by Penny Porter
Copyright ©2026 Kim Brownlee Studios All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording or other electronic methods, without prior written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, bulk purchase discounts, or U.S. trade bookstore and wholesaler orders, contact the publisher at Info@kimbrownleestudios.com Manufactured and printed in the United States of America, distributed globally by Kim Brownlee Studios.
ISBN: 979-8-9933664-3-2
BACK WHERE IT BEGAN
E L L A 1
1
I always thought small towns had two speeds: slow and stop. But Sugar Fork, USA—population nosy—manages to feel both sleepy and wide awake at the same time. As I ease my car down Main Street, the same strip I haven’t seen in twenty-five years, the town greets me with a new coat of paint and the same old gossip. I can almost hear the whispers drifting from behind lace curtains and screen doors: Ella Brooks is back. Didn’t she leave with a bang? Didn’t she win some big-deal award for a chocolate soufflé? What’s she doing here now? The storefronts look both familiar and strange, like someone snapped a Polaroid of my childhood and tinted it with Instagram filters. Lottie’s Florals still spills with geraniums and ivy, though the “o” in Lottie’s burned out years ago, so the sign just reads L ttie’s. The drugstore still boasts the same sun- bleached sign promising Sodas & Sundries. Across the street, a boutique trumpets Shabby Chic with Southern Sass in glittery paint. And overhead, banners flap from lamppost to lamppost, proclaiming Sweetheart Bake-Off Coming Soon! complete with red hearts, icing swirls, and what looks suspiciously like Mayor Caldwell’s face photo shopped into a chef’s hat.
2
Back Where It Began
Sugar Fork was still Sugar Fork—equal parts charming and ridiculous. I’m supposed to be here for one thing: settle my Aunt June’s estate, pack up her little house on Rosewood Lane, and head back to the quiet rhythm of teaching students how to whip egg whites without breaking them. No fuss, no attention. But the manila envelope the lawyer handed me had other ideas. That’s how I end up parking at the corner of the square, staring at a quaint pie stand, its royal blue door left open so the welcoming scents can pour out through the screen door. The pie stand huddles between the post office and a barber shop that doubles as a domino parlor. It’s small, weathered, and unassuming, the kind of place you’d miss if you blinked driving by. Its clapboard siding curls in the heat, the tin roof is freckled with rust, and the wooden sign hangs a little crooked. But across that battered sign, in June’s looping hand, is the name: The Humble Crust. Something in my chest squeezes. I push open the screen door, and the smells engulf me: butter, sugar, cinnamon, and the faint tang of lemon. It’s like walking into a
3
Page 1 Page 2 Page 3 Page 4 Page 5 Page 6 Page 7 Page 8 Page 9 Page 10Made with FlippingBook Online newsletter maker