Page 3 of Beaches, Bagels & Babes

Candace

T he summer season was right about to kick into high gear at the Wonderwood Boardwalk.

It was a jewel of a May day that promised record profits for the businesses situated along the coastal strip.

Perry’s Pier was especially packed, which was sure to make Candace’s uncle happy.

She, meanwhile, was having a terrible time.

It was nostalgic to be back in Wonderwood, but not in a mushy, nice way.

The beach town was a salt taffy promise—a pretty but fake place filled with uncomfortable memories and a bitter present.

The minute Candace drove over the old island drawbridge, she wanted to turn back, to go somewhere, anywhere, else.

But this was it.

At thirty-three, an age where she should be in the prime of her career, Candace was unemployable.

After a key client of the consultancy firm that Candace worked for complained about her for reasons that were still unknown, no one would give her a chance.

She tried everywhere: other big competing firms, small firms, private business accounting, and mom-and-pop operations.

She even put in applications outside of her field, but nothing panned out.

Word of her supposed transgressions followed wherever she went.

She was out of money, and her credit cards were maxed.

So, she had to stoop to begging her uncle for help.

Candace replayed their phone conversation in her head and cringed.

“I’m traditional,” he told her with his trademark joking-not-joking tone. “If you want something, you ask in person. But don't worry. You know I’ve always got sugar for you, Candy.”

Another cringe rippled down her spine.

Peter Perry was a button-pusher. He enjoyed making other people squirm, saying whatever he wanted, being intentionally insensitive, even with his own flesh and blood.

However, all of it was under the guise of “fun.” He would not even let him call her by his first name like a normal uncle; he was ‘Uncle Perry,’ Wonderwood’s favorite wild, wacky public figure.

It was his brand, and he was very protective of it because of the goodwill it bought him.

Candace knew that all her uncle really cared about was being the top asshole at the local marina. Everything he did was for power and prestige. He had both in droves, but it was never enough.

He liked to be petty with it. He told Candace to be at the fun pier’s office building under the Manta Coaster at 8 AM sharp. Even though there was no way he would show up anytime close to then, he would check the security tapes to make sure she did.

So, Candace waited.

And waited.

8:30 flashed on her phone screen as she checked it .

Candace stifled a yawn. She hadn’t had time to make coffee this morning in her motel room’s little single-serve maker.

There was a perpetually brewed pot in the front office reception room, but that would’ve been a dangerous gamble; she was sure it hadn’t been emptied, let alone cleaned, in decades.

Best to avoid negotiating with a time bomb in her stomach.

Candace shifted in the sunken, mildewy seat. Her nose crinkled. Most of the place had a musty smell. It was not a surprising problem for a business built over the ocean. Even so, with regular maintenance, cleaning, and upgrades, it was somewhat mitigable.

Regular being the important word.

Candace’s uncle had better things to spend his money on, like impressing his rich friends or expanding his empire.

Knowing him, he was probably out to breakfast at one of the local big-wig haunts, rubbing elbows with the police chief and mayor.

Her suspicion was confirmed when her uncle’s long-time secretary poked her head into the office.

“Miss Candy,” the older woman, Janice, chirped, using Candace’s hated nickname. “Mr. Perry called to say he’s at an urgent meeting, so he won’t be able to make it. He had me wire money to your account and said that he’d talk over the details with you later.”

Candace resisted kicking the rusted desk in front of her only because it would have scuffed her white wedge sandals. Instead, she flashed a smile that bared teeth.

“Oh, of course. I know my uncle is busy. No worries.”

Fresh-caught farm-to-table scallops over Eggs Benedict at Ferdinand’s? Candace wondered. Or maybe a showy platter at the Seashore Diner, a king among the commoners?

Whatever the answer, Candace played her uncle’s game and got what she wanted.

Almost. She checked her banking app, and the balance was just enough to get her out of imminent financial ruin.

She might even be able to treat herself to something other than a microwave dinner.

Still, the idea that her end of the bargain remained undisclosed sat as poorly as that coffee would have.

Candace fled from the office feeling uneasy. She exited the building out to the damp sub-level and was immediately assaulted by sensation. The blast of humid heat as she left the air-conditioned space; the Manta Coaster overhead, shaking the whole place; the salty smell that clung to everything.

It brought a rush of memories, too. Some good, some bad. All of it made the pressure in her chest worsen.

Candace kept it together while she was in view of her uncle’s security cameras.

With practiced poise, she wove through the surprising amount of people already queuing for the first rides of the day and made her way to the main boardwalk.

There, she braced herself against the railing with her eyes trained on the glimmering ocean horizon.

Candace hated this place. She managed to avoid it for so long; it was fitting that she had to come here when she was at her lowest. Everything about it brought her back to that first awful summer she spent with her uncle after he took her in.

At twelve years old, someone had to, and he was the best option.

Her only option. She felt like that powerless, scared girl again because she was .

Wonderwood had not changed in all this time, and neither had she.

She would, though. Candace would get back on her feet and go where she wanted to be. Once she figured out where that was, since her bridge in the financial sector had apparently been burned. For now, she was stuck.

In and out, Candace breathed. She drew deep, full breaths into her belly—held at the top—then, released great, throat-cleansing exhales. Slowly, her breaths synced to the rise and fall of the waves spilling out over the beach sand. Her mind calmed.

After a time, with a little sigh of relief, Candace’s breathing returned to normal.

Her best friend and yoga teacher, Demi, taught ‘pranayama breathing,’ centering the body and mind by breathing along with an internal wave.

The more metaphysical sides of yoga, limbs of practice beyond the physical workout, were a bit beyond Candace.

But techniques like this helped to quell her occasional bursts of uncontrolled emotion.

Most of the time.

Candace’s stomach, though, was another story. It grumbled so loudly that a group of passersby on a four-seater surrey bike turned their heads to look at her. She waved with a forced smile as they continued on their way, laughing amongst themselves.

Could this day get any more humiliating?

Candace should have known better than to ask.

Turning, she leaned back against the hot metallic rail that separated the boardwalk from the beach dunes below. At least her card would not be declined if she bought a coffee. But where?

Perry’s Pier was coming to life with its kitsch-themed fast-casual dining options, carnival food stands, and more. Presumably, one of them sold coffee. Still, Candace loathed the idea of giving her uncle’s money right back to him, even indirectly.

It had been fifteen years since the last time she walked the boardwalk’s two and a half miles of splintery planking.

She recalled hearing that a chain coffee shop had opened, but it was nowhere in sight.

There was Zeus' Torch, the long-operating 24-hour Greek diner run by Demi’s relatives, which had the best gyros in the area.

Even so, the place was a stiff hike to the far side of the boardwalk.

As far as she could see, there were T-shirt shops, soon-to-open candy stores, and novelty goods, but no real food.

Aside from one place, right in front of her, that she had been staunchly hoping to avoid.

Bagel Bombs!.

It looked exactly the same as the last time she saw it, except not. The place seemed clean and cared for, but there was noticeable wear.

The neon pink and lime of its ’90s pop aesthetic had faded to dingy russet and sludge green in the harsh salt air.

Its styled DA BOMB open sign struggled with a flicker, and the overhead one needed de-rusting.

Four stools were now three, and it looked like a gamble to sit on any one of them.

Compared to the newer stores on either side, the place was in bad need of a makeover.

Some things stayed the same, though.

The smell of freshly toasted dough and roasting coffee beans that carried over from the cafe was a memory wrapped in a scent.

Even after all this time, Candace could taste her first bagel bomb.

Warm, nutty bread with a satisfying outer crust and a soft, gooey center.

It had just the right amount of peanut butter, jam, and cream cheese filling. Sweet and savory in perfect balance.

Candace licked her lips at the thought.

After that first sample, she was hooked.

Unfortunately, getting the bagel bombs had been difficult.

Once her uncle gave her a credit card, he read her statements like it was a sport.

If he knew she was stuffing herself with “garbage food from a garbage girl,” she would have never heard the end of it.

Yet, Candace couldn’t resist. Not entirely. Purses, makeup, clothes, shoes… She traded whatever her friends wanted in exchange for getting her fix. It wasn’t the best system, but it worked for the years she had to be sneaky.

Now, things were different. There was nothing stopping Candace from picking up one foot after the other, walking up to that counter, and ordering for herself like a big girl.

Well, almost nothing.

Was she there?

Through the busy rush of foot traffic, Candace could not see who was working the cafe’s counter. She strained, balancing on her wedge tips even if it meant scuffing them, but it was impossible. Unbeknownst to Candace, her legs started taking her across the boardwalk.

She couldn’t be here, Candace told herself. That girl probably sold the place years ago, went to college, moved away…

Except, she had not. The girl—woman, now—was exactly where Candace last saw her. In what felt like slow motion, the crowd parted enough for Candace to see her standing behind the cafe counter.

Daisy DeMarco.

She, too, had changed and not. Her figure had always been impressive, so tall and toned that it put the roving bands of beach bros to shame. As a teen, it made her stoop and try to lessen herself. Now, she stood as confidently as a model.

Or, more accurately, some kind of punk rock-baker.

In a printed black tank top and athletic shorts, Daisy’s multiple piercings were plain to see.

The sleeve tattoo she bore of a seafoam-colored jellyfish was also prominent, with fanning tentacles that twined with seaweed all down her bicep to her forearm.

The addition of a flour-covered apron over top, and her short-cropped, ash-blond hair tied under a turquoise bandana, looked effortlessly cool, as if she knew exactly who she was.

Strong.

Confident.

Sexy.

Candace could not stop herself from staring. And Daisy stared right back at her.

Pranayama breathing turned to short, panicked puffs of air. It was like some sort of awful, slow-motion nightmare. Candace’s legs refused to obey her and continued towards the one place she really had not wanted to go. All the while, she argued with herself in an internal monologue.

It’s been fifteen years. There’s no way she remembers you or what happened. You were both hormonal teenagers. It didn’t mean anything, it was just—

“Good morning,” Candace greeted on autopilot once she reached the point of no return. She flashed her best customer’s smile, which often got her exceptional service and the occasional extra goodie. “I’d like a large coffee, and—”

Daisy did not reply. Granite-faced, she reached for the DA BOMB sign. The fluorescent flickered out, along with Candace’s hope that her day would get any better.