She agreed, ending the phone call. Sadie transferred Lincoln, who had fallen asleep on her lap as she talked on the phone with her mom and stroked his head, to the couch. Then, with stiff pregnancy joints, Sadie pushed herself to standing. First she had to tackle the garage and those spiders.

But just you wait, Grandma Hester. You will get your bakery even if it’s fifty years too late.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Two

Renee gasped as a screaming gust of wind picked up the cushions from her patio furniture and scattered them around the yard. She tossed her bag of groceries on the countertop and hurried outside. The wind chime’s brass pieces crashed against each other, sounding more like warning bells than melodious chords. She rescued one cushion from a tree branch before chasing the others from her tomato plants. One by one, she tossed them into her storage shed. She set the wind chimes gently across the worktable in her garage, pushing aside a pair of pink work gloves and a small succulent she’d been meaning to repot. Then she brought the wrought-iron chairs and table inside, as well, dragging each piece of furniture into the shelter and fastening the latch for extra measure. One last stop to gather the ceramic pieces of Tansy’s fairy garden before returning to the safety of her cottage.

She continued putting her emergency provisions away in case the power ran out—bottled water, canned soup, peanut butter, and a loaf of bread—before a special news bulletin running across the TV screen grabbed her attention. Her heart raced at the sound of the alarming beeps so often associated with bad news. With a carton of eggs still in one hand, she made her way to the family room, perching on the edge of the sofa.

For the past few days, the meteorologists had worked themselves into an ever-growing tizzy of speculation. Every hour the projected force of the winds grew, as did the anticipated amount of rain and wave height. They were even interviewing longtime residents along the coast, including a few in Cranberry Cove. She shook her head. Anything for ratings.

“The waves came crashing right through our living room window!” Ninety-two-year-old Alma Wilson swore from the screen, referring to the 1985 hurricane. She gave the Pomeranian sleeping in her lap a loving pat on the head before raising her hands dramatically in the air. “One of the waves took our tabby cat right with it! Never saw that kitty again. Best mouser we ever had.”

“Mmm-hmm. Gotta love a feel-good story,” Renee muttered, walking to the kitchen table, picking up the phone, and hitting Tansy’s contact.

Please answer…

Please answer…

Voicemail. Again.