When Mr. Lockwood developed that old stretch of sand, all the tourists moved away from our little village down to the beachfront property. I hope my cakes lure them back here—at least to shop—and if they do, I’ll be a small-town hero pulling tourist dollars back into Our Town.
I walk over to my small table and pick up the photo of me on the beach, looking up, holding my little girl. “That’s the plan, Coco Bean,” I whisper.
I’ll have my daughter and my cake shop, and that’s all I need. One foot in front of the other, and before I know it, my dreams coming true.
Three
Jack
“I need the whole thing painted. All three storefronts.” Wyatt Jones scrubs his nails in his scruffy grey beard and cocks an eyebrow at me. “You up for that?”
The door on the orange Ford step-side I bought off a used-car salesman in Madison makes a loud popping sound when I pull it open. “It’ll take me at least a week. Maybe two. That okay?”
“You working alone?”
“Unless I can find a kid who needs a summer job.”
“Summer’s over around here.”
My lip
s curl into a frown—I didn’t think anything changed in Oceanside Village. “It’s still August.” Dog days…
“Kids started back August first,” Wyatt says. “Keeps ‘em out of trouble.”
He narrows one eye at me, and I choose to let his insinuation pass as I climb into the hot cab of The Beast. “I’ll start tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow’s Sunday, son.”
With another loud pop, I slam the door shut. Every noise is a reaffirmation of my new reality. No more plush vacuum seals. No more buttery, conditioned leather. I’m hard edges and steel.
Plain and simple…
Paint and sweat…
Lots of sweat.
“I guess some things haven’t changed.”
“If that’s the case, I won’t save you a seat.” He does a snarky grin.
“No thanks.” I have no interest in attending service at the First Church of Marjorie Warren. The only thing that ever lured me to that shout-fest presided over by the town matriarch was Emberly.
Emberly…
A flicker of some old sentiment moves through my chest, but it’s only a ghost. She’s long gone, and those days are ancient history.
Wyatt rocks back on his heels, his thick brows rising with the corners of his mouth. The cock-eyed grin makes me uneasy.
“Welcome home, Jackson Cane.”
“Lockwood.”
“You’re using Lockwood now?”
“It’s my name.”
“Oh, I know it.” He chuckles. “I remember you as a little guy. Your daddy used to bust your chops, but you were tough enough. You’re more like him now.”