Page 6 of Just Desserts in Pelican Point
She smirks. “That too. But mostly, I think you need a date.”
Joselyn perks up. “Ooh. Yes. A hot, spicy one. Preferably with arms that make you rethink everything.”
“And abs!” Emma adds. “Don’t forget the abs.”
I groan. “You guys. I just got my feet under me. No distractions.”
Sophie grins wickedly. “Famous last words.”
Before I can give her a dirty look, the bell above the front door jingles again, and I catch sight of Mrs. Waverly shuffling in from the sidewalk. She’s bundled in a lavender cardigan despite the warmth outside, her white curls perfectly styled, her lipstick a vibrant pink that doesn’t match her shoes and you can tell she absolutely does not care.
“I need my lemon poppyseed muffin,” she declares to the café like a queen returning to her throne. “And a latte with extra foam. You know how I like it, Julie.”
“Of course,” I say, already reaching for a muffin. “You want to sit with the girls?”
“I’m just going to rest my legs a minute. Don’t fuss over me.” She winks and perches precariously on a bar stool.
She’s been part of Pelican Point for longer than I’ve been alive, her florist shop next door has been a fixture in town since the Carter administration. Every homecoming, every graduation, every random Tuesday bouquet—that was all Mrs. Waverly. She always has a story to share, or a memory to sprinkle into your day like glitter.
“Here you go, Mrs. Waverly,” I hand her the muffin and latte in a to-go cup.
She takes her order and slides down, “Thank you, dear. Have a lovely day.” She calls over her shoulder as she leaves the bakery and I watch her walk down the street towards her shop realizing she forgot her usual mantra to me, but I don’t mind.
I turn to help another customer when a scream erupts from outside. The door whips open and someone shouts, “Call 911!”
The bakery falls silent.
My heart stutters as a teenager, wild-eyed and breathless, points toward the flower shop.
“It’s Mrs. Waverly! She collapsed! She’s not moving!”
I don’t think. I just move.
“Becky, call 911!” I shout over my shoulder to my barista. Then I’m sprinting out the front door, my apron still on, my hands trembling.
The sidewalk feels too long. Too far. I don’t remember running down the cobblestone sidewalk, but suddenly I’m kneeling beside Mrs. Waverly, her body crumpled on the brick path outside her shop, her head rests awkwardly against the concrete, eyes closed and her body still. The muffin and latte have spilled on the ground.
“Mrs. Waverly?” My voice cracks. “Can you hear me?”
Her skin is pale. Too pale. Her lips tinged blue. I press my fingers to her neck. No pulse. I start CPR, counting compressions in my head, blinking back tears as I internally beg her to wake up.
People are gathering, watching as sirens approach. The fire truck arrives first, followed by a patrol car. Uniformed paramedics swarm the scene, gentle but efficient, checking her vitals and asking me to step back.
A deep male voice cuts through the commotion. “Who called it in?”
I lift my gaze.
The man walking toward me in a Pelican Point PD uniform, his expression unreadable beneath a strong brow and a mouth set in a hard, straight line. Dark hair, cut short. Broad shoulders. The kind of presence that immediately shifts the energy in a room—or on a sidewalk. He moves with a kind of precision I recognize. It’s Officer King… one of my regular customers.
He crouches beside me, eyes scanning my face. “Are you okay?”
I nod automatically, then realize I must look like a mess—flour on my apron, pink sneakers streaked with coffee from my mad dash out the door. “I—I didn’t see it happen. I just heard someone shouting and came running.”
He glances past me to where the paramedics are still working. “Do you know her?”
I swallow hard. “Yeah. I mean, she’s my neighbor… more than that. She’s… a friend.”
His jaw ticks. “I need to take your statement. But not right now. Let’s get you inside first.” He stands and offers me a hand and I notice how solid it feels, how warm… and the shiver it sends through my body annoys me.
