Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
KENZIE
"I can't wait for winter to end," I sigh.
“These Red Velvets are to die for,” my roommate moans as she finishes the last mini cupcake.
“They sell the best, that's for sure.”
“No kidding,” she deadpans as she wipes her fingertips on a dishtowel and grabs her mug of coffee to chase it.
It's freezing outside, and the snow is piling up. It only stopped snowing an hour ago.
“I can't believe you went on a second date with Jeff.”
“I know. It's been two weeks. We should be past the rejection stage when he springs 'I don't like dogs' on me.” My online profile states Must Love Dogs. Did he think it was a suggestion?
I should have known when he never asked about Sherlock when I mentioned that I have a dog.
“It's so difficult to find a good guy nowadays. Can you believe they drive past to get a look at you before dates now? That's so rude. I mean, what the hell?”
“Jerks. The world is full of them,” Bo mutters.
“When am I going to meet the one? I've been searching for years. I'm working so hard to find 'the one,' and now, I'm afraid it will never happen.”
“Tell me about it.” She rolls her pretty blue eyes in disdain.
“Oh, I will,” I smirk.
Bo has a nose for men. She told me Jeff was too bougie for me. From his overpriced suits to the Bentley he drove, he wore his money like a badge of honor, which made me uncomfortable. He loved to flaunt his success. He said it was for work, but he enjoyed showing off way too much for my taste.
“Well, let's hope the next man is better. Like way better,” she says before taking her last sip of Kona coffee. “What is your secret to those cupcakes? All your desserts are incredible, but those cupcakes are more satisfying than my purple vibrator.”
I snicker. “Butter,” I say as I move to the sliding doors overlooking the creek in the backyard.
“Butter? That's it?” I’ve told her this many times, but she still asks. I guess when you’re a foodie, it doesn’t matter how the food got to tasting so great. I find this to be especially true for Bo because she doesn’t cook. Her idea of dinner is a grilled cheese sandwich and soup—popcorn. God forbid dinner takes more than three minutes to make!
I love to bake and cook. It’s my creative time, and it’s a process I love to perfect. I’m always trying new flavors and adding texture to time-proven recipes; it’s the overachiever in me to be the best at everything I do.
“That's it,” I smile. Sherlock, my six-month-old lab, sits at my feet. I pet his head. “Are you warm?” I ask, giving him my full attention.
Sherlock nuzzles his head into my leg for more scratches behind his ears.
I work long hours and have denied myself a dog for many years. However, when my shrink recommended it as a therapy dog, I knew I had to have one. I might not be loved by a man, but I have love to give. And Sherlock gives me unconditional love.
“What do you think, Sherlock?” Bo asks as she joins us.
“I think Sherlock is happy.”
“Maybe you should hire a matchmaker,” Bo suggests.
“As if anyone will understand me.” I sigh as I notice the orchid on the dining table has bit the dust . I am an incredible baker, but when it comes to plants, I don't have a green thumb. I'm a masochist, buying one expensive orchid after another, only to watch them all die. Last week, I had a conversation with a man in the produce section, and he said they hate the cold. Just my luck. They love humidity and warm weather. I guess that explains why I can’t keep them alive. They are the sad reflection of my love life that hasn’t bloomed either.
I hate to fail, which leads to incessantly trying again and again. I hope to crack the secret to these plants, but so far—nada. I'm adding insult to injury every month. I tell myself I don't have to master everything, but I know the overachiever in me will keep trying. It’s not in my nature to give up; it’s how I’m wired. I suppose my childhood has a lot to do with it. When your life is on the line, you fight like hell. For me, losing isn’t an option.
“I'm an idiot,” I gasp.
“What do you mean?” Bo asks as she joins me on the new leather couch in the living room. She's tall and gorgeous, with perfect full lips. With her pretty blue eyes and high cheekbones, she could pass for Eastern European.
“I can't keep an orchid alive, and I can't pick a man worthy of dating. I constantly make bad decisions,” I complain.
“True. However, you have other talents, like baking the most amazing cakes. I can't do that. And you keep your dog alive and happy. Isn’t that enough?”
“You would too. Sherlock is a sweetheart.”
“The dog, yes. Baking, no. You know me!” she exclaims. “When it comes to those bags you use to frost and decorate things, I'm all thumbs.”
I chuckle. Bo is right. She isn’t great at cooking either. She prefers to order in because she chooses convenience over washing dirty dishes. Maybe we get along well because we have different strengths. She's fantastic with legalese.
We bonded during the awkward middle school years. I had a crush in seventh grade, and another girl stalked me at my locker daily, taunting me. He was my first real crush, but she ruined it. Within weeks, she was hanging out with him. They never dated. I wonder if she stole him from me just because she could.
Bo was there for me. She always has my back. She’s my rock. I didn’t have much of a social life growing up, and when I got sick, I was isolated while in the hospital and at home. My world became an island of one—if it weren’t for Bo. She has been the one constant in my life. I don’t know what I’d do without her.
Living together in college was fun. After graduating, she became a paralegal, and I became a pastry chef. We lived in Kennebunkport and went clubbing on the nights we didn't work. I loved to dance and rarely lacked partners. But dates were rare.
Subconsciously, I think I drove men away. In hindsight, I didn't want to be vulnerable. Being vulnerable to love meant someone could hurt me. For instance, I loved my stepfather, but he wasn’t the best parent in the world. I loved him, but all he wanted to do was control me and put me down. There is no such thing as doing anything correctly; he found fault with every little thing. If the silverware wasn’t perfect, I’d have to redo it. It was my fault if my brothers didn’t put their laundry away. Dad was always right and always perfect, but never us.
Love is indeed blind, especially when it comes to parents. If I felt a twinge of feelings for a man, I retreated. I have a difficult time talking about feelings. My childhood wasn’t one where our parents listened to our bad days. I lack a sympathetic ear when I hear others complain about things because I never had that luxury. We were to suck it up and carry on. I had a difficult childhood, and it hardened me to the plights of others who have an ax to grind.
I wanted to bury my past after college. Moving to Camden Bay was like a get-out-of-jail-free card. This was me starting over with a clean slate. Bo got a job here, so it was a no-brainer to follow her. There was no way I was ever going to move back home. Over the years I’ve realized how much my youth molded me into who I am today. I took adversity and wielded it into strength. Cancer has a way of making or breaking people.
I try to focus on the here and now. But no matter what I do the past filled with relationship failures mocks me. Maybe I don't trust myself to pick a good man. My track record is less than desirable.
“Will I ever find someone? I need a man who loves dogs.”
Sherlock is curled next to me. Bo sits with her legs crossed in the overstuffed chair.
“Well, Sherlock is adorable. If Jeff didn't like him, that was your clue,” she says.
“Why did I think I could change him?”
“Everyone wants their new crush to meet the criteria of their checklist. It takes time to figure out who they are. You rush in too fast.”
“You might have a point. But there has to be a decent man out there.“
I wonder if I'm being too optimistic.
The older I become, the more the dating pool shrinks. It’s not like I’m that old. I’m twenty-five.
“How do I find a good man and make him fall in love with me?”
“You need to cast a wide net and let the chips fall. You’ll freak out because you can’t control it. You can't make someone love you. You rush into every date like it's the one. Maybe you're trying too hard.”
“I'm not a patient person.” How long am I supposed to wait for Prince Charming?
Time is of the essence.
“That shocks me because you need to be patient to bake. It's a science that requires patience, and you don't have that,” she chuckles.
“True. I think I like its creativity. And even though I follow directions, there are days when the icing isn't right, and the cakes are too dry. I guess I like a challenge.”
“I get that. It keeps life interesting.”
“Maybe I like a challenge. And what about you? You have so many men in your office walking around in crisp dress shirts, and they all reek of the most expensive colognes. Is anyone on your radar?”
“No, but the eye candy is a perk,” she smirks.
“So how do I meet more men? I think the current dating pool has dried up.”
“Why don't you try a matchmaker?”
“They're expensive.” I pull my legs up and pull a throw over my shoulders. “Why is it so difficult to meet men? Whatever happened to scoring a date without an app? Dating apps are so impersonal.”
“It's tough. Look at New York City, where women outnumber men 5-1.”
“This is Maine. I doubt the odds are anything like that here.”
“I wish I had the answer for you.”
“What's going on with the new intern?” I ask, to change the subject because my life is sad—very sad.
“He's a walking billboard for GQ if you ask me, but not much is happening between the ears. He's got no real-life experience. The man needs someone to hold his hand just to find his way around the office. He comes to me with endless questions. It's mentally draining.”
“You should go to law school. You have a knack for it.”
“I know. But for now, I make great money and don't take work home, y'know?”
“Yeah.”
“What about you? I thought you'd have your pastry shop by now. Wasn't that part of the five-year plan?”
“Yes. But it's so expensive, and my benefits are great where I am. A business is a huge risk.”
I would love to have a shop, but the amount of money I'd have to borrow terrifies me. For now, I choose the known over the unknown.
“Gabriel has mentioned that he’d love to sell to me. He's getting older, and his kids live in Florida.”
“That's great. You need to consider it. Nothing ventured is nothing gained,” she sing-songs.
“I know,” I sigh. My entire life is right out of a Robert Frost poem. I've always taken the road less traveled, but I'm learning they have cliffs. I've taken risks working for high-end hotels and was fired because I didn’t play politics. I like to swim in a pond that rarely has waves.
I'm not sure I can weather the ups and downs of a business. Between the stress of paying bills and worrying if I can make rent, I'm not sure I could handle it.
My life hasn't been stable. I enjoy working at Le Petite Patissier. It’s been two years now, and Gabriel has taken me under his wing like a pride-filled father I never had.
I've had my share of change, but no one likes it unless there's a great outcome. I'm pretty sure my childhood reinforced my skepticism of the opposite sex. I have no desire to be controlled or belittled.
“I think you are defensive with men. They pick up on it, and the nice ones see through you...”
“And run!” I finish her sentence. Ouch. Her words cut like a knife. Am I sabotaging myself? After a minute of reflection, I learned she might have a point. I guess I’m the one who would rather do the dumping than get dumped.
“The truth hurts. I'm sorry.”
“No. You might be onto something.”
Have I passed over the keepers? I know when couples are getting married because I make their cakes.
Always the bridesmaid and never the bride. I'm the wedding baker, and now Valentine's Day is coming up. I'm not feeling it.
“I have a ton to do for Valentine's Day, but I just want to bury my head in the snow and say, 'Bah Humbug.'
Bo chuckles. “That's for Christmas.”
“Well, I think Cupid is a fickle bitch, and her sarcasm isn't lost on me.”
“Wow,” Bo exclaims, looking at me like I've lost my mind.
“It's true. I'm the facilitator of love, chocolate, and decadent desserts. I deliver every woman's fantasy that converges in one bite, and I've never experienced real love. I want the kind of love where your toes curl during sex, and your bed becomes an island with your lover that you never want to crawl out of. I want that.”
“Yes to that,” Bo exclaims, pointing her finger in the air like she's about to order the best champagne there is to be consumed.
I may need to start day drinking. I've heard mimosas are acceptable before noon.
“Right? I know I'm supposed to be happy for everyone, but seriously, I'm bitter, and it's difficult to smile when I'm miserable. How am I going to pull off this romantic holiday?” I'm not feeling it this year. “It's ironic, that's all. Cupid should have my back—not burst my bubble with his arrows.”
“Tell me how you really feel!” Bo chuckles as she grabs the TV remote from the console. We've left it out a few times, but Sherlock thinks it's cute to steal. We have no clue it’s gone until the TV looks like a slot machine because the channels are flipping rapidly. Then he runs. I love him, but he can be a little devil when he’s in his playful puppy mode. He can be very cunning. He’ll lay on my bed and trap my blanket between his front paws. Then, he’ll rest his chin on it and give me an innocent look. The next thing I notice is a huge hole. He’s a real Houdini.
Sherlock wouldn't think it was funny if I took away his dog channel. He loves hearing and seeing dogs and has a thing for dinosaurs. Jurassic Dominion is his favorite movie. The ending, where the animals run over the plains, is one of his favorite parts.
Sometimes, I think he's a shapeshifter; once human, he returned to earth in a dog's body. He's that smart. He's the only dog I've ever seen who has figured out depth perception and negative space. He knows that when I throw his ball over the couch, he runs around it and retrieves it. Most dogs would stay in place, not knowing where it went.
“News?” I question Bo as she turns on the TV.
Bo flips the channels for a minute and then says, “Must Love Dogs.”
“Ugh. Why can't I find a man like her? I want a date at the dog park!” I pretend to whine.
“Maybe if you weren't such a Karen about being single for the holidays, you would.”
“Wow. You went there. That's twice today. Are you still my friend?”
“Of course. I'm trying to put this into perspective for you. Think positive,” Bo adds.
“I suppose. But you have to admit that Cupid has it in for me.”
“Maybe if you had a man in your life, it would hold you back. Get your career going before you add complications. Use this time to buy the bakery and travel. Besides, you need a vacation.”
“I do, but I can't do that until after Easter.”
“Right. Well, put it on your long list of to-dos. I'll go with you if you don't have a boyfriend by then. But I'm sure you will. I have faith in the universe.” She gives me her smirky smile as if she knows something that I don’t.
“I hope you have enough faith for both of us,” I murmur.
I'm not a Karen. Years of disappointment have left me frustrated and resentful. Why am I getting passed over on Valentine's Day again?
Bo tunes into a movie that starts in ten minutes. I decide to take Sherlock for a walk while the sun is out.
“You'll love this, boy. This movie has a dog named Saint Theresa in it,” I murmur.
Bo chuckles. “You're going to hell. I wonder if she's a virgin, too.”
“Well, that's her name,” I argue.
“Yes, it is.”
“I'm going to take Sherlock for a walk in the park before we settle in. Do you mind waiting for us?”
“Nope. I'll make bagels.”
I tug on my red boots and coat.
Sherlock paces excitedly.
“I'm almost ready; hold on.”
He prances when I pick up his leash. I clip it to his harness and open the door.
He bolts into the cold air as if possessed, giving me a jolt. He's ten months old and full of energy.
“Slow down, boy!” I wrap his leash around my gloved hand and tug my hood over my head.
Damn, it's freezing.
I rescued Sherlock from a shelter. He looked depressed in the cage. They told me his legs were weak, and he couldn't walk far as he spent the first twelve weeks in a crate.
He's a white lab with black heart-shaped fur on one ear. I loved him at first sight. I thought the black on his ear was from a marker, but after scrubbing it for five minutes, I stopped when it didn't come off.
Maybe there is hope for me. I want to be loved, to fall in love, and to feel something profound. I've been waiting for someone special my entire life, but it hasn't happened. I try, and frankly, I'm ready to give up.
“Come on, boy,” I say, walking him on the sidewalk that leads to the local park a block away. Usually, I'd make it short, but the sun entices me, and I’m soaking up its warmth. I’m sure I can use the vitamin D. I trudge on, moving over the light layer of frozen snow that crunches under my feet.
Sherlock is energized by the cold and the fact that there are new sniffs to gather. And, like any puppy, he tugs at the leash.
I try to wrap his leash around my hand more securely when Sherlock suddenly bolts, and the leash is yanked out of my hand.
Oh, fuck!
My heart is a lump in my throat as he quickly dashes across the busy street.
“Sherlock, come!” I yell desperately.
I'm filled with dread as cars fly by. My blood pressure soars in angst, causing my heartbeats to pound in my ears like drums.
In a panic, I run. It's my fault. He has to be okay.
I hear the squeal of tires and fear the worst. I clench my hands and force myself to run faster.
I'll never forgive myself if something happens to him. I quickly look and dash across the street as I scan the horizon. I find him dashing into the park. He's still running!
I follow, running as fast as I can, desperate. I have to reach him before he gets hurt.
The crisp snow under my feet slows me down.
Then Sherlock pauses to look at me.
“Stay!” I command.
But instead of doing what I want him to do, he turns, making a beeline for the pond. His red leash glides over the snow.
Tears erupt. I can't lose him! I have difficulty seeing where I'm running because my face is wet. I am determined to keep him safe even though my lungs hurt from the cold air.
I'm relieved he's okay and still headed to the pond. When I reach the bank covered with snow, I pause. Sherlock has made a friend. Labradors are lovable, and they have friendly personalities. They can't resist another dog or someone to love on them.
I stand, zeroing my eyes to focus on the man in hockey gear! He's very good on skates and is engrossed in a conversation with my dog! Doesn't he know he almost got run over?
I'm about to say something, but I am mesmerized as Sherlock glides over the ice and then falls, his limbs going wide as his body plants itself on the ice. The man circles him, helps him up, and skates backward around him.
I lift my arm and wipe my face on the sleeve. But new tears come. This time, it's with relief. Sherlock is safe.
The man laughs and slides a puck to him. He’s engaging with my dog! My heart melts at the sight of them playing. Sherlock bats it with his paw and chases the puck. Their game consumes them; both—neither notices me.
Who is this stranger with the hockey stick? His hair is medium length, his eyes are blue, and his body is oh-so-fine. I can tell he's in shape, even though he's dressed in a hockey jersey. I like a tall man, and he doesn't disappoint. If I had to guess, I'd peg him in his thirties.
“Sherlock!” I yell, feeling like a voyeur. Am I a bad mother? I'm not great on skates, and I never dreamed he'd like the ice! He's having so much fun. I feel guilty that I didn't know this and, worse, knowing that I have to pull him away.
“Sherlock,” I yell again. Did my dog bond with a stranger over me? Am I a bad mother?
I sighed with relief when, suddenly, they both turned to me. The man calls my dog and leads him towards me.
“Is he yours?” the stranger asks as he comes closer.
“Yes!” I reply, giving Sherlock my attention. I grab his leash, sink to my knees, and hug him. A tear slips from my eye. I can't believe he's okay. I bury my head in his fur. Sherlock ran across the street. It's a miracle he didn't get hit. “I can't lose you,“ I murmur. Then I glance at the stranger's face. ”He ran to you.“
“I guess he has good taste in strangers. That's a busy street. I'm glad he's okay! I think he likes hockey.” He smiles, and my heart flips. All the fear and anxiety I felt is forgotten.
Sherlock gives me a look as if to say, “I'm okay, Mom.”
“I'm relieved he's okay. Thank you for entertaining him.” I stand, and the stranger's cerulean blue eyes and chiseled chin take me by surprise. I was too far away to grasp how handsome he was. His voice is deep and pleasant.
“I'm Kenzie.” I offer my hand.
“Mikael,” he replies, taking my hand.
“Thank you for catching him.”
“Honestly, he found me. He's cute. What's with his name?”
I get that question a lot as it’s an unusual name for a pet. “My last name is Holmes.”
He chuckles. “Ah, that makes sense,“ he replies as he pets my dog again. ”Be a good boy,“ he coos as he gives him a final pet.
“I can't thank you enough. Why don't you come by La Petite Patissier on Main Street? I'll buy you a coffee.”
“That's not necessary.”
“I want to do something nice for you. You saved my dog.”
“I love dogs.” He pushes his sleeve up and glances at the expensive watch. “I have to get back to it. Maybe I'll see you around...”
“Sure,” I reply, convinced he's not interested.
He's gorgeous and friendly. He loves dogs, and—he's not into me.
I kneel beside Sherlock, who stands watching Mikael return to the ice. He barks, and Mikael turns to wave.
“Well, that was that,” I sigh. “Let's take a quick walk. I want to get you home.”
I'm upset he was in danger. I worry when we approach the streetlight. I instruct him to sit.
He obeys.
I pet his head. “Good job.”
“Heel,” I say as we cross the road. I looked both ways the entire time and am thrilled we crossed safely. Dammit, today could have had a different ending, and it scares the shit out of me. My anxiety has passed, but the fact of the matter is that when events don't go as planned, my body reacts. I can't control it. The professionals said the pathway to proper responses has been destroyed by repeated trauma. I’ve had counseling; I just need to conquer it once and for all.
I breathe in for four seconds, hold it for four seconds, breathe out for four, and hold it again. I repeat this as I walk, and by the time we reach the apartment, I’m feeling better.
I promptly shuck my boots and coat. I unleash Sherlock, and we enter the living room, where Bo sits on the couch, drinking her second cup of coffee.
“You won't believe what happened,” I gasped.
“What?” she asks, looking to me.
“Sherlock ran across the street. I don't know how he wasn't hit by a car. I was so scared. I'm so stupid.”
“No, you're not. It happens to everyone.”
She's trying to make me feel better, but I'm visibly shaken.
“It happened so fast. If it weren't for Mikael, he might have been lost out there.”
“He has a chip. I'm sure you're upset, but he's fine.” She glances at Sherlock, and he nuzzles her feet. “Who is Mikael?” Her inquisitive eyes focus on me.
“A hot man with a big stick and standing on skates,” I reply as I sit on the edge of the cushion. Sherlock joins me.
She chuckles at my description.
“He was playing hockey on the pond,” I explain. “If it weren't for him... I don't know.“ I shrug, and goosebumps pepper my arms. It’s a scare I never want to experience again, that’s for sure. Even now, I’m still in disbelief.
“Well, he's fine. You're fine. Did he get your number?”
“No. I stupidly told him to come by the shop for coffee. I mean, he saved my dog, and I offered him free coffee. And he said he'll see me around,” I roll my eyes. “Typical. I'm telling you, Cupid has it out for me.”
“It was something. I'm sure he appreciated it.”
“He seemed preoccupied.”
“Well, you can't make up his mind for him. Can I start the movie?”
“Yes!” I all but shout because I'm happy for a distraction. I need my heartbeat to return to normal before I hyperventilate.
But throughout the movie, I revel in the fact that Mikael loves dogs.
I wonder if he has a girlfriend.
Probably—because Cupid hates me.
The movie ends, and we take a break. I enter my bedroom and flop on my bed. Sherlock jumps onto the bed and lays beside me, dropping his head on my chest.
I nuzzle him. “What's up, boy? You had fun today. Maybe you're a snow dog. I didn't know you liked the ice.”
He licks my face, confirming my suspicion.
I laugh. He's my happy place. I have been treated for panic attacks. I hate unnecessary medications and have weaned myself off them. However, traumas have a nasty ability to resurface. I went through counseling, which helps, but it's not a cure-all. My body is well-versed in flight or fighting when confronted with daily obstacles that frustrate me. My subconscious believes I'm in harm's way even if I'm lying like I am now. It's another reason I purposefully stay busy all the time. Keeping myself focused on a task gives me less room to wander into gray areas in my past. The areas that give me nightmares. The thought of what would happen if I didn't make it? The worry that comes every time I have the sniffles, wondering if the cancer has returned.
And then there is the guilt that I survived when others didn't.
I lean over to grab the remote, and the paperwork to buy the bakery mocks me. Gabriel has offered the store to me. I’m not ready to share it with Bo as I’m too scared to take the next step. She’s pragmatic, but I’m not ready to share this tidbit with her just yet.
I grab the papers. I can't focus on the contract. Fear of the unknown consumes me. I'm overwhelmed by all the what-ifs as a business owner.
What if I can't pay rent? I'd lose the one place where I feel safe and happy. What if I get sick and can't work? What if sales drop off after I buy it? I can’t move back into my parent’s house. My overbearing stepfather is a menace. Besides, Mom hates animals and won’t allow Sherlock in her house.
I don't have the luxury of taking risks like normal people. I know there’s little about me that’s normal. I’ve always been true to myself. It’s why I’m not a cheerleader, a groupie, or a follower. Risks mean too much is out of my control, and that's never good. When I was sick, nothing was in my control. Perhaps that’s why I stay in my lane and don’t push limits as much as I should.
I had no control over my home life as a child. I had no control when I had cancer. I have no control over the fact that my mother refuses to talk about anything meaningful. I don't fit in anywhere. Bo is a lifeline, just like Sherlock. She knows what I've been through. She's the sister I never had. She was there for me when no one else was. My grandmother lived in upstate Maine and had to work, but we talked all the time.
For me, being out of control means terrible things happen.
I can't do it, I decide. I'm fearful I'll fail. I don't get to live a life like healthy people. I need a safe life. I need security, insurance, and a steady paycheck.
I'm not like everyone else. What if I get sick again?
I have to be safe because knowing what’s happening puts me in control of my destiny. There are many things in life out of our control. To take on the risk that could leave me destitute scares the shit out of me. I have more than just myself to be concerned about—I now have Sherlock.
Risks are for men who look like Mikael. He's confident, charismatic, and gorgeous. I'm sure he can do anything he wants without paralyzing fear.
Anxiety swells in my chest.
I hug Sherlock, and he licks my face.
“I don't know what to do,” I mutter as if he understands me. Maybe he does.