Page 16 of Whisked Away
The crumb is tender but structured enough to hold up tothe rich, buttery tones. It contrasts against the fruit’s sweet and tart notes. And there’s something else I can’t quite place. Lavender, maybe?
“What about more recent history?” I try, setting the muffin down. I’ll take it back to my bed & breakfast with me. “Any big events in the last few decades? Changes to the town?”
Marcus chuckles, but it sounds as hollow as an empty oven. “Oh, you know, small towns. Not much changes around here. We like it that way.”
I scratch ‘1852’ on the pad solely to have something to write. I’ll purchase a book and see if it has more to say.
Mia sits up higher in her seat. “Except for the Whisk, of course. It’s gaining a lot of attention currently. I guess you could say Magnolia Cove changed the day Ethan Hart moved here.”
“He’s not from Magnolia Cove, then?”
Marcus stands, causing the cat to jump from his lap. “Probably best to direct questions about Ethan to him directly. Everyone who isn’t from the Cove moves here for the lifestyle.”
“What lifestyle is that?” He seems even taller standing as I look up at him from my seat.
His expression softens again, the grin returning. “Laid-back. Magnolia Cove is a safe place. We have the beach, a great bookstore, if I say so myself”—I return his smile—“and now with Ethan’s baked goods, some of the best cinnamon rolls on the East Coast.”
Or the world, possibly. Not to be dramatic, but there’s something about them that tastes like comfort—like returning home from school to fresh-baked cookies or curling up with Missy under a blanket as we devoured a boxed cake together.
Not that his food is subpar.
It’s not.
It just has something else I can’t name. Something that feels like home.
“Maybe I could buy some of those general history books you mentioned?” I ask.
Mia rises and gathers them. As she’s ringing my purchases up, I lift a flyer. “Best cherry pie this side of the Mississippi?”
She looks at the sheet I hold, advertisingTheHungry Gull—a local diner I hadn’t seen yet.
“Oh, that’s true.” She places the books into a paper bag. “It even won the Blue Ridge Baking Championship last year.”
“Really?” I ask. Marcus steps up behind Mia, and they exchange another look. I have a feeling she’d dish more if her intense, albeit handsome, boss wasn’t around.
Mia shrugs. “We take food seriously in the South. Thanks for visiting A Novel Idea.”
I accept the bag and keep the questions burning on my tongue from spilling out. I don’t want to spook anyone away, but there’s something off about Magnolia Cove. Off in a good way, if that even makes sense.
Soon, I’m back outside again, walking beneath massive oak trees that cast the sidewalk in shade. The ocean’s breeze rushes through the space and rattles the leaves.
I frown at the slim volumes I bought. They were the only ones that mentioned Magnolia Cove’s history. Most of the first book is about the general coastal region. There are a few paragraphs discussing the island’s beach. The ferry that shuttles people to and from the mainland gets an entire page. But the history gets a single sentence.
Magnolia Cove was founded in 1852 by those who saw the potential in its wild beauty.
I tuck the books back into the bag and shift it under my arm. Here’s a town I’ve never heard of that’s producing award-winning pies. The Blue Ridge Baking Championship sounds niche, but it’s a pretty big mark for a sleepy coastal island withno renown. How do they even get such fresh ingredients? Having supplies shipped has to add delays and complications. Most importantly: why isn’t Magnolia Cove a foodie destination if the cuisine is this good?
The more I learn about this town, the less sense it makes. There’s something here, something just beneath the surface that everyone seems to be in on but me.
I need to call Vivian later to tell her I’m going to need to extend my stay in Magnolia Cove. There’s more to the story than I thought, and I can finish my other work remotely.
I’ll have to work on the rest of my articles at the bed & breakfast. The town has extremely limited cell service and no wireless internet. It’s as if it exists in a bubble, separate from the real world. If I do this right—not just a takedown, but a compelling, headline-worthy exposé—it could mean more than just a promotion. It could put me in the running for a James Beard Award or a National Food Writing Prize. The kind of recognition that could cement my name in the industry.
I catch sight of my reflection in a shop window. There’s a gleam in my eye that I haven’t seen in months—the thrill of a real story, a mystery to unravel.
Magnolia Cove may look like a postcard, but I’m starting to think it’s hiding something much bigger. And I’m going to find out what it is and let the world know.
Ethan
