How much weight am I willing to give other people’s opinions? Enough to hunch under? Enough to file off the parts of myself that don’t fit their narrative?
Ahead, the “Welcome to Birch Harbor” sign sweeps past.
Let them talk. The thought floats up again, calmer now. Maybe Maggie was right: evidence is louder than gossip. Show up, stand tall, let kindness write the storyline.
I park. Before I kill the engine, my phone buzzes — a text.
Dylan.
5 min away.
Grin unlocked. I type back.
I’ll grab us a table.
Three dots …
See you soon.
I inhale; the coffee aroma mixes with lake air, cut grass, something sweet rising from the pie shop’s vent. Everything’s fine. Let them.
My door clicks shut and gravel crunches under my heels. I smooth yesterday’s worry off my shoulders like flour dust and head toward the smell of warm pastry, iced Americano in my grip and a maple sugar heart tucked safely in my pocket ... evidence I plan to consume before town rumor can take another bite.
Simon can keep his yacht-club cologne and second-hand gossip. I’ve got benches waiting to be built, pie waiting to be judged, and a carpenter waiting to look at me like I’m more exciting than a sudden-death extra inning.
Let them talk. I’ll be busy living the part they don’t understand.
17
BUTTER & CRUST
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 11
Dylan
The first cool morning of September hits my lungs like a line drive of apple-tinged air, and I swear I can taste cinnamon before I even reach Butter & Crust. The bell over the bakery door gives its usual two-note jangle, but everything else inside feels different, crisper, sharper — like the town flipped the thermostat from “sticky August” to “cardigan optional” overnight.
Addison stands at our reserved table with a flight of miniature pies arranged in marching-band precision. Clipboard in one hand, tasting fork in the other, high-waisted jeans and a rust orange sweater that makes her eyes look even greener.
I tap my chest like I’ve taken a fastball there. “Is fall fashion part of today’s judging criteria?”
“Absolutely,” she says, grinning. “Pie tasting marks the start of fall, and the right look scores the highest.”
“Noted.” I shrug off my Hawks hoodie and hang it on the back of a chair. “Do I at least get points for punctuality?”
“Punctual, yes.”
I set a latte beside her clipboard, then slide into the seat beside her. Five mini pies wait like jeweled bases in a diamond: Maple Pecan Dream, Blueberry Bliss, Lemon-Ginger Zing, Apple-Blackberry Lattice, and the wildcard — Salted Caramel Pumpkin. There’s also one empty ramekin labeled ‘Sorbet Palate Cleanser’ in Addison’s neat script. Clipboard queen strikes again.
She flips a page. “Ready for The Great September Pie-Off?”
“Ready as a rookie on picture day.” I grab a fork. “Lead me, Boss.”
Addison clears her throat in mock grandeur. “First up, Maple Pecan Dream. Baker claims it’s ‘autumn in fork form.’ FLAKE column, one to ten.”
I carve a wedge. Crust collapses with that perfect shatter. “Ten. Any flakier and it would be a Hallmark character.”
Addison snorts, scribbles. “FILL?”
