catch hold of a memory that kept slipping just out of reach.
Beside her sat Mrs. C., ledger open, pencil in hand, still taking bets on who might win Couple of the Year.
Across from them was Mrs. Bishop, animatedly recounting something with wild hand gestures, a half-eaten blueberry scone on her plate.
The trio were in full debate, their voices rising easily above the clatter of cups and hum of chatter around the bakery.
Krista caught Zoe’s eye and waved her over, mouthing, “Help me.”
When Emily set Zoe’s lavender latte on the counter—its steam curling in soft swirls—Mrs. Bishop called across the room before Zoe could even take a sip. “Zoe, dear! Just the person we wanted. Come here, quickly! Alice’s got something for you.”
That got Zoe moving. She crossed the bakery, curiosity piqued. “Oh?”
Alice looked up, eyes bright. “I remembered what we talked about at the Spring Market,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “That special flower you asked me about? The one Edith said she hadn’t seen in years.”
Zoe’s pulse skipped. “You did?”
“I remember the name. Moonlight Kiss. And I know where I saw it.” Alice nodded, the faintest smile playing on her lips.
“It was years ago—must’ve been early spring.
I was out walking with my husband, up along one of the ridges.
There was steam rising from the ground, even though the air was cold.
And just beyond it…” Her brow furrowed as she searched for the right words.
“A patch of green so bright it looked wrong for the season. And trees—cherry, I think—were already starting to bloom.”
Zoe’s heart kicked. “Steam… and early cherry blossoms.”
“It must’ve been a meadow. Hidden, I’m sure, or maybe sheltered somehow.” Alice scrunched her brow, trying to remember.
“Nonsense,” Mrs. C. scoffed, waving her pencil dismissively. “I’m telling you, those Moonlight Kisses are off the old Cherry Blossom Trail.”
“Maybe you’re talking about the same place,” Mrs. Bishop suggested diplomatically.
Zoe dug a small notebook from her bag, setting her latte aside as she jotted the details down: Steam. Early cherry blossoms. A hidden meadow high along a ridge. Could this be the very spot she and Jackson had seen on their hike?
The ladies bickered on, Mrs. C. insisting she’d picnicked “near that very ridge” in ’72 and there were no flowers then, Mrs. Bishop claiming only someone truly in love could find them, and Alice defending her story with surprising fire.
Zoe promised herself she’d return to the area soon, she and Jackson both.
And this time, they wouldn’t turn back before finding what lay beyond the river.