Chapter 1
SNEAK PEEK OF THE POSSIBILITY WING
“Nora, go help bus.”
“It’s Cora,” she murmured under her breath, but Dodger Marks—shift manager, clipboard wielder, and apparent guardian of chaos—was already barking orders at someone else.
Cora grabbed a bus tub, pasted on a polite smile, and wove through the crowded floor of Cuppa Joe’s, GraceTown’s bustling caffeine hub.
One of several coffee shops in town, this location was a mix of cozy charm and cheerful chaos.
Mismatched chairs circled weathered tables.
A bulletin board near the entrance overflowed with handwritten flyers for everything from piano lessons to lost cats.
Strings of Edison bulbs crisscrossed overhead, casting a golden glow on soft green walls and exposed brick.
Behind the counter, Shelby—the barista with purple streaks in her braid—danced her way through an order, humming along to the ’80s pop song playing overhead.
A chalkboard menu hung above the register, boasting drinks like Lake Effect Latte, Cherry Orchard Mocha, and Grumpy Farmer Brew, all scrawled in looping chalk script.
The first thing Cora had noticed when she’d stopped in to apply was the noise. Everyone seemed to be chatting with someone—exchanging greetings, teasing one another, laughing like this was the town’s unofficial meeting place.
Dodger probably couldn’t be blamed for getting her name wrong.
She was new, and there were so many part-timers that he’d joked it was like a revolving door.
Still, she never had trouble remembering his.
With a name like Dodger Marks, she couldn’t help picturing a Dickens character who forgot people’s names unless it suited him.
That mental trick was a holdover from grad school, when she’d been earning her MLIS and memorizing names by matching them with book characters. Everyone became someone from a story.
Two weeks into her barista gig, Cora knew dozens of names scrawled on coffee cups in black Sharpie—but not one person behind them. Their lives outside of whether they preferred oat milk or caramel drizzle remained a mystery.
She, of course, was a mystery to them. No one knew she’d been born right here in GraceTown. No one knew she sent out résumés every morning, hoping for a library job so that she could retire her green apron.
To everyone who walked through the doors, she was simply the petite brunette behind the counter who never messed up a latte order. A worker bee in black jeans. Efficient. Forgettable.
When she’d taken this job, she’d hoped it would help her make friends. But the neighborhood where she was house-sitting was full of married couples and strollers. They waved politely but that was about it.
Maybe caffeine would do what proximity hadn’t.
She reached a cluttered table and set down the bus tub. Crumpled napkins, lipstick-stained mugs, and half a blueberry muffin greeted her.
She was ready to move on to the next mess when a pair of voices at a nearby table caught her attention. They weren’t loud, but they weren’t whispering either.
“—I’m just saying, it’s not going to be the charming little artisan village he’s promising,” a woman said, exasperation threading through her tone. “You pave over a community green space, and that’s it. You don’t get it back.”
A man replied, quieter and more measured. “The good thing is we’ve got the council’s attention. If enough people speak up, they’ll have to listen. It’s not rezoned yet.”
Cora glanced over discreetly. The couple looked to be in their early fifties. The woman wore capris and a vivid blue top that matched her eyes, tapping her spoon against her cup as she spoke. The man, with a messenger bag at his feet, looked like he’d been up since dawn.
“Even if more people speak up, what makes you think they’ll listen?
They ignored the petition, and that had hundreds of names,” the woman said, her voice tight with frustration.
“It’s just so infuriating. Calling it a Village Market Square doesn’t make it any less of a developer cash grab.
You slap wood paneling on shipping containers and call it quaint, but it’s still a shopping plaza. ”
He nodded. “The problem is, Larry Soukup has money and connections. He’s smart. He wouldn’t pitch something unless he was sure he could push it through.”
The woman leaned in, lowering her voice—but not so much that Cora couldn’t hear. “You know he’s been cozying up to Mick Ramsey and the rest of the pro-development bloc on the council. You think that’s a coincidence?”
The man sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “No. Not a coincidence at all.”
Cora moved on, not daring to linger. She’d learned early that people only talked freely when they assumed no one was listening.
The next table over belonged to women she’d seen before—two regulars who always seemed to bring sunshine with them, and the other, a fellow employee here on her day off.
“Are you going to the festival with us this weekend, Brooke?” asked one of them, finishing her latte. “It’d be fun to get a large group together, like we did last year. I can coordinate.”
Cora recognized her—Hannah, like Hannah Swensen from those cozy mysteries. Fitting, since this Hannah ran a cupcake business.
She hid a smile. The week had barely begun, but the buzz about the Fall Festival was already building.
“I’m planning on going,” said Dori, the cheerful part-timer who’d shown Cora the ropes her first week. Like the fish in Finding Nemo, this Dori had boundless energy and, no matter how slammed they were, made every customer feel welcome.
“I’m not sure yet.” Brooke, the third woman, shrugged.
“Why not?” Hannah asked.
“That petition ate most of my free time the past month,” Brooke said, pushing back a strand of hair. “I thought maybe we’d stay home, unless the kids push too hard to go…then maybe.”
“I’m sorry it didn’t go our way,” Hannah said softly. “If they build a strip mall on that green space—”
“Don’t.” Dori lifted both hands, mock horror in her tone. “I refuse to picture a discount mattress outlet where a library once stood.”
“Village Market Square, remember?” Brooke drawled, sarcasm dripping. “Quaint little shops.”
Cora swiped crumbs into the tub, pretending not to listen even though she very much was.
Two lines formed between Hannah’s brows. “We all know quaint is not what it’ll end up being.”
“It’ll be a strip mall. Discount mattress outlet or something equally abhorrent.” Dori’s optimism, for once, faltered. She shook her head and sighed.
“If Collister’s sale to Larry Soukup goes through, I’m thinking that’s exactly what we’re in for,” Brooke said, staring down at the Honey Cardamom Latte that Cora had made for her—a drink she’d barely touched.
A petition? A land sale? Cora’s curiosity flared—but of course, they weren’t talking to her.
“Hey, ladies.”
A tall man in jeans and work boots, with tousled brown hair catching the light and confidence coming as easily as his smile. “Mind if I join you?”
“Eli,” Dori teased. “Since when do you need an invitation?”
“I thought you’d be working,” Hannah said, gesturing to the only empty seat.
“Finished early,” he said, dropping into the chair and flashing a grin that could probably power the espresso machine. “Didn’t expect to find all of you here playing hooky.”
The women laughed, easy and familiar. His gaze drifted. Found Cora.
Their eyes met. His smile—friendly, warm, maybe a little curious—hit her with unexpected force.
That’s when she realized she’d been standing there, bus tub in hand, obviously eavesdropping. The table gleamed. There was nothing left to clean.
Heat climbed her neck like she’d swallowed steam. She looked away, lifted the tub, and hurried off.
Two tables later, she exhaled and tried to pretend her face wasn’t still tomato-red.
So far, her great plan for “meeting people in a lively environment” was going splendidly. As long as she changed the goal to “spying on people in a lively environment.”
Dodger appeared at her elbow just as she slid the bus tub onto the back table. “You good out there?”
“Define good,” she teased, tugging a stray napkin free.
He gave her a blank look—sarcasm clearly wasn’t his first language. “Customer at the register wants a decaf caramel latte, half almond milk, half oat.”
“Coming right up.”
By the time she washed her hands and turned toward the espresso machine, the customer was waving cash and calling her Nora.
Cora pasted on her polite smile again—the one that had started to feel like part of her uniform.
“It’s Cora,” she said quietly, but the woman was already scrolling through her phone.
Steam hissed. Beans ground. The scent of roasted coffee filled her nose and settled in her chest—something that wasn’t quite comfort but wasn’t defeat, either.
Maybe it didn’t matter if no one here knew her real name. With any luck, by the time her house-sitting gig was up, she’d be in another state, working as a full-time librarian again.
When the clock finally edged toward four, the line had thinned to a trickle, leaving only the low hum of conversation and the soft clatter of cups being stacked.
Cora rinsed the last bus tub, wiped her damp hands on a towel, and clocked out. The smell of espresso followed her out the door—an invisible souvenir no amount of dryer sheets could ever compete with.
Outside, GraceTown’s historic district glowed in late-afternoon light. Old brick facades leaned companionably against one another, flower boxes overflowed with mums, and a banner stretched across the street announcing Fall Festival—This Weekend!
Couples passed her, fingers intertwined, children skipping between them.
She paused to let a delivery truck rumble past, then started down the sidewalk toward the row of tidy townhouses a few blocks away. Her sneakers scuffed over fallen leaves, the air thick with the scent of roasted nuts from the vendor on the corner.
Up ahead, a group of college girls laughed easily, bumping shoulders as they stumbled down the sidewalk.