Page 16 of Rise
Hazel’s smile broke, wide and surprised. “Iris, hi. I didn’t think you’d—“
“Miss the soft opening of the year?Please.”Iris crossed the floor in quick strides, her dark curls bouncing with the motion, her long mustard-yellow skirt trailing behind her like an exclamation. She was wearing a cropped denim jacket over a graphic tee that readSupport Local Everything.Her sandals clacked against the hardwood as she leaned over the front counter, reaching for Hazel’s forearm to give it a gentle squeeze.
“I brought flowers,” Iris said, extending the unruly bouquet like a crown, bowing slightly as she did. Her fingers were smudged faintly with soil, a curl of grass caught in the sleeve of her denim jacket. The arrangement was generous and wild; goldenrod and dahlias, deep violet asters, stems of eucalyptus and wild fennel, and a few blush-toned roses tucked in with near reverence. Each stem looked like it had been plucked with intention, cradled gently, arranged by someone who knew how to build beauty with both hands and heart.
Hazel reached for one of the lavender sprigs near the center, brushing her thumb across it. The scent lifted instantly, cool and familiar, like linen drawers and late summer gardens. She didn’t speak right away, just let the feeling bloom inside her. Another gentle reminder of the person who’d brought her back here, after all this time.
“They’re perfect,” she murmured, her eyes still lingering on the lavender.
“Local, obviously,” Iris said, eyes gleaming. “And hand-picked with love. I put aside my very last bit of goldenrod for these. Malcolm said everything in here smells like magic and early autumn nostalgia, so I figured… florals to match.”
Hazel smiled again, already moving. She reached beneath it and gently unwrapped the vase Malcolm had brought earlier that morning, the twine unspooling in soft loops.
“I was going to use this later… but now feels like the right moment,” she said, quieter now, her fingers curved around the cool ceramic.
Iris’s voice softened, too, her eyes flaring wide as she followed Hazel’s steady movements. “Oh, that’s one of his new ones. The clay blend’s different, right? I’ve been telling him it’s moodier, more romantic. Did he bring it over for you?”
Hazel nodded, setting the vase beside the tip jar. It was nearly full now, surprisingly so, with crumpled bills and a few gleaming coins that caught the morning light.
“He said it was an opening gift.”
“Classic Malcolm,” Iris said with a fond eyeroll, that same soft smile still affixed to her face. “Scissors, please?”
Hazel turned, pulled open a drawer, and handed over the shears. She replaced the emptiness in her hand with a nearby cloth, wiping absently at the counter. As Iris trimmed the stems of her bouquet with clean, confident motions, the cut ends dropped onto the counter like small, fragrant offerings. Water droplets beaded on her fingers. The room filled with the scent of eucalyptus and marigold sap, grounding and sharp, layered over the lingering sweetness of sticky buns and caramelized sugar.
“You’ve done something really special here,” Iris said after a pause. Her voice didn’t rise; it settled, sure and quiet. “This place…” She turned in a slow, gentle movement, eyes roaming the sunlight slipping across the hardwood, the chalkboard with its smudged edges, the empty trays waiting to be refilled. “It feels like you, but bigger. Like what your grandmother imagined and what you’ve made are braided together somehow.”
Hazel’s breath caught, but not dramatically— just enough to still her hands.
She thought of the recipe tin now tucked away in the back kitchen area. The galette crust under her fingernails. The memory of her grandmother’s laugh echoing through this very space when they’d passed by it on walks, Hazel’s finger clutching her nose to protect herself from the scent of what used to be here. And the letter, creased and softened by touch, still tucked inside her bag next to her wallet.
The ache that rose wasn’t sadness, not exactly. It was something warmer, heavier. A homesick feeling for something that had never truly left her. That never truly would.
“I…” Her voice faltered. She inhaled, slow and full, and then tried again. “I hoped it would feel that way.”
“It does,” Iris agreed, giving a small nod. “It feels like the kind of place people will come back to. Not just for the food… but because it feelsgoodto be here.”
Hazel didn’t speak right away. Something about the way Iris said it, so simply and with such certainty, wrapped around her chest like a warm hand. Not meant to limit or hold back, but to comfort.
She glanced down at the towel in her hands, realizing she’d been twisting it without noticing. Her throat tightened unexpectedly, and for a moment she couldn’t tell if it was relief or grief pushing against her ribs. Maybe both.
She could imagine her grandmother would’ve said something similar. Would’ve said it with pride in her voice and a hand on Hazel’s back.
Hazel blinked once, then again.
“Thank you,” she said finally, voice soft but steady. “That means a lot.”
“Of course.”
Iris finished arranging the bouquet, spinning the vase just slightly so the blush roses faced the front. The light from the window bent around the glass, pooling on the counter like honey. Their reflections shimmered faintly in the storefront, two women standing in a bloom-filled, sun-salted room that smelled like stories and beginnings.
Then Iris’s eyes slid past Hazel, toward the pastry case. “Is that a lavender shortbread I see?”
Hazel followed her gaze. “It is. Lavender from your herb bundle, actually, with a local honey buttercream.” Her grin lifted higher on one side. “I was testing the texture all last week. Took a few tries to get the crumb just right.”
“I’ll take three,” Iris said, already reaching for her wallet. “And a Bar Harbor Fog to go. Butonlyif you promise to save me a sticky bun next time. Malcolm got one this morning and won’t shut up about it.”
Hazel chuckled, already stepping toward the espresso machine. “Deal.”
