Page 15 of Whisked Away
“Zoe is very friendly.”
Mia snorts as she hands a muffin to Marcus, then arranges the others onto a glass dish by the register. “My wife has never met a stranger, that’s for sure.”
Marcus hasn’t peeled the paper back from his muffin yet. I want to watch him take a bite—to see if Ethan Hart’s confections impress the locals as much as they impressed me. After the first taste of the tart, I’d struggled to maintain my professional expression.
Layers.
Endless layers of flavor had burst across my tongue.
He had the texture perfected as well. Many tarts would end up soggy with such a generous filling. Not Ethan’s though. The crust was crisp against the sweet center. Some flavor notes I couldn’t quite figure out set off the sweetness.
It had taken all my self-control to not inhale the entire plate. As a food writer, I’d had to learn early on to appreciate bites and nibbles. The palette was at its sharpest when hungry. I didn’t like to fill up on food, but Ethan Hart’s offerings were more than just food.
They tasted like comfort.
Like trekking with Missy as kids across the road to our neighbors where she taught us how to make pierogies, then plied us with sweets. Ethan’s offerings demanded you sit and savor them, as one soaked up the Whisk’s hand-painted cabinetry and golden glow. It was the kind of place a kid could sit and do their homework, or someone could take a date forbreakfast, or where a person could cry with a friend after a breakup.
It felt less like a commercial restaurant and more like a home.
And the baked goods. They cried for someone to consume them slowly while sipping a warm mug of tea. Consider a second serving. Spend an entire afternoon lingering over them.
“Is there anything specific you’re looking for?” Marcus asks.
I readjust my camera strap. They’re both watching me, and I realize I’ve probably stared into space as I mused. “I’d love to read something about the town’s history. Do you have any books on Magnolia Cove?”
Marcus and Mia exchange a quick glance before he gestures towards the back. “We have a few general history books. But Magnolia Cove’s always been a hidden gem. Not much has been written about it, I’m afraid. We rarely get famous writers interested in our town.”
He offers a smile that’s so disarming, it feels fake.
There’s a story here, and I can smell it as easily as the vanilla and blueberry wafting between us. I used to believe in charming towns and good-hearted people, but experience has taught me that every perfect picture has cracks—you just have to look close enough.
Marcus shoves his hands into his jean pockets. “If you have questions, I can do my best to answer them.”
“That would be great!”
He offers a muffin, which I accept. My mouth has slowly filled with saliva as I’ve stood smelling them for the last few minutes. I follow him and Mia to a few leather chairs in the back corner and take a seat. The orange tabby jumps into Marcus’ lap, and he pets her, but he seems distracted, his gaze distant.
“Where do you want to begin?” The way he asks is careful,almost rehearsed. There’s something hiding beneath Magnolia Cove’s crust—something much more interesting than the story I thought I’d come to write.
“Tell me about Magnolia Cove’s founding. It must have an interesting history.”
He leans against the chair, his shoulders too broad for the wing-back. “Well, it was founded in… what was it, Mia? 1842?”
“1852.” She crosses her leg, then seems to think better of it and rearranges so her houndstooth flats press into the carpet. “By the, um, Magnolia family, of course.”
My pen hovers over the notepad, but I lift my face. “The Magnolia family? I’ve never heard of that used as a surname before.”
She and Marcus exchange another look, and she chuckles. “Must be unique to the area.”
“Are there descendants still in the area?”
“No,” Marcus takes over. “I’m afraid not. They, uh, moved away pretty quickly. But their legacy lives on in the town’s name, of course.”
There’s a wooden clock on the wall behind him, intricately crafted. The carved acorns click softly as they sway back and forth. “Right.” I tap my pen against the still-bank notepad. “What brought the Magnolias here initially? Fishing? Logging?”
“Oh, a bit of everything,” Mia chimes in. Her blush-pink fingernails grip her chair’s arm. “You know how it is with these coastal towns. People come for the… opportunities.”
Okay, then. I pause, trying to think of a direction to take the conversation. Usually, when people talk about their local area, they only need a few nudges before dishing up every flake of gossip and bit of little-known lore. I take a bite of the muffin and have to fight a shudder of pleasure.
