Page 15 of Rise
“You been in Bar Harbor long?” she asked. Her voice came out quieter than she meant, more personal, somehow.
“A couple years,” he offered, leaning back in his chair.
She waited, but he didn’t offer more. Something about the way he said it convinced her he wasn’t being evasive, just contained. Like someone who’d learned not to waste words unless they mattered.
Hazel hesitated, then gave a small shrug, her smile curling at the edge.
“I just moved back,” she admitted, though he hadn’t asked. “Well, came back, I guess. I was here most of my life.”
He nodded once, then let his gaze travel slowly through the space. She watched it happen, this quiet taking-in of the world she’d spent the last few weeks building. His eyes drifted from the place on the counter where the hand-labeled syrups sat, to the mismatched mugs lined like old friends along the shelf, to the chalkboard where her soft, looping handwriting spelled out that morning’s specials. There was something unflinchingly present about the way he looked at things. It wasn’t just seeing. It was registering, reading, committing to memory.
“Could’ve guessed,” he murmured, lips curving just slightly at the edges.
Hazel tilted her head, curious. “Why’s that?”
His gaze flicked back to hers, quiet and firm. “Because it doesn’t feel designed… it feels lived in. Like someone made it for people, not pictures.”
The words hit gently but they landed like truth, like something solid enough to plant roots in. Hazel’s smile came slower this time. Not reflexive, but real. A beat passed between them, charged not with tension, but with something weightier… recognition, maybe. Or respect.
“Thank you,” she said, and the words tasted honest in her mouth. His words meant more than he likely knew. More than she could explain.
Beck didn’t say anything, just looked away and reached for the sticky bun. His fingers curled around the plate with care, like he didn’t want to disrupt the spiral of glaze or the warmth still rising from its center. He took a slow bite, chewing in silence. Hazel watched for a flicker or some shift, some signal. It came gradually, first with a soft easing of his brow, then the faintest lift of his shoulders. A sound, barely more than a breath, left him, though it was not quite a sigh and not quite a hum. But close. Pleased, and a little surprised, maybe.
Hazel watched him longer than she meant to, eyes tracing the quiet satisfaction in his posture, the way he leaned slightly forward over the plate like the food had drawn something from him he hadn’t meant to share. She didn’t interrupt. Just held the moment with him, unspoken and delicate.
And then, because she had to move or she’d just keep watching him, she stepped back toward the counter, her breath deeper than before.
Outside, the morning light was shifting, the world waking slowly.
But in here, in this warm, fragrant and imperfect space, it had started to feel like something had settled. Like the day had already begun.
The rush had crested and broken and Hazel was still riding the aftershocks.
It was just after ten, though the air inside Rise felt thicker than that, warmed by hours of movement, breath, coffee steam, andconversation. The soft notes of instrumental piano drifted from the ceiling speakers, a backdrop she’d barely registered for hours. Her braid had all but unraveled at the nape of her neck, and her apron bore the day’s history in smudges of sugar glaze, flour, and faint trails of coffee grounds. She hadn’t sat down since before sunrise.
But she was smiling. Softly, tiredly. The kind of smile that came from somewhere deep, somewhere earned and real.
She stood near the register, one hand loosely wrapped around a mug of coffee that had gone tepid in the time it took to serve her last three customers. Still, it was a comfort, a pulse of warmth against her palm. The pastry case in front of her was mostly empty now. A scatter ofSold outcards marked where the galette, the sticky buns, the muffins, the scones and the hand pies had once lived. The croissants and cupcakes had dwindled to a few slightly lopsided survivors.
People had come and gone in a steady rhythm all morning; curious townspeople who remembered her from when she was simply“Wendy’s granddaughter,”andwide-eyed tourists who asked about the foam on theVerdance by the Sea. She’d written names on to-go cups in neat cursive, made conversation about the weather, the foliage, and where to find the best trails just outside of town.
Malcolm had come by earlier, as quiet as always. He’d carried in a ceramic vase wrapped in brown paper and twine, which he’d placed on the counter without a word and only a modest lift of his brows. It was beautiful; a smooth, pale clay with a slightly flared lip and that subtle speckled glaze she recognized as his signature. She’d thanked him too many times, laughing softly when he waved it off.
“You busy?” he’d asked.
“Not yet.”
“So… one of everything?”
Hazel had packed him a box while he sipped on his iced latte, her handwriting looping his name across the plastic cup. She’d drawn a smiley face beside it without really thinking and he’d noticed but didn’t mention it. Just grinned faintly, thanked her, and left with his hands full and his shoulders loose. As he’d stepped over the threshold, she’d looked down and realized he’d tipped her far too much.
Now the shop had grown still again, the kind of lull that followed a swell. She leaned into it and let herself breathe. The air still buzzed with the scent of warm sugar and fresh espresso, but everything else had quieted— no scraping chairs, no orders murmured over the counter, no rush of feet. She set down her coffee mug, brushed it a bit out of the way, and leaned against the counter for a moment, palms pressed flat.
The door at the front of shop pulled open, then, letting in a rush of cool sea-stained air once more.
Hazel looked up and barely had time to brace herself before Iris swept in. She entered like the tide— bright, loud, and impossible to ignore. Hazel caught the glint of her earrings first, tiny gold suns swinging beneath the curls that framed her face, left loose and flowing over her shoulders today. Her linen tote bag was slung over her shoulder like she’d packed for a revolution instead of a flower delivery.
“Oh my god,”Iris gasped, juggling a bundle of wildflowers in one arm. “You did it. Youreallydid it.”
