Page 94 of What Remains of Grace

Per Hart’s instructions. I don’t think she’s made anything clear, and I don’t think it’s done, boss.

For the first time since he’d walked away from her porch, Cole let himself believe his friend might be right.

24

The Grand Reopening

All week, the bakery hummed with a kind of anticipation that made Jenna’s chest feel too full and too light at the same time.

The soft opening on Monday had been smoother than expected, just a few hiccups with the espresso machine, a mislabeled batch of muffins, and a minor icing incident that Emmie swore was “basically performance art.” But customers had come. Real customers. They’d eaten, smiled, and complimented the displays. A handful even asked if The Blue Cypress was “finally back,” and Jenna had nearly cried twice.

By Tuesday, Emmie had decided that the only way to ensure long-term consistency was to open the shop every morning before school personally. Which meant she had been unlocking the doors at 6:45 a.m., hair in a perfect topknot, binder tucked under her arm like she was auditioning for a baking competition.

“Someone has to make sure the team understands my vision,” Emmie had said, sipping her latte like a disapproving CEO.

By Friday, the bakery gleamed. Display cases are full. Tables arranged. Fresh flowers by the register. The new sign—The Blue Cypress Bakery—is glowing proudly in the dusk.

Across the street, Jenna hovered in the bedroom doorway, pretending to look for earrings while trying and failing not to think about whether she would see Cole.

Her parents were coming too. They texted that they’d arrived early, “just in case she needed anything.”

Tonight felt big. Too big.

Emmie popped her head around the corner, eyeliner perfect, curls pinned back with rhinestone clips. “Hey. Is Mr. Bennett coming?”

“Of course,” Jenna said, too quickly. Too casually. As if he hadn’t been absent all week. As if things hadn’t been weird. As if she hadn’t checked her phone every morning, hoping. As if she even knew the answer she was trying to give.

Emmie squinted, suspicious, but let it go. Then she vanished down the hall and came back with two shopping bags, sweeping into the room like a fairy godmother with an attitude.

“Okay,” Emmie announced, dropping the bags on the bed, “emergency intervention.”

Jenna blinked. “I’m sorry . . . what?”

Emmie opened the first bag with a flourish.

A fitted white dress covered in blue watercolor florals spilled out, the ruffled neckline fluttering as she held it up. The thin straps and curve-skimming shape made it look delicately romantic and unfairly flattering all at once.

“This one’s yours.”

She opened the second bag, a pink version, same cut, same ruffles, same dramatic intention.

“And this one,” Emmie announced, “is mine.”

Jenna blinked. “You bought us matching dresses?”

“Correct.” Emmie crossed her arms with the confidence of a general addressing troops.

“Because if left to your own devices, you would absolutely show up to see Mr. Bennett wearing a business suit.”

“I would not.”

“You would,” Emmie said. “And it would be beige.”

Jenna opened her mouth to argue. But closed it.

. . . fair.

“Try it on,” Emmie nudged, her voice softening. “It’s a big night.”