“Is it bad?”
“No. But it’s not what you were expecting.”
“I’ve learned recently that it’s better to just have zero expectations.”
“Great. Then you’ll love it.” Gerard reached into his pack on the floor and pulled out his laptop. “Here.” He booted it up, hit a few keys, and turned the screen for her to see. “This is the final part two, save any edits my boss feels led to incorporate.”
Bri adjusted the screen to compensate for the glare of the overhead lights and started to read.
Not all who wander are lost—but in Story, Kansas, not all who stay are found.
She raised her eyes to meet his.
“Keep reading.”
That said, there’s much to be found in the Pastry Puff, a Parisian-themed café tucked into the middle of the Midwest—somewhat bitter coffee, exceptional service, and one of the best macarons this world traveler has ever tasted.
“You had to mention the coffee.”
“I’m a man of honesty. Keep going.” He tapped the computer.
She skimmed through the recap of their menu offerings, more fully described in part one, along with the joint ownership between Mabel and Agnes.
The Puff is best known for its love locks and matchmaking schemes—but perhaps the Puff’s greatest treasure isn’t found in its celebration of traditional love. Perhaps it’s found in the heart of the service behind the management.
A popular TV show once thrived on the theme of belonging, of coming where “everybody knows your name.” At the Puff, not only will your name be heard and remembered, it’ll become part of the establishment.
This seasoned traveler has purchased goods from remote corners of the world—from tents surrounded by camels, from huts composed of mud and straw, and from modern stores dripping in diamonds—and not once have I encountered such a genuine desire by the management to connect with and make a difference in the community.
Bri’s eyes misted over and she kept reading. The number of days the Puff has left are unfortunately quite possibly numbered. Mid-America cafés aren’t always suited for longevity and are hard to sustain in the ever-changing retail market. Throw in a few wealthy sharks circling live bait, and the end is often inevitable.
She snickered at the accurate allusion to Charles.
But one tale I suspect will live on forever in Story is the one that began in a tiny, Midwestern bakery. A story of once upon a time, of a beautiful woman with a great deal of courage who left her home to journey to a faraway land. A story where a woman fell in love, made choices both good and bad, and birthed a miniature version of herself, whom she taught to carry on her legacy.
That lovely blonde legacy still bakes at the Pastry Puff today. And it’s my suspicion that, come what may to the brick and mortar, this particular legacy will continue to do what she does best—serve with love—wherever she goes.
Bri blinked back tears, a hundred thoughts vying for attention first. She licked her lips, wanting to speak, unsure where to even start. “I don’t know what to say.”
His gaze held hers, steady and intentional. “Say you love me too.”
Her heart cartwheeled and her mouth dried. “You haven’t said it first.”
“Oh, yeah.” He smiled and stood, then took her hand, tugging her up beside him. “I love you, Abrielle. I love your bitter coffee and your heart for people and your courage.” He tucked her hair behind her ear, his finger tangling into her thick strands. “I even love your blonde hair.”
“What do you mean, even?” She pulled back an inch to meet his gaze and frowned.
“Long story. Tell you later.” He grinned, then his eyes grew serious once more. “My boss sent me here because he hoped I’d find something to get my writing back on par—he hoped I’d find you.”
Bri swallowed hard.
“And after talking with Pastor John and then after an even longer conversation with God, I realized that the Lord was the one who actually sent me here.” He gently rubbed her arms. “When I first met you, I thought you were a romance-obsessed, head-in-the-clouds kind of girl. A woman stuck in a fantasy.”
“You’ve never done this before, have you?” Bri squinted at him.
“Hang on. I’m not done.” He drew her close. “Turns out I was wrong—again. You had the wisdom I needed all along. You called me out for running—so when Pastor John did the same last night, I was able to hear it. You were right. I’ve been hiding. Scared of roots and what would grow if I stood still long enough.”
“And are you standing now?” She held her breath, afraid to hope. Afraid not to.
“A little wobbly, but I’m up.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I see now how many people tried to love me with little acts of kindness. They offered me a place to stay when Mom vanished for days or tried to give me home-cooked meals when she was on one of her benders.”
She squeezed his hand. She couldn’t even imagine dealing with that as a kid—especially as a young boy trying to shoulder the responsibilities that should have been on a father. Her childhood had been perfect. Maybe some of it had been an illusion, in hindsight, but her parents’ love for her—and clearly for each other—had been a constant. Despite the recent discovery of the letters, she’d never had to doubt her security or her family’s name.
Gerard continued. “I was so guarded, I thought the church members were just being nosy or pitying me. But watching you love the people of this town showed me how much genuine heart goes into those kinds of gestures. Then
