“I’ll try to just take a little of your money at a time,” Petra said with a grin. “Nice to meet you. And breakfast is on the house for new locals.”
“New blood?” the small brunette commented, her lips twitching. “Don’t be offended when the boys at the bar open a pool on how long you’ll stay.”
Riley’s brows rose. “A pool? Meaning a betting pool?”
“Be nice,” Petra warned Caroline. “And it’s nothing personal. A lot of people come here, thinking it’s going to be something out of one of those made-for-cable ‘woman relocates to an isolated but charming location, opens a pottery-studio-slash-private-detective-agency-slash-bakeshop and finds-herself-slash-empowerment’ movies?”
“And then winter hits and they leave just as fast,” Caroline muttered. “Also, don’t open a bakeshop, because Petra and her rugalach will destroy you.”
“Be nice,” Petra said again. “I won’t have your bitch-itude chasing away customers just because you worked a double shift yesterday.”
Petra turned her cool blue eyes on Riley. “But also, she’s right, my rugalach will destroy you and your hypothetical bakeshop.”
Riley nodded, snickering. “Understood.”
“And as usual, Petra’s right. I’m being bitchy. Caroline Wilton,” Caroline said, jerking her narrow shoulders. “And I just worked a double at our island’s most beloved historical tavern, The Wilted Rose, because someone’s cousin hasn’t quite processed yet that ‘I would rather go to the beach with a hottie who goes to State’ isn’t an excused absence for work.”
Caroline’s voice rang with a quiet love, tinged with resentment, that frankly, made a shiver run up Riley’s spine. Growing up, she’d heard the same tone from local kids who worked at their parents’ tiny tourist traps—Putt-Putt golf courses, corn dog restaurants, and pirate museums located about two hundred miles from any known pirate sightings. The pride, mixed with a longing to be free, to have the room to do anything else with their lives, was heartbreaking.
“I have a lot of cousins,” Petra shot back. “That could be anyone.”
“It’s Milla,” Caroline told Petra as she boxed up a small selection of pastries for Riley to try, earning her undying loyalty.
“Yeah, Milla has difficulty focusing when it comes to boys from State. Or girls from State. She doesn’t like limits or labels. How do you like your coffee, Riley? I try to remember all the locals’ preferences. I’ve got to keep up with Caroline and her magical mystery cocktails.”
“I just give drunk people what they ask for,” Caroline said dismissively, though she smiled into her coffee.
“Hey, I’ve done that job,” Riley protested. “Sometimes interpreting what drunk people are saying takes damn near clairvoyance.”
Caroline snorted. “That’s true enough.”
“Riley Everett.” She extended her hand, pleased when Caroline reached out to take it. She cast an apologetic glance at Alice. “I’m here to meet my aunt, Nora Denton.”
Alice’s hand was light on Riley’s arm. “Oh, no, Riley, after all that I said about the fudgies!”
Petra’s hands fell to her sides. “Oh, Riley. I’m so sorry.”
Riley was distracted from the strangely familiar tone of this apology by Caroline’s hand hanging midair in front of her.
“So, the prodigal niece returns?” Caroline asked.
“I never knew I was missing,” Riley said, turning her head to Alice. “And I should have said something earlier, but I couldn’t figure out a way to do it without making things more awkward.”
Alice squeezed Riley’s bicep gently. “Understood.”
The moment Caroline’s hand touched Riley’s, a number of things happened at once. A rush of warm, pleasant energy echoed from Alice and Caroline’s hands towards her heart, pulsating out and restoring a bit of the equilibrium she’d lost since stepping on the ferry. The bulbs in three old-fashioned hanging lamps overhead popped with a snap of ozone, drawing a shriek from a nearby customer browsing coffee mugs for sale. A strong wind, scented with coffee and candle smoke, blew the shop door open. The wind tipped over several potted hyacinths that lent warmth and charm to the little bistro tables, sending a shower of soil to the floor. Steam whistled out of the espresso machine like a freight train, making Petra gasp, “My baby!” and run to its rescue.
“What the hell?” Riley whispered, eyes wide, as the comic symphony of disasters unfolded. Her hand was still clutched in Caroline’s warm, steady grasp.
Alice clung to Riley’s arm, almost shaking. “Oh, my word.”
“Well, that’s new,” Caroline muttered, going behind the counter without prompting to grab a broom and sweep up the dirt. Alice ran for the electrical panel and switched off the broken lights. She crossed to the supply closet to fetch new bulbs. Following their leads, Riley went behind the counter to help Petra get the espresso machine under control. Petra had invested in a top-of-the-line Italian model that was far beyond Riley’s three months of barista experience, but she could help vent the building steam, clean up the over-frothed milk, and tote soiled paper cups to the garbage. And given the grateful smile Petra flashed her, it had been the kind and judicious thing to do.
“It’s like trying to unearth the Rose after Superbowl Sunday,” Caroline huffed.
“I have been there,” Riley assured her. “I once had a tray of mimosas crash at my feet during a Mother’s Day brunch on a glass-bottom boat outside the Keys. One of the other servers got distracted by synchronized swimmers in mermaid costumes and took me out. It was a whole thing.”
Caroline’s lush coral mouth quirked. “I get the feeling you’ve lived, Riley Denton.”
“Everett.” Riley corrected her. “And you’re not wrong.”
Within a few minutes, the four of them got the shop back to rights.
Petra put her hand on Riley’s shoulder, but without the strange pyrotechnics of the moments before. “Riley, we need to talk about your aunt Nora.”
The bells over the shop door rang with tinny insistence. Riley turned to find a sandy-haired, besuited man, watching the chaos unfold. He was holding a sign that read RILEY DENTON-EVERETT like a particularly dapper airport limo driver. He was tall and lean, with a pleasant expression on what looked to be a blandly handsome face.
Could this be the elusive Clark? He looked like a lawyer, polished and poised, but there was something off about him, something about his expression that didn’t quite match the rest of him. She’d seen that look before, but couldn’t quite place it. It was the overall arrangement of his perfectly symmetrical features, an intentional attempt to hide his feelings. She didn’t know why, but it made her chest tight with dread.
Alice’s voice sounded oddly strained as she said, “Clark?”
Her entire body seemed to recall all at once why Clark’s mien was making her uneasy. She’d seen it before, standing in a hospital waiting room, watching the face of her mother’s surgeon as he made the long walk down the hall towards her family.
Clark Graves had bad news to deliver.