Epilogue
Jack stood in the doorway of The Salty Spoon, the smell of cinnamon rolls, homemade bread, and fresh pie crust wrapping around him. Home. It smelled like home, with a hint of something new—Cora’s latest idea, the coffee flower latte she’d predicted would be the next trend in coffee shops.
The floral sweetness blended with the familiar dark roast, surprising him every time he took a sip.
He’d scoffed when she’d first suggested it, figuring the town would give it the side-eye, but he’d been wrong.
Customers held their mugs close, savoring each sip like it was the best thing they’d tasted all year.
Even Mrs. Henshaw had given it a reluctant nod of approval, which was as good as a Michelin star around here.
The grand reopening was in full swing, and half of Sunrise had squeezed themselves into the café.
Flour still dusted his hands from the morning rush, tiny clouds of it puffing into the air whenever he moved.
Outside, Gramps was perched on a rickety ladder, adding the final touches to the wooden sign he’d carved himself.
“You good up there, Gramps?” Jack called, hurrying over to steady the ladder before it wobbled out from under him.
Gramps peered down, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “I may be old, Jackie, but I’ve still got a few tricks up my sleeve. Though I wouldn’t say no to you keeping this thing steady. Don’t fancy testing if I can still bounce the way I used to.”
Jack gripped the ladder, holding it firm as his grandfather’s weight shifted.
A memory surfaced of him, barely tall enough to see over a workbench, sanding wood for the first time with Gramps.
He had that same look on his face now, the look he’d given Jack when he’d returned to Sunrise, bruised by life but too proud to admit it, and he’d welcomed him back without a word of judgment.
“You did good, son. I’m proud of you,” Gramps said quietly, his voice rough with emotion. “And Lolly would be too.”
Jack swallowed hard, his throat tightening. If someone had told him a few months ago he’d be standing in Lolly’s kitchen, hopelessly in love with her granddaughter and turning out cinnamon rolls that had folks lining up around the block, he’d have laughed them out of town.
“Jack!” Cora’s voice cut through his thoughts. “We need more cinnamon rolls. Mrs. Henshaw’s threatening to start a riot!”
He grinned and gave her a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am. Can’t have her leading an insurrection. She’s feisty enough as it is.”
Right on cue, Mrs. Henshaw hollered from across the room. “Young man, if I don’t get one of those rolls in the next five minutes, I’ll show you exactly what this cane can do!”
“Coming right up, Mrs. H!” he called back, trying not to laugh as he made a beeline for the kitchen. “Wouldn’t want to be on the wrong end of that cane. I hear it’s got a higher body count than most action movies.”
As he emerged with a fresh tray of rolls, Jack caught sight of Governor Sam sprawled across the back porch, his massive frame taking up more space than seemed physically possible. His belly was up, his paws twitching in some dream, while his tail thumped lazily against the wooden boards.
“The governor looks comfortable,” he chuckled, setting the tray on the counter.
Cora appeared beside him, her eyes crinkling at the sight. “He’s been managing the crowd all morning. Exhausting work.”
“Must be. Between the naps and the drooling, it’s a wonder he hasn’t collapsed.”
“He’s earned his rest. After all, he’s the one who puts up with my cold feet every night.”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “Wait a minute, I thought that was my job.”
“Sorry, handsome. You’ve been demoted to second-string foot warmer. Governor Sam’s got seniority.”
He sighed dramatically. “Betrayed by my own dog.”
Sam, utterly indifferent, gave a lazy “woof” before rolling over to find another patch of sun.
The café hummed with the comforting rhythm of regulars flowing in and out.
From behind the counter, Jack watched Cora charm a group of tourists with her easy smile.
She pointed to a framed photo on the wall.
It was a picture of her, no older than fourteen, standing sheepishly in front of The Spoon, covered in soot and flour, with Lolly beside her, beaming proudly.
Three firefighters stood in the background, holding hoses like they’d just put out a fire.
“Wow,” one of the tourists said, squinting at the photo. “You’ve come a long way. You must be a great cook now!”
Cora let out a warm, unguarded laugh, glancing back at Jack. He held up his hands in mock surrender.
She grinned, shaking her head. “Oh, don’t let that picture fool you. I still can’t cook to save my life. But you know what they say. The secret is falling in love with someone who can.”
The tourists swooned on cue.
“Well,” Jack said, shrugging, “someone’s got to keep her from setting the place on fire again.”
Cora made her way back to him, wrapping her arms around his waist.
“So,” he murmured into her ear, “how does it feel to be a bona-fide small-town café owner? Glad you traded in your big-city dreams for endless pie and gossipy regulars?”
She tapped her chin, pretending to consider. “Hmm . . . let’s see. I’ve got a successful business, a cookbook I adore, and a devastatingly handsome chef who makes a mean cinnamon roll. I’d say I’m doing pretty well.”
He grinned. “Devastatingly handsome, huh?”
“Don’t let it go to your head, Harlow.”
Before Jack could respond, a commotion at the door drew their attention. Lincoln stumbled in, his arms full of paint cans and tools. “Jackie! Where do you want these?”
He rushed over to help him. “Gramps, what is all this?”
Lincoln grinned. “Figured since we’re sprucing up the place, we might as well go all out. Got some ideas for that back porch.”
Jack shared a look with Cora, who was biting her lip to keep from laughing. “And these ideas required an entire hardware store?”
Lincoln waved him off. “Don’t worry about the details, son. I’ve got it all figured out.” He tapped his temple, sending a small cloud of sawdust onto the floor.
“Oh, boy,” Jack muttered, though he couldn’t keep the fondness from of his voice. “All right, Gramps. Just . . . maybe don’t knock down any walls without warning?”
“No promises.” Lincoln winked.
As he bustled off, Aggie sidled up to them, her eyes trailing Lincoln. “Your grandfather’s quite the catch, Jack. A man who’s good with his hands is hard to find these days.”
Jack nearly choked. “Aggie!”
She patted his cheek, unrepentant. “What? Some of us still have a little spring in our step, and we know how to use it.”
Cora burst into laughter while Jack stood there, torn between amusement and horror.
“I need brain bleach,” he muttered.
Winston appeared, his bow tie slightly askew and a gleam in his eye. “Have you heard the latest?” he asked, practically vibrating with excitement.
“What’s the scoop, Winston?” Jack asked.
He leaned in, clearly loving his role as town gossip. “Nathaniel Worthington’s decided to take an ‘indefinite sabbatical.’ Word is, he boarded a plane to the Bahamas this morning. Didn’t even stop at the gas station for boiled peanuts on his way out of town.”
Cora blinked. “Really?”
“And before he left,” Winston went on, dropping his voice dramatically, “the Chamber of Commerce convinced him to drop the charges against Jack. Said the whole thing made Sunrise look petty and divided. Someone reminded him the town council doesn’t respond well to public displays of dirty laundry.”
“So that’s it?” Jack asked.
“Clean slate,” Winston confirmed. “You’re officially a free man.”
Jack felt the tension drain from his body. His jaw unclenched. His fists loosened. And when he finally exhaled, it came from somewhere deep in his chest.
He turned back to Cora, taking her hands, a wide smile stretched across his face. “So, Ms. Food Trend Forecaster, what do you predict will be the next big thing at The Spoon?”
She pretended to think, scrunching her nose in that adorable way that melted his heart. “I predict . . . many more cinnamon rolls. A few more renovations from your grandfather and his new assistant, Aggie.”
He groaned. “Don’t remind me.”
Cora’s laugh was warm. “But mostly? I foresee happiness. Gossip. Maybe a few fire department visits along the way, because, let’s face it, we’re us. But mostly, just this. Just . . . us. Right where we’re supposed to be.”