CHAPTER TWELVE
By the time I made it to the Morning Bell cafe the next morning, the air smelled like cinnamon, brine, and catastrophe.
Halfway through my first coffee, headed to Georgie’s Pottery Shop, I noticed the small crowd bustling down Harbor Street.
Normally, that kind of commotion in Bluebell Cove was somewhat expected for this time of year, but seeing a group headed for the town square a week before Fallfest was out of the ordinary.
Curious—and maybe slightly nosy—I followed. The second we passed Main Street, though, my lips fell into a scowl.
A massive, maroon-rainbow-striped hot air balloon slowly inflated in the middle of town square, dwarfing the gazebo like a cheery, helium-filled Godzilla. Its tether ropes snapped in the wind, the burner hissed, and the whole thing made me want to reach for a pair of sunglasses.
I didn’t even need to see the banner to know whose name was on it.
“Bluebell Cove Fallfest,” it read in bold, orange letters. “Sponsored by Andrew Wade.”
Groaning, I pinched the bridge of my nose, earning myself a mildly disgusted stare from one of the onlookers. I glared back until they looked away.
Someone behind me clapped as the balloon lifted off the grass a few feet, and the pilot gave a thumbs-up.
Kids squealed, and a couple of retirees lingered off to the side taking photos with their outrageously large phones.
I just stood there, coffee nearly forgotten, wondering how many broken-off heels it would take to rip a hole in it.
Mrs. Henderson, the Cove Market’s owner, said beside me, “Isn’t that something? I wasn’t too sure about your father showing his face again, not after how he treated you and Ruth.” She sighed in a manner that could only be described as wistful. “But this warms even my heart.”
I forced a nod. Leave it to Mrs. Henderson to state her opinion when no one asked for it.
“He was always good at the apology part,” I retorted.
“Maybe you’ll take a ride!”
“Maybe,” I lied, dragging a long sip to avoid saying, “Not even if you paid me.”
And then, because it was shaping up to be a truly terrible Sunday, I spotted him.
Andrew Wade, in the flesh—standing near the pilot, laughing like he wasn’t invading my otherwise pleasant autumn.
Corduroy jacket, pressed shirt, sunglasses hanging from the collar.
He looked as if he materialized from a photo in the old family albums, except a little grayer and a lot more put together.
He saw me before I could disappear into the crowd.
“Margot!” he called out, waving like we were long-lost friends. Before I could make my escape, he was already crossing the street toward me.
I turned, pasted on an impassive expression, and braced for impact.
“Didn’t expect to see you out here so early,” he said when he reached me, his voice full of easy charm.
“I don’t know if you know this, but I’m not thirteen anymore.”
He laughed, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Come on, can’t we at least try for civil? It’s a beautiful day, the balloon’s up, people are happy—”
“People love a good show,” I interrupted, gesturing to the floating monstrosity overhead. “And you’ve always been good at giving them one.”
A flicker of discomfort passed through his expression, but he smoothed it over almost immediately. “You really think I did this for show?”
“I think you did it because you can’t stand not being the good guy.”
He exhaled slowly, then smiled the kind of smile that meant he was trying not to lose patience. “It’s for the festival, Margot. The town needed some help this year.”
“Right,” I said lightly. “You’re here for the town.”
“Yes— no, I just thought…” His tone softened. “It might be something nice for everyone. For you, even.”
I laughed under my breath. “Sure. So, where’d you leave your daughter? That must be record time for you.”
“Still can’t resist a jab,” he said, almost fondly.
“And you still can’t take responsibility.”
He went quiet. Around us, the burner hissed again and the balloon rose a few more inches, casting a warped shadow over the gazebo.
“I’m trying, Margot.”
The words were simple—maybe even sincere. But they hit like spewing gravel.
“I never asked you to try,” I said finally. When he opened his mouth, I held up a hand. “Actually, there was a time when I did—you know, skipped birthdays, ignored holidays. But I’m twenty-five now, Andrew.”
He flinched when I used his name. “Margot—”
“No. It wasn’t my responsibility back then to make you be a father, and it’s not my responsibility now to help you be a better one for her.”
“Camille,” he corrected, barely above a whisper. “After her mother.”
I rolled my eyes. “Did you leave her too?”
“She passed away.”
My heart clenched, half with guilt and half with anger about feeling guilty in the first place.
For a moment, I thought he might push further—bring up my mom, or the years he’s missed, or how this whole town wasn’t big enough to ignore each other. But then the pilot waved from beside the balloon, calling his name, and Andrew smiled that practiced smile again.
“Think about grabbing lunch sometime,” he said, already half-turned away. “No pressure.”
“Sure,” I fibbed. “I’ll check my schedule.”
I watched him go, heart pounding, the balloon still looming above us like some cruel, overly cheerful monument to failed fatherhood.
A handful of minutes later, I ended up back at the cafe, because my drink was cold and I needed some latte art to stare at while I contemplated the series of misfortunes highlighting my October.
The place was packed with chatter about the balloon—how beautiful it was, how generous Andrew Wade was, how “it’s just what the Fallfest needed. ”
Rachel pushed a cappuccino into my line of sight. I’d been sulking at the bar, having completely forgotten to order.
“A hot air balloon,” she began. The question was implied.
“Yep.”
“I take it there’s more to the story?”
Glancing up at her, I cupped the mug between my hands for warmth. Rachel arrived in Bluebell Cove when I was fifteen. By that time, the gossip about my father had already passed.
I took a drink and shrugged. “You could say that.”
She gave me a smile that said she wanted to hug me, but seemed to think better of it. The free cappuccino sufficed.
When my mom came in ten minutes later, her apron still tied around her waist, I might as well have pinched myself to make sure I was still conscious.
“There you are,” she said, sliding into a chair beside me.
Blinking, I replied, “What are you doing here?”
“What?” She pretended to look around, a teasing smile on her lips. “I live and work a few shops away. Did you seriously think I’ve never come here?”
I wasn’t sure how to respond. My entire childhood, she never ventured far from the diner. Most holidays and festivals were spent working and catering to everyone seeking a hot meal or a Coke float. She lived and breathed the Cove, and played her part to a T.
The part of mother usually eluded her.
“I don’t know,” I muttered instead.
The week was becoming more and more odd by the hour.
Rachel swept by offering a mug of drip coffee, to which my mother politely declined—she preferred her caffeine to taste like charred dirt. “Did you see it?” she asked me once we were alone again.
I groaned. “If there’s a way I could miss it, please tell me.”
We were silent for a stretch, the stool creaking beneath me as I shifted. My mother studied her cuticles, looking about as uncomfortable as I was—quality time had never really been our thing.
“When’s he leaving?” I asked once the tension grew unbearable.
“After Fallfest.”
I cleared the sudden lump in my throat. “Good.”
“You could try meetin’ him halfway,” she said, lowering her voice as a couple sat at the table behind us. “I mean, would it kill you?”
“It might,” I grumbled.
Her look morphed into something between exasperation and amusement. “You’re so stubborn.”
“And you’re too forgiving.”
That shut her up.
We sat wordlessly for a while, the hum of conversation around us filling the gaps. Outside the window, the balloon hovered just above the rooftops, its colors flashing every so often in the sunlight.
It looked absurdly hopeful up there. Hopeful, and completely detached from gravity.
Exactly like him.
“I’m surprised you’re not helping him set up down there,” I murmured finally, just to say something.
She gave a small, humorless laugh. “Don’t think he needs my help. Your father’s always been good at gatherin’ people to his cause.”
“Yeah,” I mumbled.
I turned toward the window, pretending to study the line forming outside the café and past the window down Main Street. Each day, it seemed to grow a little more crowded.
“Did you talk to him?” she asked softly.
I looked back. “Unfortunately.”
“And?”
“And he’s the same.” I paused. “Charismatic, pleased with himself, pretending as though the last decade didn’t happen.”
She sighed, the kind that said she’d already played this conversation in her head a hundred times before it even began. “Maybe he’s just tryin’ to do right this time.”
“By who?” I asked. “You? His new daughter? Me? You can’t just wake up one day and decide all the harm you caused never happened.”
Her eyes flicked up. “No, but you need to start somewhere.”
It landed harder than I expected. For the first time, I saw the exhaustion in her face—the quiet, permanent sadness she wore like an old, comfortable sweater. Of course she wanted to believe that the man she spent half her life with was worthy of redemption.
But I wasn’t ready to let him off the hook.
“Anyway,” she said briskly, standing up and smoothing her apron. “I better get back before the diner burns down. I’ll see you at dinner?”
I nodded, not bothering with my usual snide response.
The bell over the café door jingled, and she disappeared into the brightness outside.
I stayed there a while after she left, nursing my cappuccino until all that was left was the remnants of foam.
Before I realized what I was doing, I found myself pulling out my phone. Three unread texts from Serena about the wedding and a fourth from Teddy, sent two hours ago.
Teddy Bowman: Where are you?
I shoved the phone back into my coat pocket and pushed off the stool. Outside, I caught my reflection in the café window: wind-tousled hair, dark circles under my eyes, a coffee stain on my sleeve. When had that gotten there?
A voice called my name.
Teddy leaned against his beat-up Jeep across the street, hands shoved in his pockets, grinning as bright as the sun itself.
“Figured I’d find you here,” he said as I crossed over. “Saw the balloon on my morning jog, and thought you might need reinforcements.”
I hugged my coat tighter and pointed at his Jeep, the perfect subject change. “How do you still have this old thing?”
An unwelcome memory flashed through my mind as I stared at the chipped, faded yellow paint.
Bluebell Point in the dead of winter, frigid wind whipping through my hair, and the towering lighthouse sending me a pitying smile as the boy below swiftly broke my heart.
I shifted on my feet, chest suddenly tight.
I pretended to watch a leaf floating in the breeze as I forced the strange feeling away.
“Callahan’s Garage, of course.”
I squinted at him. “Neal let you store your Jeep there?”
He tossed me a sheepish grin and patted the hood. “I didn’t say that. Ben hid it in the back of the yard for me.”
“That tracks.”
He studied me for a beat, the humor fading from his expression. “You doing okay?”
The question was soft—and worse, disturbingly heartfelt.
I opened my mouth, ready to deflect, but the words caught somewhere between my ribs. Once again, I didn’t have the energy to be clever.
“I don’t know,” I admitted, nearly choking on the words. “He has a daughter now—Camille. I guess that makes her my sister.” My voice broke off. “He doesn’t seem to understand the gravity of springing a surprise sibling on me or trying to burrow back into my life.”
Teddy’s brow furrowed. “What do you want?”
I gave him a sideways look. “Why do I always need to want something?”
The question curdled in my mouth, truer than I anticipated. Want was what made me submit my beloved manuscript. Want was what broke me at fourteen and crushed me at eighteen.
“I don’t see an alternative,” he finally replied.
My stomach twisted into a knot. Teddy would never understand that life was better—safer—in the black and white.
I swallowed thickly and said, “I’m going to Gulliver’s Books.”
It wasn’t exactly an invitation, but somewhere deep down, a tiny spark emerged when he followed me anyway.
The bell chimed as we entered—the only sound allowed in the shop aside from hushed murmurs and the occasional creaking of floorboards.
Joe, Gulliver’s Books’ equally stoic owner, could frequently be found with his nose in a novel while impossibly perched atop his rolling ladder, or behind the register wielding a cup of something hot.
Summoned by the door, he emerged from behind the velvet curtain, glasses partially fogged from the steam of his teacup.
Joe offered me a graceful nod and drifted into the nearby autobiographical section, the silver in his black braids momentarily catching the light before he vanished around the corner.
Teddy trailed behind me as I ascended the stairs to the loft-style second floor, the section Joe allotted for the romances across all genres.
I hovered by the black-paned, arched window that towered over the table of newest releases. My palms traced across the covers, most of which I recognized, some that I’d even published myself. The logo of my old firm stared up at me from several spines. I frowned.
“Is this what you write?” Teddy whispered, shoulder brushing mine as he curiously inspected a pink-and-red book in his hands.
I opened my mouth and immediately snapped it shut.
Because yes, I did write romance.
Romance heavily inspired by a certain blond-haired, blue-eyed man that stood far too close for my liking.