The Tropical Ticket: Hilton Head Island, #5

Chapter One

Bessie Clifton shook her head as one of her best friends held the blow dryer over it. She scrubbed her fingers along her scalp, because she’d been sitting with the bleach and dye on it for what felt like a long time now, and she needed relief.

Behind her, Sage laughed, the sound barely registering over the blowing of the dryer. Bessie had been getting her hair cut and colored by Sage for several years now, since they’d met and started attending Supper Club together.

That life felt like it belonged to someone else. Certainly not Bessie, who’d been married and raising a teenager when she’d first gone to the initial meeting for a Supper Club in Sweet Water Falls, a small town along the Coastal Bend of Texas.

She was currently divorced and lived with her adult daughter on Hilton Head Island, in South Carolina, and the only thing that even remotely resembled the life she’d had a decade ago was the Supper Club.

Not even the women who belonged to and attended the Club. Just the fact that the Supper Club still existed. And to Bessie, that was significant, because for a year or so there, she’d thought they’d disband and go their separate ways.

A new kind of relief filled her when she thought about how they’d saved their Supper Club. Her and Sage. Because they’d realized that if they didn’t make the move to Hilton Head, the monthly dinners would have to end.

Bessie usually held her tongue and didn’t make close friendships with very many people. Those she did tended to be very close—like her Supper Club ladies—but she wasn’t very confrontational. She knew a lot of people on the surface, and she recognized people who came into the bread shop where she worked.

People had come and gone in her lifetime. Friends for a season. There, then gone. She knew that once common interests were lost or too many miles separated two people that it became harder to stay friends. Harder to stay in touch. Easier to focus on those closer, or those who shared new common interests.

And, as she’d watched her friends lose husbands, go through divorces, become empty nesters and widows and reinvent themselves, she hadn’t wanted to lose her connection to them. She hadn’t wanted to watch Bea, Cass, Lauren, or Joy walk out of her life, never to be heard from again.

Or, if she did hear from them, it was a lame social media message after a few years, stating how they’d lost touch, and wanted to catch up.

No, that wasn’t good enough for Bessie, and it hadn’t been good enough for Sage either. They’d gotten together, and they’d made plans to move to Hilton Head too, each with a loved one, so they could keep and continue their relationships.

Bessie lived with her adult daughter, and Wynona made dinner almost every night. Bessie didn’t much care to spend time in the kitchen if it wasn’t to bake something golden and delicious, and Wyn could put together something simple in a matter of minutes. Sage lived with her sister, Thelma, and the two of them got into so much trouble together, even now that Sage was in her early fifties.

Sage switched off the hair dryer and asked, Well? How do you like it? Her hair bore the same color as freshly churned earth, but it looked a little washed out to Bessie today. Sage insisted that she never dyed it, but Bessie wasn’t always sure she believed her.

Bessie reached up, shaking her hands loose of the drape she wore buttoned tightly around her neck, and ran her fingers through her hair. It’s really blonde, she said.

The dark smudge offsets it, Sage said, fingering a lock of hair. I think that turned out great. It might be my new favorite thing to do. She smiled at Bessie in the mirror, and she really was the best colorist Bessie had ever met.

I love it too. She grinned back at her friend. Thank you, Sage.

You’re gonna be the talk of the island, what with your sexy new ‘do and your new bread bakery opening up. She switched on the blow dryer again and blew it over Bessie’s shoulders and down her back to dislodge any errant hairs. Then she silenced it, holstered it in the compartment at her station, and unsnapped the drape.

Bessie sighed as she got to her feet, the chemically smell of the salon one of her very favorite things. It meant she was taking time for herself, doing something that made her feel good, and spending time with a friend. She stepped into Sage’s arms and hugged her. You’ll be at the grand opening on Saturday, right?

I’m not even going to answer that, Sage said. All of her friends had promised and re-promised to be there. Bessie wasn’t sure why she was asking. Probably because her guts writhed at the thought of truly doing what she’d been dreaming of doing for the past four years: Opening her own bakery.

Not just any bakery. She wasn’t making double-fudge brownies or eclairs, raspberry pistachio tarts or birthday cakes. All Bessie wanted to make was bread. Loaves of bread in all shapes and sizes. Rolls and croissants for parties, family functions, and the holidays.

She and Wynona had been back and forth about the name of their joint-venture bread bakery since the moment they’d started discussing it. They’d narrowed it down to two—Flour Power or Bread & Butter—and Bessie still hadn’t told her friends what the name of the shop would be.

See you Saturday, Bessie said after she’d checked out and booked her next appointment, and she left the high-end salon that seemed to be made of glass, metal, and light in a strip mall near the beach. She loved the beaches here in Hilton Head, as she visited them far more often than she had in Sweet Water Falls.

When she pulled up to the shop, she smiled fondly at her daughter’s sedan parked out front. She took a moment to imagine a line of eager bread lovers extending out the double-glass doors. They currently hid behind a painter’s cloth that covered the name of the bakery.

Wynona had bought into the business as the businesswoman working behind Bessie’s beautiful bread. She’d come up with the idea to reveal the name of the shop at the grand opening, and she’d put out all of the press releases to the local papers, online forums, and social media groups. She’d passed out flyers and visited with other small businesses and managers of local interest around the island, including the various Country Clubs, the public library, and other non-competitive businesses who might be able to simply put a stack of flyers about their grand opening on the checkout counter.

Bessie had stopped keeping track after the library, the restaurants, the historical lighthouse, the quilting and yarn shops, and the bigger outdoor malls had agreed to shelve their event flyers. Even the owner of Gourmet Goods—a direct competitor for croissants had gushed over the fact that there’d be a new bread bakery in town, and grumpy Oliver Blackhurst had also agreed to put some on the counters of The Mad Mango. Bessie had sent Wyn to do all of that community outreach and education alone.

She ducked under the drape and into the shop to find Wyn sitting at one of the front tables. She’d wanted to go in the French direction, as so many people equated good bread with France. But she didn’t want to be kitschy or outdated too fast. She didn’t want people to assume she only made baguettes or that they wouldn’t find their favorite regional bread in her store. Because they would. They absolutely would, as Bessie had handmade bagels on her menu every day of the week, along with a German pretzel recipe that wowed every person who’d ever tried it.

She’d recently perfected arepas from Venezuela. She usually made hers straight up to be savored with coffee, but she’d been known to stuff them with meat and cheese too. She adored pitas from the Middle East—if someone had never tried a homemade pita, the way she scored it into a grid and then baked it… They hadn’t lived yet—in Bessie’s opinion.

Her mouth watered every time she thought of her Egyptian bread recipes, as well as the naan she’d been working on for a while too.

Hey, sissy, she said to her daughter. They could’ve decorated the shop in any number of styles, from French or European to Moroccan or Middle Eastern. In the end, they’d gone with classic, beautiful tables with a muted metal frame and pure wood tops made from planks—almost mirroring some of the seasoned wood planks Bessie had been cooking on for years.

The tables held two or four and had chairs that matched in frame and wood. They’d bought restaurant-standard napkin holders and equipped each table with a container of plastic knives for butter and jam spreading.

At her old job at the Bread Boy in Texas, a friend had made jams and brought them into the shop. Wyn had been working on a partnership with a local farm to provide and feature their jams instead, and Bessie only bought the best butter from an Amish community in Pennsylvania she’d gotten to know through her connections in Texas.

The quality of a loaf of bread came partly from the ingredients, so Bessie paid close attention to those. The rest came as the dough got worked with the hands of a master, and Bessie went by her daughter and into the kitchen. When is the final staff meeting? she called.

Two hours, Wyn answered.

Bessie whipped an apron from the hook by the back door that led into the narrow parking lot behind the shop. Her new bakery sat second-down in a row of little shops, and she loved the location. Only a couple of blocks from the beach, she shared the row with a kite shop, a bistro that only served dinner on weekdays and lunch and dinner on weekends, and a wig shop down on the other end.

It sat about six blocks from the place she’d looked at beside The Mad Mango a few months ago, and only one and a half miles from the house she and Wyn were renting together. She’d wanted to be close to her commercial space and feel like it was in a safe spot, because she’d arrive early in the morning and probably work for hours in the strip shop alone, before any other employee showed up, including her daughter.

Two hours was enough to get something going that would be ready by the end of the final staff meeting. They’d hired eight people to help them run the shop, and that included one custodian, an assistant baker, and six people to man the cash register from the hours of six-thirty am. to three p.m.

Bessie’s adrenaline kicked in, and by the time the meeting started, she had a batch of quick-yeast dinner rolls ready to go into the oven. She slid the tray with all the dough balls pressed together into the waiting oven, set a timer in her phone, and went to join her daughter in the front of the shop.

Everyone else had arrived, and someone had brought coffee. Bessie took the last remaining cup—the one with her name on it—and sat down at the table with Wyn and all of her papers.

She leaned over and said something to a man named Winslow, who would be their custodian in the shop. He’d come in close to noon and work for several hours, staying after the storefront closed to get the trashcans emptied, the floors and counters cleaned and ready for the next day, and any maintenance on her ovens and mixers that might arise.

How’s Darla? she asked.

His face lit up. She’s doing so much better, he said. Claire is thrilled with the progress, and she’s eating more. Their Pomeranian had just had puppies, and the fourth one had been born late. His wife had thought they might lose it, especially when the little pup wouldn’t eat.

I’m seriously considering taking one of them, she said.

She’s only sold two, so we have a couple more, he said.

All right, everyone, Wyn said. Let’s get started. I’ve got a game plan for the grand opening in a couple of days, and I want to go through it and make sure there are no questions. She stood in the middle of the grouping of tables but moved over to where Bessie sat and collected a thin stack of papers.

Bessie knew the game plan already, and she pulled Wyn’s yellow lined notepad closer and started making a list of the breads she needed to make tomorrow for the following day’s grand opening.

Four hours of a grand opening. A name reveal. One ribbon-cutting ceremony. A tiny, short speech. Coupons. Samples. An email list. Special orders. And any sales they could rustle up.

Bessie had decided to start with what most people loved—sourdough, whole wheat, classic French white, croissants, dinner rolls, and her signature salted honey whole wheat.

She couldn’t wait to come in at three a.m. tomorrow morning and start baking.

Chapter Two

Bessie stood next to Wynona, both of them wearing nearly identical outfits. They’d wanted to come across as casual but professional, and they’d chosen black slacks or jeans, along with a pretty blouse they felt comfortable in, with their baking apron tied around their waist.

The sun had already heated the entire island, despite the grand opening being at nine o’clock in the morning. Bessie couldn’t believe how many people had shown up for the grand opening and the name reveal of the shop, and more people kept gathering. The clock ticked to time, and Bessie glanced over to her. Should we begin?

Bessie did a quick check—Bea and Grant had arrived, as had Cass and Harrison. Lauren and Blake had been here since seven, helping Bessie put the bread into the display cases and onto the shelves, as well as printing and cutting the one-time-use coupons.

Joy and Scott had taken all the trash out this morning, and they’d helped Bessie clean the kitchen after she’d made several more loaves of bread this morning. No bread bakery worth its salt didn’t smell like something golden and delicious had just come out of the oven, so while Bessie had done the bulk of her baking yesterday, she couldn’t have this grand opening without the scent of yeast, milk, and butter hanging in the air.

Sage stood front and center with her sister, and Bessie didn’t recognize a lot of the other faces. Tyler Barker, who’d helped her find this place, stood off to her left, and she nodded to him. He smiled like he attended all of his clients’ functions, and perhaps he did. She didn’t know him well enough to know.

Mom?

She nodded, and Wynona put her movie star smile on her face. Bessie’s stomach swooped, and when she blinked, the whole world went black, despite the brightness of the sun. Her vision cleared quickly, and her eyes landed on a dark-haired man that shouldn’t have accelerated her pulse quite the way he did.

Oliver Blackhurst had been dipped in all the best gene pools, and Bessie sure did like the sweep of his thick, dark hair across his forehead. The way his nearly black eyes zeroed in on her, and that slight, arrogant curl of his lips as he smiled.

Oh, the man was dangerous to her health, as her stomach dropped to her knees and her heartbeat accelerated. Again.

She gave her head a small shake, and Oliver cocked his right eyebrow. She hadn’t realized she hadn’t looked away from him before moving, as she hadn’t meant to communicate with him. She’d been telling herself no. A very solid, very loud, No.

She wasn’t interested in Oliver Blackhurst. Not only was he one of the grumpiest men she’d met on this island, but she didn’t have room in her life for a boyfriend. Especially not one as hot as the surface of the sun.

Welcome everyone, Wynona said, and Bessie tore her attention from the gorgeous Mister Blackhurst. Why was he here anyway? My mother and I have had a dream of opening a bread bakery for a few years now. She glowed as she looked over to Bessie, her smile genuine and pure and oh-so-good.

We’re excited to have found this perfect shop, on this perfect island in South Carolina, and we’re first going to reveal the perfect name. She look up and to her left, where she lifted her hand and gripped the drop cloth still covering the sign.

Without further ado, I give you…Flour Power! She tugged on the cloth and it came down just as she’d rehearsed. The gorgeous logo Bessie had commissioned from Lauren, which was a bright pink daisy with a perfectly golden-yellow center—in the shape of a loaf of bread.

Applause broke out and filled the air surrounding the new shop, then the whole parking lot. The dropping of the cloth was the cue for their employees inside the shop, and they spilled out onto the sidewalk. Bessie and Wynona parted and both gestured to the held-open doors, and Sage and Thelma were the first to surge inside.

Hello, Bessie said to the woman who followed them. Thank you for coming. Good to see you. Thank you. Hello. She greeted everyone who streamed past her, and soon enough, the crowd had filled the shop and more remained on the sidewalk in front of the shop.

Thankfully, Wyn’s game plan had anticipated this, and before Bessie could say Hello, again, one of her employees, Rachel, handed her a silver tray full of samples. Wyn got one too, and then the three of them started walking around the crowd still mingling outside.

Just her luck, Oliver stood on her side, and she couldn’t avoid him. Bessie, he said. This is fantastic. He seemed perfectly pleasant today, but he couldn’t very well act like Oscar the Grouch in public. Many of these people were probably his customers too.

Thank you, she said. This is my salted honey whole wheat, but Wynona has the French white, and Rachel has the sourdough.

He didn’t look away from her as he said, I’d like this. He reached for a sample, which already had a toothpick speared through it.

There’s butter and jam on the tables, she said, wondering if he’d started to melt out here too. That was the reason her skin felt seared, and not because Oliver still hadn’t looked away from her.

She forced herself to turn toward someone else, but Oliver said, Wait. Bessie turned back to him, her eyebrows lifting into a silent, Well?

There’s a small business…thing here on the island. For locals who own small businesses. He reached up and pulled at his collar, then quickly dropped his hand. He stuffed the bite-size sample of bread into his mouth, those handsome eyes widening. Bessie, this is fantastic.

And you didn’t even have it with butter, she said with a smile. There’s nothing better than bread with butter, you know.

Oh, I can think of a few things, he said, and Bessie felt sure her eyes had started to see red, for Oliver was blushing. Blushing. He cleared his throat. The Island Collective meets every month, and I think you’d benefit from attending. He held out a card.

Bessie wanted to toss the sample tray and take the card, then devour the words on it. Instead, she blinked at it and then Oliver. He smiled, and wow, he shouldn’t be allowed to do that in public.

We meet this coming week, and we’ll be talking about the upcoming Heritage Festival.

The Heritage Festival?

It’s a huge celebration in late August, right before the tourists leave, he said. We have booths for each of our businesses, and the city gives those of us who are in the Island Collective better placement, special consideration, and the first chance at sponsorships.

Bessie was a long way from sponsoring anything but paying her own rent, but she took the card from his fingers. Thank you, Oliver.

He nodded, kept that glorious smile on his face, and said, Now, I need to go buy a whole loaf of this salted honey whole wheat bread. He dodged through the crowd and managed to get inside the shop, all while Bessie stood there and watched.

Wednesday morning, Bessie hung her apron on the hook by the back door. Hillie, I’m headed to a meeting, okay?

No problem, Miss Bessie, she said, her hands working the dough on the board in front of her without looking. She’d grown up out in rural South Carolina, and she’d been baking since the age of five. Bessie had loved listening to her talk about her mammy and grammy, and the interview had been more storytelling than questioning.

Bessie had also hired her at the end of that, and she’d been happy she had. They’d been baking together for about three weeks now, as Wyn interviewed and hired the rest of the staff, as the tables and chairs and napkins holders had come in.

She went out the back door and over to her SUV, her hands feeling too hot and everything else suddenly too cold. The overheated interior of the vehicle made breathing difficult, and Bessie got the engine started and the air conditioning vents blowing right on her face.

By the time she arrived at the community center where the Island Connection meeting was set to take place, she felt like throwing up. Bessie didn’t normally eat breakfast, except for a couple of bites of croissant and the coffee Wyn brought her when the shop opened. She hadn’t eaten more than that now, but maybe she should’ve.

She looked toward the entrance, but she couldn’t make herself get out of the car. A couple of women who were dressed like they might be on their way to the meeting went by and inside, and Bessie took a deep breath.

You can do it, girl, she told herself. She hadn’t seen Oliver yet, and she didn’t want him to find her sitting in her car, too scared to go inside. She told herself she’d left work early for this meeting. She told herself she wanted this opportunity. She told herself it would be good for her to meet other locals who also owned small businesses.

None of those got her out of the car, and Bessie found herself kneading the steering wheel though she then wouldn’t be setting it to rise the way she did her flawless dinner rolls.

Come on, Bessie, she moaned the words as she leaned her head back against the rest. Her eyes drifted closed, and a twinge of exhaustion stole through her. She’d been getting up in the middle of the night for years, so she wasn’t really tired yet.

The grand opening had gone so well, and they’d had a steady stream of customers in the four days since. Word seemed to be spreading, as Wyn had been having their cashiers ask how people had heard about Flour Power when they came in to buy.

She and Hillie had sold through all of their inventory every day so far, and Bessie told herself these things as motivators to get herself inside the community center. It still didn’t work, and she told herself she didn’t want to leave the air-conditioned interior of her car and step out into the near-July heat and humidity.

The fact that the community center also had air conditioning didn’t weigh on her decision, because she couldn’t let it.

A sharp knock met her ears, and Bessie yelped as she shot forward. She jerked her attention to the side window as her adrenaline spiraled up into her brain and down into her toes. She tingled, and not in a good way.

Oliver stood there, and he backed up with both hands up. Amusement rode in his expression, and Bessie pressed the on-off button and practically pushed the door open into his body.

He chuckled and said, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were taking a nap.

I wasn’t taking a nap. Bessie turned back to the car and pulled out her purse. It was really more the size of a small carryon, and the only reason she could carry it around was because she had some pretty impressive arm and shoulder muscles from all the kneading.

She slammed her door, and they fell into step beside one another as she started toward the community center. You’re late, you know.

You were sitting in your car, apparently asleep. He didn’t even look over to her as he said it. When they reached the door, he opened it and lifted his eyebrows to usher her through it. A blast of the blessed AC hit her