Sweet Cravings

1. Flicker of Hope Bri Carson knelt at her husband’s grave, fingertips trembling as they traced the letters carved into sun-warmed marble. The prairie stretched endlessly under a sky so blue it hurt to look at, Cicadas hummed in the distance, and somewhere far off, a meadowlark sang—a sound that always reminded her of summer. “Well, here we are, my darling—another year without you. Three years since I last saw your smile. God, Jax, I miss you.” She brushed away a tear and glanced at the small photograph tucked beside the headstone—Jax cradling their newborn daughter, Sky, against the backdrop of the Beartooth Range. Wildflowers spilled from the pot she’d just placed, their colours bright against the dusty earth. “Sky’s grown so much this year. She’s dramatic—must get that from you. Every day she looks more like you. It still hurts, knowing you had so little time together. But I promise, I’ll keep your memory alive for her.” Bri managed a soft chuckle as she adjusted the flowers, the gravel crunching under her boots. Overhead, a hawk circled lazily in the heat shimmer. “I had another argument with your mother yesterday. She saw me laughing with Pete down at the butcher’s and shouted at me in front of the feed store—called me a harlot, accused me of cheating on you.” Her shoulders sagged under the weight of the town’s judgement, heavier than any winter snow. “I don’t know how much more I can take, love. This place is full of rules and expectations. Not only am I the girl whose parents abandoned her, but now I’ll always be the grieving widow, the single mother. There’s only so much gossip I can bear.” She kissed her fingers and pressed them to the stone, the warmth of the marble lingering against her skin. “I’ll always love you, Jaxon Carson. You are my strength. I’ll see you next week.” As Bri walked back to her dusty pickup, the heat shimmered off the two-lane highway. Thunderheads were building over the Crazy Mountains—a promise of an evening storm. She’d always felt like an outsider here—even before Jax died. The whispers had followed her since childhood, and now, as a single mother, they were louder than ever. Something was stuck to the windscreen—a torn page from a magazine. She was about to toss it when an advert caught her eye: a summer fayre. Sky would love that. She shoved the page into her bag and drove home past hayfields ready for cutting, uneasy about leaving Sky with a sitter. But Mrs Hargreaves, her neighbour and a friend of her gran’s, was someone Bri trusted. At the door, she thanked the elderly woman and cuddled her daughter close, shielding her from the hot wind sweeping down from the mountains. Sky’s small arms wrapped tightly around Bri’s neck, and for a moment, hope flickered. That evening, Bri and Sky snuggled on the couch, telling stories about Daddy and looking through old photos—Jax in his worn Stetson. Outside, the sky blazed orange and pink as the sun dipped behind the Absaroka's. Once Sky was tucked in bed, Bri remembered the advert. She pulled out the torn page and read it again. The more she read, the more excited she became. She’d never known this town to hold a fayre like this—it sounded wonderful. Checking the date, she saw it was at the end of next month, definitely something to look forward to. Her eyes skimmed to the location. She frowned. “Orchard Park? Where the hell is that?” She turned the page over, but there was no other information. At the top, the words Comfort Gazette stood out. Bri grabbed her phone and searched. Comfort Gazette 15A Main St Comfort Isle Massachusetts New England “Well, I guess we won’t be going there then,” she muttered. Massachusetts was a long way from Nowhere, Montana. “I suppose someone brought the magazine here, though I don’t remember anyone going away on holiday.” The next week passed in a blur—the same routine, the same faces. Nothing ever seemed to change here. She was clearing away the breakfast dishes when the post hit the mat. She smiled at her daughter. “What do you think, baby girl? Will the postie bring us an adventure today?” Sky blew bubbles in her juice, giggling, making Bri laugh. “Yeah, you’re probably right—it’s just bills.” But then she noticed a large white envelope on the mat, her name and address handwritten in elegant cursive. Ripping it open, she grinned at Sky. “Maybe an adventure after all.” Inside was a glossy magazine with a note clipped to the front: Dear Bri, Thank you for subscribing to the Comfort Gazette. This week’s local news will surely shake up our little island. And don’t forget—the annual Orchard Summer Fayre is on the last Saturday of the month, and this year promises to be the best yet. Hope to see you there, Kelly Woolton Editor-in-Chief Bri stared at the note. What the heck? Did I subscribe when I searched online? I don’t remember signing up for anything—and I definitely didn’t give out my address. She turned the envelope over, searching for clues—no return address, no postmark she recognised. Her stomach tightened. She picked up her phone and scrolled through her recent searches. Nothing. No subscription confirmation, no payment. So how did they get my name? My address? Sky babbled from her highchair, breaking the silence. Bri forced a smile, but unease prickled at the back of her neck. She flipped through the magazine. The glossy pages were filled with cheerful headlines—local news, recipes, adverts for quaint bookshops. But one article made her pause: “Comfort Isle Welcomes New Residents” Her breath caught. Beneath the headline was a photo of a picturesque harbour—and a list of names. Her name wasn’t there, but the idea unsettled her. Why send this to someone hundreds of miles away? She flipped to the back of the magazine, scanning the classifieds. Most were ordinary—holiday rentals, fishing gear—but one listing made her pause: After thirty years, our beloved Doris has decided to hang up her apron. Our very own Owen Sanders will be listing The Sweet Treats Bakery from Monday. Bri read on, her pulse quickening. Doris has exclusively told me she will personally hand-pick her successor. In her words: “Whoever buys the bakery must be the perfect fit. Just like me, the bakery needs a little TLC—and there’s nothing sweeter than that.” Bri stared at the words, her mind spinning. A bakery. A fresh start. Far away from the whispers and judgement of this tiny little town in Montana. She laughed softly, shaking her head. What am I even thinking? I can’t move all the way across the country… can I? But the thought lingered, stubborn and sweet—like the smell of warm bread. A flicker of hope.