Chapter 31
THIRTY-ONE
ROBYN
Robyn had barely waved goodbye to her trio of adoring fans when she looked up and saw Emily walking down the sidewalk toward her. She was hard to miss with her bright orange apron tied at her waist, blonde hair twisted into its usual slipknot, flour dusted across the front.
“They were gushing about you,” Emily said, while Robyn held open the door. “Like, straight-up, hardcore fangirling.”
Robyn let out a quiet laugh that didn’t quite feel genuine. “I still can’t wrap my head around it.”
Because it was… a lot.
Part of her was thrilled at the idea that her words could matter to people that much.
And the other part of her wanted to pull Maple Falls over her head like a quilt and go back to being anonymous. Back to quiet mornings and her pen name and the comforting separation between Robyn-the-person and AfterHoursAuthor-the-secret-identity.
It felt like standing in two worlds at once, trying not to tilt too far in either direction.
They joined Tyler at the front counter.
“I’m so happy you’re both here.” Emily clapped her hands. “I think I found a lead.”
Robyn straightened. “A lead? Where?”
Emily’s expression turned apologetic. “Don’t judge. I should’ve realized it earlier.”
“Why would we judge you?” Robyn looked to Tyler. He shrugged his shoulders.
“Years ago, when my nana still ran the bakery, she had a wood-fired stove. Huge thing. Cast iron. Built right into the back wall. It hasn’t been used since Mrs. Myers’ time. I moved a shelving unit in front of it years ago and just…forgot about it.”
Robyn blinked. “Are you telling me there’s been a wood-fired stove in your bakery this whole time?”
“Hey, I said don’t judge. The modern ovens work perfectly well and it’s very easy to forget things that are behind large shelving units.”
“Not judging. Just surprised.” Robyn turned back to Tyler.
Tyler’s mouth twitched. “Go. I’ll watch the store.”
“You sure?” Robyn asked.
He gave her that calm, capable look that always made her feel steadier than she deserved. “I’m sure.”
“Alright. I’ll be back ASAP,” Robyn replied, reaching for her coat.
The women wasted no time heading down Oak Way, leaves skittering over the sidewalk like they were in a hurry too. Emily talked the whole way, words tumbling out faster the closer they got.
“I doubt it even works anymore. No one’s lit it in decades.”
The moment they pushed into the Pumpkin Pie Bakery, warmth and sugar hit Robyn like a hug.
The place smelled like cinnamon, brown butter, and apples that had been slow-roasting long enough to turn into something caramelized and impossible to resist. The display cases were full: pumpkin bars with glossy icing, flaky turnovers, and chocolate-dipped biscotti.
Not to mention all the delicious butter cream sugar cookies she baked every day.
Emily turned to say something else to Robyn, but Robyn never found out what that was, as Emily walked straight into a man.
Robyn heard the air whoosh out of Emily’s lungs replaced with a huff as the man’s hands steadied her.
“Sorry, Cole,” Emily said, to the town’s new fire chief. She cleared her throat and took a step back. Her tone had an edge Robyn wasn’t used to hearing from her. “Didn’t see you there.”
“Obviously,” Cole said dryly, looking down at Emily.
They stared at each other like they were ten years old and about to start a snowball fight.
Robyn subtly leaned away, because the air between them felt… charged. Like someone had set a match too close to kindling.
Cole looked at the flour on Emily’s apron, then at the box in his hands. “What’s this I hear about a wood-fire stove?”
Emily made a face. “Who told you that?”
Cole didn’t blink. “Small town. Information travels faster than fire.”
Robyn coughed to hide a laugh.
Emily shot her a look—a clear I swear I will end you later—then turned back to Cole with a sugary smile that fooled absolutely no one.
“Don’t get your fire hose in a knot,” she said. “It’s not in commission. And I don’t plan to start using it.”
Cole’s mouth twitched. “Shame. I had my citation pen ready.”
Emily’s cheeks pinked, which was… interesting. Especially considering she looked like she wanted to throw a pie at him.
“I’m helping Robyn,” Emily said quickly, as if the words needed to be shoved out before she lost her nerve. “We’re looking for something.”
“Just be careful. Old stoves aren’t reliable,” Cole replied, all business.
Robyn stepped in. “We won’t be lighting anything. Promise.”
Cole studied Robyn for a beat, then nodded once. “Good.” His eyes returned to Emily. “Because if I get called here for a fire, I’m going to be annoyed.”
Emily’s smile widened. “Cole, you always look annoyed.”
“I always am around you.”
Robyn pressed her lips together because she was absolutely not laughing. She was not.
Emily huffed—very maturely—and motioned Robyn toward the back. “Come on.”
The back corner of the bakery was exactly what Emily had warned her about.
A tall wooden shelving unit dominated the back corner, stacked with extra supplies: bulk flour in paper sacks, spare mixing bowls, and equipment that never saw regular use.
Emily had pulled it out from the wall, but only just enough to create a narrow gap, maybe two feet wide, between the shelving and the back wall where the stove sat.
“Thought I’d get a head start,” Emily said, slightly breathless, which Robyn suspected had less to do with exertion and more to do with what they might find.
Robyn squeezed in, the shelving unit at her backs and the cast-iron bulk of the stove in front of her.
She stepped closer, brushing her fingers along the cast-iron edge. It was cold and dusty, but solid. And by the looks of it, heavy. It was a good thing they weren’t planning on moving it.
Emily held a flashlight high so Robyn could inspect it.
She opened the main oven door, pulling down on the iron handle, and peered inside. It was empty. Nothing but charred blackness and old soot.
Robyn exhaled, trying to steady herself. “Okay. Where would someone hide—”
“There,” Emily murmured, directing Robyn with the flashlight.
Robyn followed her gaze.
On the side of the stove, near a seam in the iron, there was an odd etched mark. It was small, like a maker’s stamp but seemingly etched in, after the fact.
“It looks like… a tiny pie,” Robyn said, getting closer.
“Look, there’s a panel,” Emily said, using the light like a pointer. She grabbed a flat screwdriver from the nearby shelf and handed it to Robyn.
Robyn worked the tool into the slit, carefully wedging it in place.
“Come on, almost there,” Robyn said, ignoring Emily’s winced expression.
She had to apply just a bit more pressure and then, CLICK.
The panel popped loose and swung open.
For a second, neither of them moved.
Because tucked inside the hollow space was a neat bundle of pages wrapped in twine, an envelope sealed with dark wax, and a tiny pie charm tied with a ribbon the color of harvest orange.
Robyn’s breath left her in a shaky rush.
“Oh my gosh,” Emily whispered, hand flying to her mouth. “Oh my gosh, oh my gosh—”
Robyn reached in with trembling fingers and lifted the bundle out like it was something fragile and alive.
She couldn’t believe it. The pages were dry, safe, and most important, real.
The last installment.
Her vision blurred so fast it shocked her.
“I—” Robyn swallowed hard, because her throat had turned to sand. “We found it.”
Emily made a sound that was a cross between a laugh and a sob, and then she was wedging in the tight space beside Robyn so she could hug her. Robyn nearly dropped the manuscript.
“We found it,” Emily repeated, voice cracking. “We actually found it.”
Robyn nodded, carefully sliding the envelope free. Her fingers hovered over the wax seal, her heart slamming against her ribs.
Robyn met Emily’s eyes. “This is it. Isabel’s final pages.”
Emily wiped at her cheeks, leaving a streak of flour across her skin. “I’m going to cry, and I still have to bake tonight,” she said with a laugh.
“I can’t believe we have the whole story now.” A mix of emotions filled Robyn.
And then, because the universe couldn’t let her have one uninterrupted moment of peace, the next thought slammed into her just as hard—
Now the real race begins. They had seven days to edit, type, and print the entire manuscript, and one shot at saving the bookstore. She couldn’t afford to waste a second.