Her attention was drawn to a large bulletin board near the front desk. It was covered with flyers and notices, a colorful collage of island life. She read through the various announcements—a farmers’ market on Saturdays, yoga classes on the beach, a local art show. Oh, and there it was, Gran’s weekly knitting group. She smiled as she remembered Gran trying to teach her to knit. Her stitches had never looked as nice and even as Gran’s, but she’d enjoyed the time sitting and chatting with Gran’s knitting friends. They’d always been so nice to her and included her as one of their own.
One flyer in particular caught her eye. It advertised a talk by Brent Dunn in a few weeks at the community center about the history of southern Florida. She found herself intrigued. She’d always been interested in history, and learning more about the area seemed like a perfect way to ease into her summer on the island.
She made a mental note of the date and time, thinking it might be a nice outing. As she turned away from the bulletin board, a spark of curiosity and anticipation flickered through her—emotions she hadn’t experienced in far too long.
Brent Dunn leaned against the railing of the ferry, his eyes fixed on the shoreline of Magnolia Key as it grew larger. The gentle breeze tousled his hair, carrying with it the salty scent of the sea. He inhaled deeply, allowing the anticipation of his upcoming project to wash over him.
As a historian specializing in the early development of Florida, he had chosen this small island as the perfect base for his latest research project. Its quieter pace and rich local lore made it an ideal location to jump into his work without the distractions of the mainland.
The ferry’s horn sounded, signaling their imminent arrival. He made his way back to his car and joined the line of vehicles waiting to disembark. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, his mind already racing with ideas and lists of to-dos.
The ferry’s engines rumbled to a halt as it gently eased up to the dock with a soft thud. As the cars began to roll off, he steered his car in line. Once on solid ground, he pulled out his phone and entered the address for the Bayside Bed and Breakfast. He’d chosen the place for its central location and the promise of a quiet, comfortable base for his work. As he followed the GPS directions, he took in the charming scenery of the island—quaint shops, colorful houses in shades of sea foam and coral, and glimpses of sparkling turquoise water between the buildings.
As he navigated the narrow, winding roads, the scenery gradually shifted. Soon, he pulled into a tidy parking lot adjacent to a lovely two-story house that looked like it had stepped out of a postcard. A wooden sign, its paint slightly faded by sun and salt air, proclaimed “Bayside B&B” in swooping letters. He eased his car into a spot, cut the engine, and stepped out. He arched his back, working out the kinks from the drive, and breathed in deeply. This was exactly the change of pace he needed.
He took a moment to appreciate the building’s wraparound porch and the cheerful flower boxes adorning the windows. The place exuded a welcoming warmth that made him feel instantly at ease. He grabbed his computer from the front seat and retrieved his luggage from the trunk, his mind already shifting gears to the work ahead. He climbed the steps to the porch, eager to start his work.
Felicity stepped into the foyer just as a man entered, carrying his luggage. She recognized the familiar rhythm of a new guest arriving and instinctively moved to assist him, falling into the routine she’d learned from helping Gran over the years.
“Welcome to Bayside Bed and Breakfast,” she said, giving him a warm, welcoming smile. “I’m Felicity. Darlene Bond, the owner, is my grandmother. Let me help you get settled in.”
The man returned her smile. “Thank you, Felicity. I’m Brent Dunn. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
As she led him to the front desk, she glanced at the reservation book, noting that Gran had assigned him to room five, right next to her own room. She picked up the key and gestured for Brent to follow her up the stairs.
“So, what brings you to Magnolia Key, Mr. Dunn?” she asked as they climbed the steps, the old wooden floorboards creaking beneath their feet.
“Please, call me Brent,” he said, his voice warm and friendly. “I’m a historian, and I’m here to research the early development of southern Florida. Magnolia Key seemed like the perfect place to start.”
“Oh, I saw on Gran’s bulletin board of activities that you’re giving a talk later this month.”
“I am.”
“I’ve already made a note of the date and time. I’m planning to attend. And I’m sure you’ll find plenty of interesting stories and history here on the island during your stay.”
They reached the second floor, and she led him down the hallway to room five. She unlocked the door and stepped aside, allowing him to enter first.
“Here you are, Brent. If you need anything at all during your stay, please don’t hesitate to ask. Gran and I are always happy to help.”
Brent set his luggage down and turned to face her. “You have Wi-Fi, right?”
“We do. The password is written on the welcome packet on the desk in the corner. Breakfast is each morning from seven to nine or so. And There’s a list of restaurants on the island in the packet too. Most places are walkable.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll leave you to settle in.” She pulled the door behind her and went to tell Gran she’d checked in a guest.
She found Gran in the kitchen, busy baking pie crusts for quiche for tomorrow’s breakfast. “Gran, I checked in Mr. Dunn. He’s the man giving the talk on the history of the area later this month.”
Gran turned and looked at her, shaking her head. “And that’s how you relax and take some time off?”
She grinned. “Pretty much.”
She leaned against the kitchen counter, watching as Gran rolled out another pie crust with practiced ease. The familiar scent of butter and flour filled the air, bringing back memories of childhood summers spent in this very kitchen.
“Anyway, I just wanted to help out,” she said. “It’s why I’m here, after all. I can’t take up a prime guest room and not earn my keep.”
Gran paused and turned to face her, wiping her flour-covered hands on her apron. “Sweetheart, you’re here to rest and recharge. I appreciate your help, but you’ve only just arrived. There’s plenty of time for you to pitch in later.”
