Chapter 5 Alex
Alex
The next morning, I stroll down Main Street, notepad in hand and camera slung around my neck, but I can’t shake the feeling that something’s... different here. I’ve been in towns like Magnolia Cove before. Or at least, I thought I had.
Tish had texted me earlier. How’s paradise and the hot baker?
A bit too picture-perfect, I’d texted back while I had limited service at my bed & breakfast.
She’d sent a rolling-eye emoji but followed with, Try to have fun for once!
I pass by a quaint flower shop, Petal Pushers, where a petite woman with a crown of ivory braids arranges a bouquet in the window.
She looks up, catching my eye for a moment before quickly averting her gaze.
Odd. I don’t know how Tish expects me to enjoy my stay in this strange little town.
She’d love it, though. It’s a shame she couldn’t join me.
My first real stop is A Novel Idea, the bookstore I noticed yesterday.
As soon as I open the door, I’m enveloped in the comforting smell of old paper and leather.
An orange tabby cat stretches, hops out of the window, then rubs against my leg.
I bend down and run my fingers through its soft fur. “Well, hello, you.”
Missy wanted a pet. I’d held firm on my decision against one. We couldn’t afford another dependent, and it would end up alone too often.
“Welcome to A Novel Idea,” a deep voice calls out. “Let me know if you need any help finding your next literary adventure.”
The man who turns toward me could have stepped right out of a romance novel cover.
Tall, dark, and handsome doesn’t even begin to cover it.
He’s perched on a rolling ladder, shelving books with the reverence usually reserved for holy relics.
First Ethan, now this guy—was there some kind of ‘ridiculously good-looking business owner’ requirement in Magnolia Cove?
“Thanks,” I say, approaching the counter. “Actually, I’m here more for information than books. I’m Alex Sinclair, from Gastronomy Eats magazine. I’m doing a piece on Magnolia Cove and was hoping to chat with some locals.”
The man’s eyebrows shoot up, and he descends the ladder with surprising grace for someone his size. “Well, well,” he says, extending a hand. “Marcus Blackwood, at your service. I’d be happy to chat, though I’m not sure how much help I’ll be with a food article.”
I shake his hand, noting the calluses that speak of a life not just lived behind a counter. “You’d be surprised. Sometimes the best stories come from unexpected places.”
Marcus grins. “In that case, what would you like to know?”
Before I can start my questions, the bell chimes again. A woman enters, her arms laden with a tray of muffins.
“Special delivery for my favorite boss,” she announces softly.
Marcus’ expression turns soft. “Mia! Perfect timing. Come meet our town’s latest visitor.”
Mia sets the box on the counter, her caramel braid sliding over her cardigan. I don’t know how she’s wearing a sweater in the summer, but she doesn’t seem to have even broken a sweat.
“Oh, you must be Alex,” she says. “Zoe mentioned you when I dropped by the Whisk.”
“Zoe is very friendly.”
Mia snorts as she hands a muffin to Marcus, then arranges the others onto a glass dish by the register. “My wife has never met a stranger, that’s for sure.”
Marcus hasn’t peeled the paper back from his muffin yet. I want to watch him take a bite—to see if Ethan Hart’s confections impress the locals as much as they impressed me. After the first taste of the tart, I’d struggled to maintain my professional expression.
Layers.
Endless layers of flavor had burst across my tongue.
He had the texture perfected as well. Many tarts would end up soggy with such a generous filling. Not Ethan’s though. The crust was crisp against the sweet center. Some flavor notes I couldn’t quite figure out set off the sweetness.
It had taken all my self-control to not inhale the entire plate. As a food writer, I’d had to learn early on to appreciate bites and nibbles. The palette was at its sharpest when hungry. I didn’t like to fill up on food, but Ethan Hart’s offerings were more than just food.
They tasted like comfort.
Like trekking with Missy as kids across the road to our neighbors where she taught us how to make pierogies, then plied us with sweets.
Ethan’s offerings demanded you sit and savor them, as one soaked up the Whisk’s hand-painted cabinetry and golden glow.
It was the kind of place a kid could sit and do their homework, or someone could take a date for breakfast, or where a person could cry with a friend after a breakup.
It felt less like a commercial restaurant and more like a home.
And the baked goods. They cried for someone to consume them slowly while sipping a warm mug of tea. Consider a second serving. Spend an entire afternoon lingering over them.
“Is there anything specific you’re looking for?” Marcus asks.
I readjust my camera strap. They’re both watching me, and I realize I’ve probably stared into space as I mused. “I’d love to read something about the town’s history. Do you have any books on Magnolia Cove?”
Marcus and Mia exchange a quick glance before he gestures towards the back. “We have a few general history books. But Magnolia Cove’s always been a hidden gem. Not much has been written about it, I’m afraid. We rarely get famous writers interested in our town.”
He offers a smile that’s so disarming, it feels fake.
There’s a story here, and I can smell it as easily as the vanilla and blueberry wafting between us. I used to believe in charming towns and good-hearted people, but experience has taught me that every perfect picture has cracks—you just have to look close enough.
Marcus shoves his hands into his jean pockets. “If you have questions, I can do my best to answer them.”
“That would be great!”
He offers a muffin, which I accept. My mouth has slowly filled with saliva as I’ve stood smelling them for the last few minutes.
I follow him and Mia to a few leather chairs in the back corner and take a seat.
The orange tabby jumps into Marcus’ lap, and he pets her, but he seems distracted, his gaze distant.
“Where do you want to begin?” The way he asks is careful, almost rehearsed. There’s something hiding beneath Magnolia Cove’s crust—something much more interesting than the story I thought I’d come to write.
“Tell me about Magnolia Cove’s founding. It must have an interesting history.”
He leans against the chair, his shoulders too broad for the wing-back. “Well, it was founded in… what was it, Mia? 1842?”
“1852.” She crosses her leg, then seems to think better of it and rearranges so her houndstooth flats press into the carpet. “By the, um, Magnolia family, of course.”
My pen hovers over the notepad, but I lift my face. “The Magnolia family? I’ve never heard of that used as a surname before.”
She and Marcus exchange another look, and she chuckles. “Must be unique to the area.”
“Are there descendants still in the area?”
“No,” Marcus takes over. “I’m afraid not. They, uh, moved away pretty quickly. But their legacy lives on in the town’s name, of course.”
There’s a wooden clock on the wall behind him, intricately crafted. The carved acorns click softly as they sway back and forth. “Right.” I tap my pen against the still-bank notepad. “What brought the Magnolias here initially? Fishing? Logging?”
“Oh, a bit of everything,” Mia chimes in. Her blush-pink fingernails grip her chair’s arm. “You know how it is with these coastal towns. People come for the… opportunities.”
Okay, then. I pause, trying to think of a direction to take the conversation. Usually, when people talk about their local area, they only need a few nudges before dishing up every flake of gossip and bit of little-known lore. I take a bite of the muffin and have to fight a shudder of pleasure.
The crumb is tender but structured enough to hold up to the rich, buttery tones. It contrasts against the fruit’s sweet and tart notes. And there’s something else I can’t quite place. Lavender, maybe?
“What about more recent history?” I try, setting the muffin down. I’ll take it back to my bed & breakfast with me. “Any big events in the last few decades? Changes to the town?”
Marcus chuckles, but it sounds as hollow as an empty oven. “Oh, you know, small towns. Not much changes around here. We like it that way.”
I scratch ‘1852’ on the pad solely to have something to write. I’ll purchase a book and see if it has more to say.
Mia sits up higher in her seat. “Except for the Whisk, of course. It’s gaining a lot of attention currently. I guess you could say Magnolia Cove changed the day Ethan Hart moved here.”
“He’s not from Magnolia Cove, then?”
Marcus stands, causing the cat to jump from his lap. “Probably best to direct questions about Ethan to him directly. Everyone who isn’t from the Cove moves here for the lifestyle.”
“What lifestyle is that?” He seems even taller standing as I look up at him from my seat.
His expression softens again, the grin returning. “Laid-back. Magnolia Cove is a safe place. We have the beach, a great bookstore, if I say so myself”—I return his smile—“and now with Ethan’s baked goods, some of the best cinnamon rolls on the East Coast.”
Or the world, possibly. Not to be dramatic, but there’s something about them that tastes like comfort—like returning home from school to fresh-baked cookies or curling up with Missy under a blanket as we devoured a boxed cake together.
Not that his food is subpar.
It’s not.
It just has something else I can’t name. Something that feels like home.
“Maybe I could buy some of those general history books you mentioned?” I ask.
Mia rises and gathers them. As she’s ringing my purchases up, I lift a flyer. “Best cherry pie this side of the Mississippi?”
She looks at the sheet I hold, advertising The Hungry Gull—a local diner I hadn’t seen yet.
“Oh, that’s true.” She places the books into a paper bag. “It even won the Blue Ridge Baking Championship last year.”
“Really?” I ask. Marcus steps up behind Mia, and they exchange another look. I have a feeling she’d dish more if her intense, albeit handsome, boss wasn’t around.
Mia shrugs. “We take food seriously in the South. Thanks for visiting A Novel Idea.”
I accept the bag and keep the questions burning on my tongue from spilling out. I don’t want to spook anyone away, but there’s something off about Magnolia Cove. Off in a good way, if that even makes sense.
Soon, I’m back outside again, walking beneath massive oak trees that cast the sidewalk in shade. The ocean’s breeze rushes through the space and rattles the leaves.
I frown at the slim volumes I bought. They were the only ones that mentioned Magnolia Cove’s history.
Most of the first book is about the general coastal region.
There are a few paragraphs discussing the island’s beach.
The ferry that shuttles people to and from the mainland gets an entire page. But the history gets a single sentence.
Magnolia Cove was founded in 1852 by those who saw the potential in its wild beauty.
I tuck the books back into the bag and shift it under my arm.
Here’s a town I’ve never heard of that’s producing award-winning pies.
The Blue Ridge Baking Championship sounds niche, but it’s a pretty big mark for a sleepy coastal island with no renown.
How do they even get such fresh ingredients?
Having supplies shipped has to add delays and complications.
Most importantly: why isn’t Magnolia Cove a foodie destination if the cuisine is this good?
The more I learn about this town, the less sense it makes. There’s something here, something just beneath the surface that everyone seems to be in on but me.
I need to call Vivian later to tell her I’m going to need to extend my stay in Magnolia Cove. There’s more to the story than I thought, and I can finish my other work remotely.
I’ll have to work on the rest of my articles at the bed & breakfast. The town has extremely limited cell service and no wireless internet.
It’s as if it exists in a bubble, separate from the real world.
If I do this right—not just a takedown, but a compelling, headline-worthy exposé—it could mean more than just a promotion.
It could put me in the running for a James Beard Award or a National Food Writing Prize.
The kind of recognition that could cement my name in the industry.
I catch sight of my reflection in a shop window. There’s a gleam in my eye that I haven’t seen in months—the thrill of a real story, a mystery to unravel.
Magnolia Cove may look like a postcard, but I’m starting to think it’s hiding something much bigger. And I’m going to find out what it is and let the world know.