SARA
My mamaalways said I was a delicate child, and that’s why I cut the crusts off my toast. I wanted it to be as delicate as I was, Mama said. I always balked at that. I was not delicate, thank you very much. I played in the woods and dug my fingers in the dirt and wore dark scars on my brown skin from the tumbles I took.
But Mama was right. I was delicate back then. I didn’t understand just how delicate I was until years later, when I had to leave the delicacy behind and grow a spine of steel. A backbone that would help me survive.
I don’t know why I had thought of it that day. My mama, the toast, the history. I usually never let myself think of it. I was Sara Lowell now. I was strong, I was on my own and I had proved I could take care of myself. But every once in a while, the past came back to haunt, if only for a few minutes.
The tea kettle whistled and I shook myself out of my thoughts. I made quick work of the same old routine. I sprinkled tea leaves into a tarnished silver tea infuser, placed it into a mug, and poured the hot water in over the top. It was something I’d done almost every morning since I moved into this house. A little shred of consistency. A little moment of peace.
I took my tea to enjoy on the back porch now that the weather was warmer. It was still cold to my southern bones, but early April in Maine was when the chill eased and I could begin spending more time outside. I sat in one of the deck chairs and observed my backyard. One of my favorite things about it was the garden I had started a few years ago. It was getting to be time to plant all my bulbs and seedlings for the year. Spending time with my hands in the earth felt primal. It grounded me. Just like it had as that little girl in Georgia all those years ago.
I sipped my tea and surveyed the nature around me. The frost on the grass was a blanket of silver. A bird in the trees was singing a morning song, its voice light and airy. I could see my breath and the steam from my tea was rising in plumes over the cup. My cat Raven, fur black as night, slinked up to me and rubbed herself against my legs. I thought about how perfect this moment was, and felt gratitude well up in my heart.
Years ago, I wondered if I would ever have another peaceful moment again. A pang of sadness hit me in the chest for the girl who used to be.
What was wrong with me today?
I let the feeling wash over me for a minute and then forced it away. It was nice to remember how far I’d come, but the memories were a scar that never fully healed. I sipped my tea and put it all out of my mind.
An hour later, I was walking the four blocks east to Harbor Street. My little house downtown was my haven, but what I loved especially about it was that I could walk to work. It was far enough away from the bustle of the main drag, but close enough to get there fast if I needed to.
As I got closer, I noticed the fog had taken over the harbor. I couldn’t see the water, even though I knew it was right in front of me. I shuddered a little at the chill in the air and pulled my cardigan more tightly around me. I looked up to the sky. It was a blanket of light gray. No hint of blue. Rain was coming.
Turning left, I passed by Landry’s bar and restaurant—quiet at this hour—and other shops along this street that had become home to me. Owning my own business here was a dream-come-true, and I valued the community as much as the business itself. It had taken a lot of time, countless hours of hard work and patience. I came to Moon Harbor with practically nothing. Just enough savings to get a studio apartment over the old hardware store and pay for groceries for a few weeks.
The Andersons owned The Witch’s Brew before I did. Only then, it was called Cool Beans. It was a blank space of a coffee shop back then. Simple white tables that all matched. No couches or comfortable sitting areas. It wasn’t exactly the kind of place you’d want to spend a lot of time in. But they gave me a job my second day in town and taught me everything I knew about running a shop.
Daryl was passionate about coffee beans and sourcing from the best ethical companies he could find. He taught me everything he knew about it. His wife, Marta, was whip-smart and an expert bookkeeper. She’s the one who fostered my love of tea. While I loved coffee, tea had always been my drink of choice, so Marta started stocking some. Eventually she let me place the orders and explore different varieties. My love for the place bloomed, and so did my confidence.
When they were still a couple years out from retirement, Marta pulled me aside and told me I’d make an excellent business owner if I chose that path. I was still just working for the sake of providing for myself, but my talk with her spurred me on. She saw something in me that I hadn’t seen in myself, and told me that I could do more with my life.
A week later, I started a second job bartending at the pub to make some extra cash. I worked my ass off to save as much as I could. When it came time, I bought the business from them at a fair price, and still had enough money to put a down payment on my house. I created the life I wanted and it felt so fucking good.
As I passed by the pub, I smiled, remembering my time there, and how amazing it felt to quit. It was as fun as it could have been, but was really just a means to an end. And I got those means and put them to work. A few years later, my shop is as busy as ever. I admired the outside of it as I approached. It was starting to get warm enough to set out the outdoor tables again. The purple door stood proudly against the brick exterior. The glass windows showcased the comfortable couches and mismatched wooden tables and chairs I chose from second-hand stores. Crystals and plants decorated the display cases. Everything about the place made me smile and felt like home. I said a blessing to the goddesses looking out for me, and headed inside.
After turning on the lights, I headed to the kitchen to start on the baking—another thing I learned from Daryl. He taught me so many recipes over the years, I made most of them from memory. But when he retired, he gifted me an old recipe box he had received from his mother. It had handwritten recipe cards for all of the pastries and confections they had served at Cool Beans throughout the years. To this day it was the best gift I've ever received.
I still made some of the old recipes, but a couple years ago I started experimenting and coming up with my own. And that's been one of my absolute favorite things about running the shop. I looked at my own recipe cards which I kept in a similar box. I didn't want something to happen to Daryl's, so I kept that one at home where it's safe. I pulled out the cards for banana bread, blueberry muffins, apple walnut scones, and sugar cookies. I didn't really need the recipes at this point, but I liked having the cards all out to keep me organized.
I made quick work, getting all of the ingredients together and started mixing, mostly on autopilot. I put the banana bread in the oven first since it took the longest to bake, then prepped the scones and muffins. By the time I started on the sugar cookies, Landry had come in for her shift and it was about time to open for the day. Landry was the namesake of Landry’s restaurant, owned by her parents, with whom she didn’t get along. Their loss was my gain as she was one of the best employees I’d ever had.
“Sara, oh my god you’ll never believe what happened!” She practically screamed as she dropped her bag on the desk by the back door.
“What?” I asked. Landry was a few years younger than me and her exuberance at 6:50 in the morning showed it.
“Eryn Blake posted about The Witch’s Brew. It’s all over her Instagram right now!”
“What?” I repeated, in shock. Eryn Blake was one of the most famous people on the planet. Famous for being famous. An “influencer” without even trying. It was crazy enough that she came to Maine on vacation last week, let alone our little Moon Harbor, let alone stop by my coffee shop.
I didn’t keep up with pop culture much, but everyone knew who Eryn Blake was. So when she first walked in the door, I thought I was seeing things. But it turned out, she really was here. She introduced herself and told us that she was in town on a little girls’ trip with some friends. They wanted a low-key getaway and one of her friends from New York had suggested Moon Harbor, so they rented one of the mansions on Elder’s Bluff, the hoity-toity part of town. I was struck by how friendly she was—and how normal, considering she was a billionaire.
They had found The Witch’s Brew on their second day here and came in each day after. I knew they had taken lots of pictures. Eryn and her friends had all commented on how photo-worthy the shop was. They bought lots of coffee and baked goods, tipped well, and mentioned they’d be telling their friends about the place. I never dreamed Eryn would post about it publicly. And now I was staring at Landry’s phone and seeing pictures of my business on one of the most-followed Instagram accounts in the world.
The photos were beautiful. I should have expected as much, seeing as this was how Eryn made her money. Girl knows an angle. The crystal display twinkled, the lemon scones burst from the plate, the coffee was held perfectly by a manicured hand, framed with my large pothos climbing the wall in the background. All of it was wonderful until Landry flipped to the next photo, a close-up of me smiling while I made a cappuccino. My stomach dropped to the floor.
Objectively, it was a great photograph. My smile was genuine, I was in my element, making a beautiful cup of coffee and chatting with guests. It was perfectly candid. My hair had been in braids that day, I wore little makeup, and my usual bohemian uniform had been switched out for a white T-shirt after I had spilled milk all over myself. I looked happy. But I also looked years younger than I really was. And all too reminiscent of the girl I used to be. This was not good.
Landry was still talking but I couldn’t hear her. My heartbeat quickened and my hands shook as I shoved her phone back into her hands. I busied myself with taking the banana bread out of the oven and putting the cookies in. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t stop moving or else I would freak out.
“Hey, would you mind grinding the beans and starting the coffee?” I asked Landry, interrupting her spiel on how good this was for business.
“Sure.” She grabbed an apron and headed to the front of the shop, leaving me in an all-too-silent kitchen. I didn’t want to hear more about Eryn Blake but I needed something to distract me. I grabbed my phone and put on the first playlist I found. The music connected to the speaker in the corner and I swayed to it, breathing in deep and counting in my head.
This would be okay. It had to be. I worked too hard to get here for it to all go down in flames now.