“For fixing hot dogs,” Greg explained.
“And marshmallows,” Max chimed in. “We call it indoor camping.”
Jenny couldn’t decide which was stronger—the frat house theme or the camping theme. Instead of regular bedding, they had down-filled sleeping bags. On bare mattresses.
“I am so taking you sheet shopping,” Olivia murmured to Daisy as they checked out the upstairs. Jenny lost count of the bedrooms, closets and bathrooms. Most were empty and unheated, the doors shut.
“Thank God,” Daisy said. “My dad forgot a few things. It’s kind of okay, though, starting over from scratch.”
“There’s plenty of room for you to come and stay with us, Jenny,” Greg said. “For as long as you need.”
She felt a surge of warmth and gratitude. This was what a family did. They pulled together, helped each other out. Still, she couldn’t quite put her faith in the process. Without a shared history, it was hard to buy into the idea of family.
“That’s incredibly nice of you,” she said. “Everything is crazy right now.” She suspected there could be problems with such an arrangement, however. Greg was her uncle by birth, but they were still virtual strangers. He was newly divorced and his ex was a lawyer. Too many complications, she thought. “I’m all right for the time being,” she said.
“True,” Olivia agreed. “Who wouldn’t be all right with the chief of police?”
Jenny’s cheeks instantly stung with color. “It’s only temporary. Very temporary.”
“We know,” Olivia said.
Jenny was surprised when Laura Tuttle showed up. Apparently, Philip had invited her. “I brought a pie,” Laura said, moving easily into the kitchen. And just like that, everyone pitched in to get dinner on the table. It was strange and wonderful for Jenny to feel the rhythm of a family once again. Dinner was spaghetti, bag salad and bread from the bakery, nothing fancy but served with great generosity. The camping theme continued with paper plates and plastic flatware, though Greg had actual wineglasses for the adults.
Afterward, there was more wine, along with coffee and dessert—a chess pie from Sky River. The kids were excused to go watch TV, and the others discussed Jenny’s situation again. Everyone wanted to help out, and none more sincerely than her father.
“I don’t want to rush you or push, but I know this is a crucial time for you,” he said.
Understatement, she thought.
“Maybe you’d like to give more time to your writing,” Philip said. “You’re an excellent writer.”
“You’ve been reading my column?” she asked.
He nodded. “I ordered a subscription to the Avalon Troubadour to be mailed to me in New York so I could read ‘Food for Thought’ every Wednesday.” He smiled at her stunned expression and helped himself to another slice of pie. “Anyway, in the city, you could meet people in publishing, determine whether or not you want to pursue writing as a career.”
Lost in wonder, Jenny wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. “It’s a weekly column, not a full-time job.”
“At the moment,” Philip pointed out. “I always wanted to be a writer. Didn’t seem practical for me, though.”
“And it seems practical for me?”
“You’re still young enough to take a risk,” he said.
She felt flustered as she looked at her sister and father. “Thank you. I’m flattered that you’ve been reading my column.” She smiled, determined to conquer the panic knocking in her chest. “I’ve often wondered what it would be like to be a full-time writer, maybe gather my recipes and essays into a book.” There. She’d said it. She’d told these people her dream. The idea of being a writer had always seemed so fragile and unlikely, a secret best kept to herself. Yet maybe Rourke was right. When she shared her dream, it took on shape and substance, grew sturdier.
And she would need to work full-time if she was going to rebuild all the writing that had been lost in the fire. Although the paper had archived her columns, everything else—the things she hadn’t published because they were too raw or too personal or too new—were gone now, and she didn’t know if she could ever get them back.
“Then you should go for it,” Olivia said.
“Your writing is delightful to read,” Philip added. “I love the glimpses into the life of the bakery. I feel as if I know your grandparents, the regular customers and the people who worked there over the years. And I’m proud of you. I’ve never read a food column before, but lately I’ve been bragging to everyone about my daughter’s writing.”
It felt shockingly good to hear those words. Never in her life had she thought she would experience this—a father’s pride in something she had done. Sure, her grandparents had recognized her accomplishments, but neither had been a big reader of English. Now here was this intellectual man—Philip Bellamy—proud enough to tell his friends about her.
“How do you feel about spending some time in the city?” he asked in all sincerity.
“I…” Jenny took a gulp of wine. The city? New York City? Was he kidding? All right, she thought. Be cool. “I’m not quite sure… I haven’t considered it.”
“Maybe you should.”
“But the bakery—”
“You could take a sabbatical from the bakery.”
The Bellamys, Jenny had realized some time ago, did not always understand the way the real world worked. “It isn’t that simple. You don’t just take a sabbatical from the bakery. It’s open seven days a week.”
“It could be done,” said Laura. “I can look after the place while you take some time for yourself.”
There had never been a time in her life when Jenny wasn’t involved in the bakery. Even as a child, she had spent a portion of every day there, sweeping floors, stacking trays or sometimes just keeping her grandmother company. They used to
