Page 12 of Rise
She hadn’t told many people what she planned to do, but she’dwritten the email to her manager, anyway. In it, she asked to extend her leave, to stay away a little longer and sort out the estate. When the reply didn’t come, a call did, instead. Her manager had sounded tight, confused, when she’d tried to explain.
“You’re doing what, exactly? Opening a bakery? In a town like that?”
Hazel had stood at the window with the phone pressed to her ear, watching locals and tourists alike wander past. They had smiles on their faces, sunlight casting warmth over their skin. Watching them was peaceful in a way her job in Boston hadneverbeen, not once.
And so she’d quit. Right on the spot.
No explanation. No plan B.
And as summer shifted into fall, she was here, in Bar Harbor, covered in flour. Her hands were full of dough and cinnamon and butter and the choices she’d made.
She eased the sticky buns from their pan next, turning them out onto a plate so the salted caramel glaze could drip over the sides in thick amber rivulets. She spooned extra glaze into the crevices, then scattered the top with toasted pecans she’d candied the night before.
She moved from station to station, her body finding its rhythm in the quiet.
By the time the sky outside began to lighten, the kitchen was warm with heat. Hazel pulled croissants from the proofer, both plain and almond, and slotted them into the final clean baking tray. She moved them gently, almost reverently, and slid them into the last open oven.
She wiped her hands on a linen towel, turned on the espresso machine, and started a fresh pot of drip from Harborside Brews. The smell was rich, earthy, touched with maple and something darker. She poured herself half a mug— Malcolm’s checkered one— and leaned against the counter for a moment, letting the steam settle over her face.
Outside, fog had started to drift through town, curling along the sidewalks like something alive.
Hazel stood there, coffee in hand, watching it move.
She’d given up so much to be here. Not just the restaurant job, or the apartment with the window that overlooked a subway stop, or the career path she’d once told herself would define her. She’d given up the version of herself who thought success had to come with exhaustion, with hunger and sharp corners.
Now, she was standing in a space her grandmother had imagined into being, with her name on the license and her hands shaping every detail. And still, beneath the gratitude and the awe, she was afraid.
What if no one comes?
What if this dream turns out to be as fragile as all the others?
What if, from a million miles away, I disappoint Gram one last time?
She took a long breath. The scent of baking croissants, warm glaze, and sugared pears steadied her like nothing else could.
She turned from the window and began to fill the pastry case.
One by one, she transferred the baked goods into their trays: muffins nestled in gingham wrappers, sticky buns glistening, croissants golden and gently cracked. The cupcakes stood tall, piped and precise.
She stepped back, wiped her hands again, and picked up the chalk that sat tucked just beneath the screen of the register. Affixed to the front of the curving counter, the small slate board awaited her careful customization. Her handwriting wavered at first, but she didn’t slow.
Each letter curled and looped with precision, the soft squeak of the chalk cutting through the quiet hum of the bakery. She paused now and then to brush her hand over the board, smudging stray marks before continuing. A pear and cardamom galette, her salted caramel take on a cinnamon roll, and a shortbread laced with lavender made the list— her soft opening menu written less like a sales pitch and more like an outstretched hand that said:Come in, be gentle.
Then she moved onto the far side, where the list of custom drinks she’d spent weeks perfecting began to take shape. Of the listed options, her favourite’s were the Bar Harbor Fog, an Earl Grey tea with vanilla syrup and steamed oat milk, the Low Tide, a cold brew layered with a touch of maple, and the Verdance by the Sea, an iced matcha topped with lavender-coconut cold foam.
As she stepped back and admired her work, she brushed her hands along the front of her apron, trying to clear the chalk dust that clung to her fingertips.
The antique clock now hung high on the wall above the few tables scattered within the space ticked forward. 6:26.
There were just enough places inside to sit without ever feeling crowded: a mix of two and four-seaters in warm, honeyed wood, each one paired with chairs softened by sage green cushions. A built-in window seat lined the front window, draped in linen pillows the colour of sea glass and sand. A low shelf nearby held local travel magazines and neatly arranged brochures: hiking trails, whale watching tours, lighthouses to visit, ferry times. The kind of clutter that invited lingering. That asked people to stay.
Hazel smoothed a hand over her hair, walked to the front door, and untied the ribbon holding theOpensign flipped backward. She turned it over slowly, though there were still a few more minutes.
And then she stepped back.
She didn’t expect anyone to come right away.
It was early still, the kind of early that felt borrowed— when the town hadn’t quite rubbed the sleep from its eyes. Most shops wouldn’t open for another two hours. She’d flipped theOpensign more out of obligation than expectation.
