Page 9 of Just Desserts in Pelican Point
“I’m sorry about Mrs. Waverly,” I say.
She exhales slowly, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her apron. “Thanks. It still doesn’t feel real.” Her voice is soft, raw around the edges like sandpaper against skin. "I keep thinking she’s going to walk in with a bouquet and her ridiculous hat, complaining that I overbaked the lemon tarts again." Her lips twitch like she wants to smile, but it falters, too weighed down by grief. "Every morning, she stopped in to tell me something—gossip, advice, a flower fact... the place feels weird without her."
“You two were close?”
She nods, looking down at her hands. “She was the first person in town to believe in me. When I moved here, everyone treated me like the girl with a dream and no plan. She gave me advice. Support. Five hundred bucks when my oven died the week before opening, calling it an investment.” She huffs a laugh, but it doesn’t quite land. “She told me not to tell anyone or she’d lose her reputation as a ruthless businesswoman.”
I smile faintly. “Sounds like a good one.”
“She was the best.”
The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s thick, weighty, the kind of quiet that presses against your chest and makes your breath catch. I’m not good at comforting people. Hell, I’m not good with people in general. But sitting here across from her—seeing her trying so damn hard to hold herself together, seeing that tremble in her fingers as she folds the edge of a napkin over and over—I want to say something that helps. Anything that takes the edge off that grief clinging to her like smoke. And that need… that pull to make it better for her? That scares me more than I want to admit.
“If there’s anything you need…” I trail off, feeling stupid.
Julie glances up, her expression softening again. “That’s sweet. Thanks. But honestly, I just need to get through the day without crying in the muffins.”
I snort. “Fair goal.”
She tilts her head. “Why are you here, Officer King? Because I get the feeling you don’t do small talk.”
I glance at my coffee, then back at her. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes rimmed with exhaustion, and still—she stares at me like she's bracing for impact. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” I say, and it's the truth. Not some canned line, not a cop checking a box. It's personal, and it lands somewhere deep because for the first time in a long time, I actually care if someone is okay.
Her eyes search mine, like she’s trying to decide if she believes me. “I will be. Eventually. Thank you.”
Before I can say anything else, my radio crackles to life on my hip.
“Unit Three-One, report of a disturbance at the boardwalk. Possible fight in progress.”
I sigh and rise to my feet, setting the coffee cup down, but my feet drag a little. “Duty calls,” I say, even though every part of me wants to sit back down, linger just a little longer in her orbit. The thought of walking away, of leaving her in that quiet, grief-tinged bakery, knots something tight in my chest. It's not part of the job—but it feels like it should be.
Julie stands too, wiping her hands again, and for some reason, I don’t want to walk out the door just yet.
“Lock the door if you need a break,” I tell her. “Don’t let anyone pressure you into staying open if you’re not ready.”
She gives me a small smile. “Are you worried about me, Officer King?”
“Maybe, and please call me Marcus.”
“Okay, Marcus. Are you worried about me?”
I nod once, linger for half a second like I might say something else—something real—and then I head out the door.
But as I get in the cruiser and drive toward the boardwalk, I keep thinking about her. The way she clutched that napkin like it was the only thing holding her together. The way her voice cracked when she talked about Mrs. Waverly. The way her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. It’s something that is tearing me up inside to see.
I shouldn’t care but I do.
And that’s a problem I don’t have the tools—or the distance—to even start unraveling yet. Not when every time I blink, I see her face. Not when something about her feels like it’s already working its way under my skin, whether I want it to or not.
* * *
The boardwalk call turns out to be a false alarm. Two tourists arguing about who saw the damn seagull first. I separate them, write my report, then slide back into the cruiser with more time on my hands than I want. It’s slow today and before I even realize it, the day is over and it’s time to clock out.
Delgado texts me before I’ve even pulled away from the station.
Delgado:Beer? First round’s on me.
Me:Make it whiskey.
