Page 39 of Rise
Just before Hazel had to leave, always too soon, her grandmother would lean over with a conspiratorial smile and press something into her palm: a peppermint, a butterscotch, a sour apple lollipop soft at the corners from the months it had spent in the drawer, awaiting it’s turn. Hazel would groan, roll her eyes for show, but she always took it. And as she walked back down the hallway toward her afternoon class, the candy still curled in her fingers, she would feel the sweetness of it lingering— sugar and safety, both.
The memory lingered like the taste of those candies used to, sweet, sharp, and fleeting. Hazel let it settle for a beat longer than she meant to, then tucked it away with the practiced ease of someone who’d been doing that kind of folding for years.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice steadier than it felt.
Mr. Everett gave a small nod, tipping the brim of his cap with the kind of grace that came from habit, not ease. His coat shifted as he turned, his worn loafers scuffing against the wooden floor.
“Don’t let me keep you,” he murmured, already moving toward the door. “Looks like you’re already three steps ahead of most of us this morning. Wouldn’t wanna mess with that.”
The bell jingled again as the door closed behind him, the sound fading into the soft hum of the refrigerator units and the slow tick of the kitchen timer somewhere in the back.
Hazel exhaled. Not quite relief, just breath.
She reached for her coffee, fingers curling around the warm checkered ceramic of her favourite mug. It was lukewarm by now, but still tasted like something steady. She lifted it halfway to her lips when her phone rang, its vibrating buzz making the glass of the pastry case shiver faintly.
She glanced at the screen.
Ezra Sharpe.
“Finally,” she murmured.
She set the mug down, ceramic against stone, a soft clink that echoed more than it should have, and swiped to answer.
“Morning,” she said, trying for polite as she stepped around the counter. “You’ve got good timing. I’ve been trying to get a hold of you.”
Ezra’s voice came through sharp and bright, that particular kind of charming that made her feel like she was always a half-step behind him.
“Yeah, sorry about that. Things’ve been a bit chaotic out here.”
Hazel reached the prep station and grabbed a clean dish towel, folding it once, then again.
“I got half my usual order this week, Ezra,” she said, voice even. Her propensity for small talk had faded a few days earlier, when he’d first started declining her calls. “And it showed up a day late.”
“I know, I know. Had some… egg production delays. One of the girls’ gone broody on me and the new batch of layers ain’t settled yet. You know how it goes.”
She didn’t answer right away. She walked further into the kitchen instead, phone still pressed to her ear, shoulder brushing the archway as she moved. The space was still dim, the lights she’d used for early morning prep now off. She flicked the switch with her elbow and padded toward the ovens, flipping the dials on with practiced familiarity.
“I’m running through two-fifty a week,” she said, balancing the phone between her cheek and shoulder as she adjusted a tray on the speed rack. “I can’t keep scaling down recipes and guessing what will get what.”
“Believe me, I get it,” Ezra said. “But I’m in a bit of a squeeze. Fork & Fable just upped their standing order and the market crowd’s demanding more every weekend.”
Hazel paused by the walk-in fridge, her hand on the latch.
“You’re selling at the farmers marketandsupplying Fork & Fable and me?”
There was a beat of silence, then a low chuckle. “Well, when you say it likethat…”
Her jaw tensed. She stared at the recipe cards spread across the butcher block, some in her own precise cursive, others in her grandmother’s loose loops and shorthand notations. A few were stained from years of use, corners soft with handling.
Fork & Fable. She’d heard of the brunch restaurant just on the next street over from Main, but hadn’t had a chance to stop in since she’d come back to Bar Harbor. From the way Iris and Malcolm spoke of it, it was a popular spot. And from what she’d seen online, she could see why. Sleek branding, clean lines, everything plated like a lifestyle photo. Avocado toast on slate, turmeric scrambles that looked like they’d been styled with tweezers.
Hazel swallowed. “So who’s getting priority?”
“I’m trying to spread things fair,” Ezra said, too quickly, and she could already hear the edge in his voice. The defensiveness. It gave her pause; made her stomach tilt towards the floor like she’d hit a speedbump going just a little too fast. “Fable’s brunch crowd has got deep pockets and Imogen hired me first, you know, plus the market pays premium per dozen. But you—“ his voice softened, as if that were enough to cushion the blow. “You’re steady. You’re local. And Wendy was a friend.”
Hazel didn’t respond at first. She opened the fridge, letting the cool roll out across her face. Her eyes were drawn to the half-empty egg crate on the center shelf. A dozen and a half, maybe two. It wasn’t enough to get through tomorrow, let alone the rest of the week.
“I’m not just baking forfun,you know. I’m running a business here.”
