Bakery? Hair salon? Head shop? Even vacant, the place already had this small town abuzz.
Then, one sunny morning, the paper was gone, the door wide open, and the Rise and Shine revealed.
It was a feast for the senses:
Yellow daisies in jars atop odd-shaped tables. Mismatched chairs. Aromatic coffee and baked delights. Items one might find at a flea market covering walls and ceiling. Couches and floor cushions surrounded by shelves filled with books. Board games to play.
Then there was newcomer Shelle, the owner. With grey curls and bohemian style, was she a transplant from the 1960s? A reimagined Earth Mother?
Rise and Shine opened early, closed midafternoon, then reopened at night. It attracted townspeople of all ages. And because Shelle had no employees, customers began assisting — serving food, washing dishes, cleaning tables and floor.
The place quickly became locals’ home away from home. No one was turned away. Political discussions were taken outside. The few squabbles — mostly among family members — resolved with hugs.
“I want to live here,” a burly teen told his friends.
“Wish my childhood home had been like this,” a woman whispered to her female companion.
Still, Shelle remained an enigma. “Oh, I’ve lived various places,” she said once about her past. “My cats loved me,” when asked about family. And when Rise and Shine closed on holidays, she declined customers’ dinner invitations.
They celebrated her with biannual Thank You, Shelle potlucks in a park.
Then came the day Rise and Shine didn’t open. “Sorry” read the sign. No daisies. No lights. For days.
Where was Shelle? Worried customers pestered town officials for her home address. Her secluded mountainside cottage was locked up.
They kept pestering: She had been hospitalized. They caravanned to visit. No patient by that name. They refused to leave.
Finally, a man who looked to be a relative emerged. Shelle was there but not seeing anyone. She was having “psychological problems.” He would meet them back at Rise and Shine to explain.
“I want to respect my sister’s privacy. But I will share these newspaper clippings — they’re public record.”
Gasps, shouts and sobs filled the Rise and Shine as Shelle’s regulars read the accounts of horrific childhood violence and neglect. Now they understood why she had been so secretive about her life, even changing her name.
And the likely reasons for Rise and Shine’s loving home-like vibe.
They spent the evening planning. And the following day returned to the hospital.
“You have visitors — they’re out on the lawn. They’re insisting they won’t leave until you look out the window,” Shelle was told.
Nurses helped her up.
Outside were her regulars with a huge rainbow-colored sign, yellow daisies painted on both ends.
“We’re your family now. Come home. Rise and shine, Shelle.”