“I’ve been talking to the Lord about your mom.” John lightly tapped Gerard on the shoulder with his Oreos. “Wouldn’t hurt for you to take a minute and do the same about your future.”
Bri flipped on the bakery lights at the Puff, wincing against the sudden glare. Her eyes, which had been red-rimmed and glazed when she dared peek in the mirror that morning before heading to work, felt as dry and lifeless as she did.
She had been too late. She hadn’t found Gerard. He hadn’t answered his cell, and when she ran by the B&B, Mrs. Beeker admitted she hadn’t seen him all evening.
Now, it was after 6:00 a.m. He was probably halfway back to Chicago—if not already all the way home. She’d googled the distance last night while lying in bed, kicking herself for her emotional knee-jerk reaction and losing him. Over eight hours.
Maybe a clean break was for the best. Rip off the Band-Aid and all that.
But it didn’t feel like the best.
In fact, nothing felt right anymore. It was like she’d awakened from a dream, and now everything felt . . . a little false. Tainted. Different.
She was different.
Bri planted her hands on her hips and turned a slow circle around the empty bakery. In a matter of weeks—maybe sooner, if Charles had his way—the Pastry Puff would be gutted and a uniformed barista would be standing in that same spot her mother used to stand. But instead of humming and creating delectable art, this barista would be pouring brand-name coffee and pushing brand-name muffins across the counter.
The door chimed, and Mabel and Agnes shuffled in. Agnes’s coat was buttoned to her neck, and Mabel had a mink—hopefully fake—scarf draped around her neck.
“Good morning.” Bri forced her best smile, but Mabel shook her head.
“No need for the fakesies today. We know you’re upset.”
“That’s not even a word, Mabel.” Agnes rolled her eyes as she dumped her purse on one of the nearby tables and began to unbutton her coat.
“It’s a word now, because I said it. Fakesies.” Mabel repeated it louder as she undraped her scarf with a dramatic flair. “And Bri knows what I mean. Don’t you, honey?”
Before Bri could answer, Mabel pointed to the chair across from Agnes’s coat. “Sit.”
Bri sat.
“We couldn’t let you go a minute longer without hearing the whole story.” Mabel took the chair next to Bri and reached for her with her gnarled, wrinkled hand. The deep purple of her fingernail polish matched the veins running across the top of her hand.
Bri clung to her—to the same hand that had wiped her tears, hugged her tight, and swatted her when she was being ridiculous.
“Are you mad at us?” Agnes sat down in the third chair, leaning forward and bracing her weight on her elbows. Her gaze, while always serious, held a tinge of genuine concern Bri hadn’t seen in a long time. “It’s okay if you are.”
“Not mad.” Bri shook her head, not fully trusting her voice. “Just—confused.” To say the least. After all this time—why now? Why at all? Had she failed, somehow? All the questions she couldn’t voice without collapsing into a pile of tears.
Mabel nodded. “It was a hard decision. I know we act like spring chickens, but we’re getting older, and honestly, I don’t think we can keep up this pace.”
“Don’t get us wrong, you’re an amazing help around here. You run the place and do most of the baking.” Agnes patted Bri’s arm. “But you can’t be a one-woman show forever.”
“You have a gift, Bri.” Mabel’s voice dropped to a whisper, as if she were sharing a secret. “You bake like your mother.”
The compliment ricocheted off her guarded heart. She couldn’t let it fully sink in. Couldn’t take the praise she so desperately wanted to hear. She’d wanted it for so long, she didn’t know how to receive it. “You mean because I finally figured out her secret ingredient?”
Agnes raised her chin. “Speaking of which, that was the most random secret ingredient ever—”
“No.” Mabel shot Agnes a look with a capital L. “Because you bake with love, honey. You put yourself into those desserts. It matters to you—because the customers matter to you.”
The compliment wiggled through the brick guard and embedded deep. Slowly, her wall began to dissolve. Mabel’s words reminded her what Gerard had said on the street that day she’d run into him on her way to Casey’s house. “You’re happy because you’re serving the people of your town. Caring for the elderly and discounting goods for those struggling and holding babies for stressed out moms so they can drink their coffee in peace. Handing out cupcakes to homeless men on bicycles. Remembering people’s orders and making them feel special. Listening to everyone who’s willing to talk. That’s what fills you up.”
Her mom had done the same—baked with love, with intentionality. She used desserts to calm anxieties and develop friendships and offer encouragement. She’d brought back her recipes from Paris to create masterpieces in her little town, ones filled more with joy and hope than cream or compote.
Tears pricked for an entirely different reason. Was she really like that? She wanted to be.
“You’re capable of more than this.” Mabel gestured around the Puff. “You have so much to offer. We knew if we held on to the Puff, you’d never leave. We want you to fly.”
“Why is leaving such a good idea?” Her pulse thudded in her ears, and she thought of her plane ticket to Paris. She was about to fly, literally—ready or not. “What’s wrong with home?” With security. With familiarity.
“It’s never truly leaving when you have a home. And you always have a home here. With us.” Mable gestured between her and Agnes, who nodded. “Nothing else will change.”
But Bri knew it would. The Puff would change into a chain. Charles would be in charge. She’d have to make an effort to go by Mabel and Agnes’s house to see them regularly. Their tight dynamic
