“I always told her not to worry about cleaning up. I wanted her to just enjoy the experience of baking.” Mabel smiled, staring off at something past Bri’s shoulder as she reached for the roll of paper towels. Her voice softened, seeming extra quiet next to the brightness of her electric-blue eyeshadow. “There’s something therapeutic about creating amid the mess.”
Creating amid the mess. It sounded nice. But Bri never made a mess. She liked life tidy. Neat. In her control.
“Did she take your advice?” Bri wiped the counter with a damp towel, gathering the last clumps of flour and smears of cream cheese from the smooth surface.
“No,” Agnes piped up. “Thank goodness.”
“I think after so long, the kitchen just knew to sparkle whether she actually cleaned up or not.” Mabel chortled.
That sounded like the type of magic her mother had wielded. Bri smiled as she picked up her piping bag. She had no problem being just like her mom—neat, tidy, controlled. Life didn’t have to be complicated. Baking in the Pastry Puff was simple and predictable, and that’s where Bri wanted to stay.
Mabel’s voice broke the cozy silence. “Charles called again last night.”
Bri’s hand tightened on the piping bag. “To discuss the weather, right?”
“Cloudy with a chance of ignorance.” Agnes rolled her eyes.
Mabel swatted at her. “Agnes, he’s just a dedicated businessman.”
“No, he’s a meddling lawyer.”
“Who made us a very generous offer.”
How generous? Bri’s stomach dipped. Surely they weren’t actually entertaining him.
“A generous offer from an annoying—”
“Now, Agnes, he’s persistent. It’s an admirable trait.” Mabel pointed with a hot-pink nail. “Besides, business has slowed since that initial rush after the virus.”
“Viral video,” Bri and Agnes corrected at the same time.
Mabel waved her hand. “Po-tay-to, puh-tah-to.”
“She has a point.” Agnes pursed her lips. “I truly hate when that happens.”
Bri had noticed the slowing business too but had hoped it’d been her imagination. Unfortunately, it seemed like business was back to locals only, which before the video had barely been enough to sustain the shop. The sudden influx of customers helped a lot, as evidenced by the bank deposits, but how long would the sisters be willing to keep it going on a thread if everything returned to normal?
Her heart thumped louder in her chest. On top of that, Charles was upping the ante. Was her worst nightmare actually possible?
Mabel chimed back in, concern pitching her voice. “Bri, dear, I think that petit four is decorated enough now.”
Bri glanced down at her angry grip, which had squeezed enough green icing to represent an entire forest, instead of the flower leaf she’d intended. Oops. She set the bag down on the counter, unable to meet Mabel’s eyes.
She tried to keep her voice level, but it pitched anyway. Agnes’s gaze bored into her cheek. “So, are you considering the offer?” She focused on the petit four in front of her, painstakingly swiping the excess icing with her finger and attempting to appear casual, as if her entire future didn’t hang on Mabel’s answer.
“When you’re our age, honey, you consider everything.” Mabel laughed and elbowed Agnes, who remained stoic. She didn’t seem as tempted as Mabel to sell, which offered Bri a bit of hope.
No way could Charles win. He had no idea what the Pastry Puff meant to her—not really. No one could truly understand, except maybe Mabel and Agnes. But if they were mulling over his increasingly ludicrous offers, maybe they didn’t fully get it either.
Charles definitely wouldn’t listen to her—if anything, his bitterness over their failed relationship was egging him on out of spite. But Charles was too much of a professional to admit as much.
If coaxing him down wasn’t an option . . . there weren’t many left. She licked a clump of icing off her finger. She had to do something.
She hesitated. More like, Gerard had to do something. He might be her only hope—and she’d just publicly insulted her only hope in front of the town gossip and an entire lobby of people. It looked like there was only one solution. She stared at the lingering green stain on her finger.
The crow she was about to devour wasn’t going to taste nearly as sweet.
He’d never admit it, but libraries had always been comforting. When Gerard was younger and needed to hide from his mother’s newest boyfriend, he’d escape to the rows of science fiction and spend hours poring over the graphic novels and the newest releases from his favorite authors—which were usually over a year old by the time the library picked them up.
The librarian who worked afternoons—he couldn’t remember her name, but she smelled like the wildflowers that grew by the highway and had curled gray hair he would swear to this day was a wig—would always give him a free bookmark or soft peppermint. Looking back, he figured she knew something was up at home and was doing what she could to encourage him.
Back then, he just appreciated the free candy.
Gerard pulled open the heavy door to Story’s library, a rush of warm air washing over him. He inhaled the scent of memories and felt a little bit of the stressful day chip off his back. With all his travels and writing, he didn’t spend nearly enough time on his favorite pastime, reading. One more thing to add to the “after this feature is finished” list.
He figured he’d research the city’s history to give his article the extra depth it was missing. Checking out the local library had sounded a lot more appealing than googling facts while hiding in his room from Mrs. Beeker. The woman stalked him almost nightly with her tray
