15. Ember
Ember
“Pass the yarn. I feel a scandal forming.”
— Beatrice
The scent of yeast and caramelized sugar is the only thing keeping my eyes open at five o’clock in the morning.
The kitchen of Marge’s Bakery is thick with steam, the massive steel mixers groaning as they knead forty pounds of sourdough, and I am currently staring at a tray of unbaked bear claws like they are a complex architectural blueprint.
I’m reaching for the flour bin when Marge appears from the back pantry, holding a massive rolling pin like a scepter.
“Ember,” she says. “Put down the flour. Show me your hand.”
I blink, holding up my left hand, the white bandage around my palm looking a little frayed at the edges. “It’s all good, Marge. Just a minor injury from an aggressive wire brush incident. I am fully operational.”
“Brooks told me you took your skin off because you don’t know how to hold a tool,” Marge says, though her tone lacks its usual serrated edge.
Amazing.
Love that he’s apparently giving injury reports about me now.
She steps closer, grabbing my wrist with a surprisingly gentle grip, inspecting the cotton wrap. “The boy was worried you’d get flour in the weeping flesh and start a localized infection. Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?”
A small, ridiculous warmth blossoms in my chest at the mention of Brooks’s name, but I quickly suppress it. “I didn’t want you to think the city girl couldn’t handle the work.”
Marge lets out a low sound, releasing my wrist. “The city girl survived a long shift on her first day. You’ve got nothing to prove to me, Ember. Now, take that apron off. You’re off the mixing station today.”
“Am I fired?” I ask, my lower lip doing that involuntary pout.
“You’re not fired, you lunatic,” Marge says, shooing me toward the front counter with the rolling pin.
“You’re on front-of-house duty today. I need someone who can speak to the public without sounding like an engine manual, and you’ve got that loud, expensive voice.
Go wipe down the display cases and try not to break any glass. ”
? ? ?
By eight o’clock, the morning rush of loggers and county workers has cleared out, leaving the bakery quiet, the sun streaming through the front glass in long, dusty yellow boxes.
I’m halfway through polishing a smudge off the macaron display when the front bell lets out a sharp chime.
I look up to see a three-woman vanguard marching through the door in a tight, military formation.
The woman leading the pack is wearing a crisp denim shirt with an embroidered loon on the pocket, carrying a canvas tote bag overflowing with yarn.
Behind her is a tiny woman with kind, watery blue eyes and a halo of white curls, and a third woman wearing thick, tortoiseshell glasses who looks at the bakery shelves like a health inspector.
They stop directly in front of the counter, inspecting me with three simultaneous, analytical squints.
“So,” the woman in the loon shirt says. “You’re the one. Goat girl. I’m Bernice. We run the auxiliary over at the parish.”
“I am Ember,” I say, offering my best, client-facing smile. “Welcome to Marge’s. Can I interest you in a rosemary-focaccia slab or perhaps a glazed donut?”
The woman with the tortoiseshell glasses ignores the menu entirely, her eyes dropping to my hands resting on the glass counter.
“I’m Dotty,” she announces bluntly. “Look at those nails, Bernice. Muddy. She’s got valley dirt under the cuticles already. Told you she was trying to fix that barn herself.”
“It’s wabi-sabi, Dotty,” I say smoothly, leaning my elbows on the glass. “The intentional embrace of organic imperfections. It’s very big in Tokyo.”
“It’s a good way to get lockjaw,” Bernice counters, setting her canvas tote bag down with a heavy thud.
The tiny, white-haired woman steps forward, her face crinkling into a soft smile. “Don’t mind them, dear. I’m Hazel. We saw you at the station on June sixth. And we heard Brooks Lawson spent his day hauling a floor-model oven into your kitchen. What’s the story there?”
I feel a sudden, sharp prick of heat behind my ears. “The story is that my previous appliance was a methane hazard, and the Chief was executing a routine public safety intervention. It was entirely civic, I assure you.”
“Uh-huh,” Hazel chirps. “Brooks doesn’t carry an appliance for just anyone, Ember. He won’t even help his cousin move a sofa because he says it’s ‘outside his operational grid.’”
“Well, he was very strict about the municipal fire codes,” I say. “He barely looked at me. He just corporate-vetoed my hammer technique and left.”
“He needs to loosen his corset, that boy,” Bernice declares, slapping her palm on the counter.
“Too serious. Always looking like he’s trying to calculate the weight of a roof collapse.
Anyway, you’re coming to the church basement tonight.
Seven o’clock. We call it the Stitch and Bitch, but mostly we just make sure nobody’s dying of loneliness in the hills. ”
I blink. “Tonight? I actually have a highly rigorous schedule of researching water heater gaskets—”
“The water heater can wait,” Bernice dictates.
“There’s a thunderstorm coming up the ridge tonight, and you shouldn’t be sitting in that big, creaky house by yourself anyway.
You need people to help you navigate life in Suncrest Hollow, Ember.
Otherwise, you’re going to end up eating wild mushrooms and getting rescued by the county helicopter.
Seven o’clock. Don’t be late. Bring snacks. ”
? ? ?
By seven o’clock, the sky over the valley has turned a deep, bruised charcoal, the first heavy drops of rain slamming against the windshield of my truck like gravel.
I run from the parking lot of the church to the basement door, holding a plastic-covered platter of loaded taco dip above my head like a shield.
The wind is howling down the street, bending the trees into wild, green arcs, and the thunder is a low, constant rumble that vibrates straight through the soles of my boots.
I push the heavy wooden door open, stepping into the warmth of the church basement.
A long folding table is set up in the center, surrounded by mismatched plastic chairs.
Bernice, Hazel, and Dotty are already entrenched, their knitting needles clicking away in a frantic, rhythmic tempo that sounds like a miniature printing press.
“She made it,” Dotty announces, checking her watch. “Seven minutes past the hour. Not bad for a city girl in a downpour.”
“Sit, sit!” Hazel says, patting the empty chair next to her. She looks at my platter. “Oh, is that taco dip? With the little sliced black olives? George loved olives.”
I set the dip down, peeling back the plastic wrap, and take my seat. I pull out a small crochet hook and a skein of cream-colored yarn I bought at the pharmacy, trying to look like I know how to execute a basic loop.
Within five minutes, I realize that the “Stitch and Bitch” group has zero actual interest in textile production. The knitting is just a front, a rhythmic cover story for a highly sophisticated operation of social architecture.
They spend the first twenty minutes dissecting the town council’s budget for the new snowplow, the secret recipe for Mel’s chicken salad, and whether or not the new teller at the bank is related to the people who owned the lumber mill before it burned.
“So, Ember,” Bernice says, her wooden needles never slowing down as she cuts her eyes toward me. “Your parents. Marge said they’re writers?”
I feel a familiar, brief flash of defensiveness—the old instinct from the city where people always wanted to find the ‘angle’ or the joke in my family dynamic. But looking at Hazel’s kind, curious face and Bernice’s attentive gaze, I realize there’s no malice here.
They just want to know who I am.
“Yeah,” I say, a soft smile breaking through my guard. “They are. They write historical romance novels. Well, technically erotica. My dad handles the historical research and the plot architecture, and my mom writes the… the sensory descriptions.”
The table goes completely silent.
Dotty stops her chip mid-air, a dollop of taco dip hovering dangerously close to her denim shirt.
Bernice blinks, her wooden needles freezing.
“Erotica,” she says. “Like… the paperbacks with the long-haired men on the cover? The ones with the unbuttoned shirts on the pirate ships?”
“Exactly like those,” I say, leaning into it now, my voice full of pride.
“They’ve been doing it for thirty years.
They’re completely obsessed with each other.
They work from their living room in matching velvet robes, arguing about whether a medieval knight would use the word ‘ravish’ or ‘claim’ in a particular scene.
I grew up with a house full of reference books on Scottish weaponry and Regency-era undergarments. ”
Hazel’s eyes are wide, a brilliant, delighted pink rising in her cheeks. “Oh, my goodness. George used to hide those in the barn behind the tractor manuals. He thought I didn’t know, but I read three of them during the blizzard of ‘78. The ones by that woman Penelope Wild.”
“Penelope Wild is my mom,” I blurt out, my jaw dropping.
Hazel lets out a high-pitched, genuine squeal of delight, clapping her hands together. “No! The Highland Rogue’s Desire? That was her?”
“That was her fourth bestseller,” I laugh, completely abandoning my terrible crochet work.
“The one where the Laird of Inverness holds the castle gates single-handedly while wearing nothing but a leather kilt? My dad spent three weeks researching the exact metallurgical composition of the gate hinges just so the historical accuracy wouldn’t ruin the tension. ”
“Oh, the tension was not ruined,” Hazel gasps, her hand flying to her chest as Dotty lets out a loud, snorting cackle. “The part on the heather fields? I had to open the window and let the snow in, I was so flushed!”
“See?” Bernice says, pointing a knitting needle at Dotty. “I told you the city girl had pedigree. Penelope Wild! Wait till I tell Marge. She’s got three of those under her mattress right now.”
The atmosphere shifts instantly, the last remaining walls of small-town suspicion melting away into an avalanche of literary appreciation.
They grill me on the mechanics of chapter structure, how much research goes into a Victorian ballroom scene, and whether my parents ever use local inspiration for their characters.
“So,” Dotty says. “If you grew up around all that… romance architecture, how come you’re out here in the woods by yourself? No handsome lairds in Manhattan?”
“Manhattan is entirely populated by men who are afraid of gluten and commitment, Dotty,” I say, leaning back in my chair.
“And besides, look at me. I am currently living in a house with zero functioning hot water, my hands are covered in Band-Aids, and I spent my morning arguing with a goat named Kevin. I am basically a walking, talking infrastructure crisis. There is nothing romantic going on.”
“What about Brooks?” Hazel asks, her voice dropping into a whisper. “He’s not afraid of gluten. He eats three of Marge’s sourdough rolls every morning before his shift.”
“Brooks has a five-year-old daughter who is currently my favorite person in this valley,” I say. “He’s a serious professional with a real life. I’m a former brand strategist who won the lottery and bought a rotted farm because I thought goats were cute. There is absolutely nothing going on there.”
Before Hazel can counter my thesis, a heavy, metallic thud echoes from the back of the basement, followed by the wet, squelching sound of heavy boots.
The door to the utility room swings open, and the man himself steps into the light.
Brooks is wearing his full rain-slicked turnout gear, the yellow reflective stripes on his heavy black jacket gleaming with moisture.
His dark hair is plastered to his forehead, water droplets dripping from his jawline, and he’s holding a heavy-duty flashlight in one hand and a pipe wrench in the other.
He stops dead in his tracks, his eyes blinking as he catches sight of the table. His gaze tracks across Bernice, Dotty, Hazel—and then locks onto me.
His eyebrows snap together. “Ember? What are you doing here?”
“I’ve been drafted into the local social intelligence agency,” I say, leaning back in my plastic chair and giving him a slow, coy smile. “We’re currently analyzing the emotional transparency of the local infrastructure. Also, we have taco dip.”
Brooks looks down at the plastic platter, then back at my face, looking completely caught off guard.
“There’s a flash flood warning for the lower ridge. The church basement has an ancient sump pump that likes to fail when the rainfall hits two inches an hour. I came to check the float valve.”
“Oh, don’t worry about the valve, Brooks,” Hazel chirps, her cheeks still a lovely shade of pink. “Ember was just telling us about her parents’ career. Did you know her mother is Penelope Wild? She wrote The Highland Rogue’s Desire.”
Brooks looks at Hazel, then cuts his eyes back to me, his brow furrowing. “Penelope Wild?”
“She’s a writer, Brooks,” I say, my voice dropping into a smooth, teasing purr as I lean forward, resting my chin on my hands.
“She writes about very serious men with big… responsibilities. Men who wear leather kilts and have a lot of trouble expressing their feelings until they are properly ravished in a field of heather.”
Dotty lets out another loud, hacking laugh, and even Bernice has to cover her mouth with a dish towel.
Brooks’s ears turn a bright, unmistakable crimson against his dark hair.
He stares at me for one long, intense second, his mouth opening slightly before he shuts it with a sharp click. He shifts the pipe wrench to his left hand, his shoulders going entirely rigid under the heavy turnout jacket.
“Right,” he says, his voice rougher than usual. “The pump is in the back. I’ll be in the utility room.”
He turns on his heel, his heavy rubber boots squeaking loudly against the linoleum as he retreats into the shadows of the boiler room, shutting the door behind him with an authoritative snap.
Bernice waits until the door latches completely before she slams her wooden needles down on the table, her eyes flashing with absolute glee.
“See what I mean?” she whispers loudly. “Needs to loosen his corset. That boy is wound tighter than a snare drum.”
Hazel leans forward, tapping her chin with a speculative finger, looking toward the boiler room and then back to me.
“You know, Ember… since your parents are so good at writing about big, serious men with heavy responsibilities…” She smiles, a brilliant, match-making spark lighting up her blue eyes.
“Maybe you should ask them if they can write a book about a fireman next. A very tall, brooding fireman who spends too much time checking on municipal water levels.”
Dotty snorts, slapping the table. “Oh, can you imagine? The Chief’s Blazing Desires. He can rescue the heroine from a broken water heater.”