Chapter Twenty-Seven #2
Jack’s eyes softened. “It was a group effort, Cora. We’ve been working around the clock for the past week.” He gestured to the book in Winston’s hands. “Remember all those pictures I’ve been taking of your food ‘for posterity’? Turns out, they make pretty good cookbook images.”
She blinked, her jaw practically unhinging. “Cookbook?”
Winston cleared his throat, holding up the book in triumph. “It was Jack’s idea. He’s been cooking and photographing, and Aggie’s been collecting stories—that’s what the tape recorder was for, by the way. And Bea and her grandson handled all the formatting.”
“Those graphic design classes really paid off!” Bea called from the crowd, her voice muffled by a mouthful of powdered sugar from a fresh funnel cake.
“And it turns out,” Jack added, his eyes twinkling, “when Winston says he ‘knows a guy,’ he means he knows a book publisher. These are prototypes. Today we’re taking pre-orders for the big release.”
At that moment, the old cash register let out a triumphant ker-ching! She grinned. How many times had she heard Lolly crow with delight at that very noise?
“Oh!” Winston exclaimed, fumbling in his pocket.
“I nearly forgot. We got an order for fifty copies from someone named Vanessa in New York City. When you were too busy wallowing to answer your phone, she called here looking for you. When we told her what we were up to, she said she’s buying a copy for every single person at Morsel Magazine.
She wants to show them how badly they screwed up by letting you go. ”
Cora’s eyes prickled with sudden tears. The people she’d left behind hadn’t forgotten her after all.
“She also said she’s been picking up your mail,” Aggie added. “And she talked your nosy neighbor into buying two dozen copies for the fire department. She promised to hand-deliver them since it’s been a while since they’ve visited.”
Of course Mrs. Davenport would love an excuse to visit the fire station.
All around them, people were lining up, cash in hand, ready to buy books.
Mrs. Henshaw was regaling anyone who’d listen with the tale of how Lolly had once talked her into dying her hair purple.
Even Mr. Peterson was there, gruffly insisting that Lolly’s peach cobbler was “adequate enough, I suppose” as he forked over enough cash for ten books.
She turned back to Jack, overwhelmed. “I don’t know what to say. Or do.”
He squeezed her hand. “Just let the people of Sunrise take care of you the way Lolly took care of them.”
A warm weight pressed against Cora’s leg. Governor Sam, his droopy eyes gazing up at her, leaned his considerable bulk into her. She kneeled, wrapping her arms around his massive frame, her face buried in his soft fur. For the first time in months, the weight lifted. She had them. All of them.
She glanced up at Jack, who stood patiently, watching her with that same soft smile. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. When he offered his hand, she took it without hesitation.
Before she could speak, Jack turned Winston’s laptop screen toward her. Her heart did a little flip. It was filled with numbers and formulas, all color-coded and organized.
“I thought you might want to see,” Jack said.
“My spreadsheet!” She scanned the figures, her eyes widening with every line. “This is impossible.”
Jack grinned, his eyes twinkling. “Turns out people are willing to pay a lot for memories and pie recipes.”
While Cora had been moping around and packing boxes, the whole town of Sunrise had come together to make a miracle happen.
Folks from three towns over were ordering stacks of books to keep and to give away.
Bea and her grandson had even designed a full line of café merchandise, including aprons, sweatshirts, and tea towels with Lolly’s favorite sayings, and the preorders had sold out in under an hour.
Between the cookbook, the merch, and a surprise feature on a national travel blog, the total had shot past a hundred grand already.
Nathaniel launched to his feet, his face turning an impressive shade of red. “This changes nothing!” he sputtered, loud enough to make Winston drop his pen. “The loan—”
She straightened her spine, waving her hand toward the spreadsheet. “Actually, Nathaniel, I think you’ll find it changes everything. We have more than enough to cover the loan. With interest.”
For a moment he looked as if he might actually explode. Then, without a word, he spun on his heel and stormed out, nearly bowling over Mrs. Henshaw on his way.
The café erupted in cheers. Cora turned to Jack, grateful for the solid weight of his arms around her.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I can’t believe you did this for me.”
Jack’s expression softened. “I know you’re still thinking about selling. But I wanted you to be able to do it on your terms. Not his.”
She looked around at the faces of Sunrise—the people who had shown up for Lolly, and somehow, for her too. She thought about Jack, the man who’d gone to jail defending her and who had believed in her even before she’d believed in herself.
“Actually,” she said slowly, “I think my terms have changed.”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“I want to stay,” she said, the words settling in her chest where they belonged. “On one condition.”
“Name it.”
“You take over Lolly’s kitchen.” She poked him in the chest. “And you promise I’ll never have to do any of the cooking.”
Jack grinned, something soft and vulnerable flashing in his eyes. “I think I can manage that,” he said.
And then, without hesitation, he kissed her, right there in the middle of The Salty Spoon, with the ringing of the cash register and the noise of the festival as their soundtrack.
It wasn’t a Hollywood kiss—her nose bumped his bruised cheek, and she was pretty sure her lips tasted like salt from all the tears she had cried that day—but it was perfect.
When they finally pulled apart, breathless and laughing, Aggie held out her hand to Bea.
“Told you they’d get there eventually. Pay up, sister.”
Bea grumbled, handing over a crisp twenty-dollar bill.
Cora looked up at Jack, who was watching her with a mixture of amusement and something that looked a lot like love.
“So,” she said, “ready to reopen The Salty Spoon with me?”
He laughed, pulling her closer. “Cora,” he said, his voice low and warm, “I’ve been ready since the day you almost knocked me out with a jar of pickled okra.”
And as the bustling crowd surrounded them, full of laughter and stories and the smell of fresh-baked memories, Cora knew that Lolly was somewhere, watching over them all with that knowing smile of hers. She could almost hear her voice, gentle but firm: About time you figured it out, sugar.