Second Chance Holiday (Spruce Crossing Christmas Book 2)

1. Ava

Igrit my teeth, swallowing my annoyance as I circle the block a second time, looking for a parking spot in the center of downtown Spruce Crossing. I don’t remember it being so difficult to find a place to park before.

Has this place grown since I was here last? It hasn’t been that long… has it?

Outwardly, Spruce Crossing at Christmastime looks exactly the same to me, flickers of childhood memories darting through my mind as my hands tighten around the steering wheel of my blue sedan. I recognize the same white lights climbing up the lampposts, unlit at this time of early morning, evenly spaced between the heaps of snow blocking Spruce Crossing Park on my right.

If I strain my neck, I can make out the nativity scene in the center as I drive past again, the same one that’s always been there since my childhood, but my attention is more focused on the lack of empty parking spaces than the festive decorations. There will be plenty of time for sightseeing later.

I’m sure some of the décor has been updated over the years, their facades shinier, the bulbs replaced, boughs thicker, but none of this matters in this moment. I desperately need to get to the bakery.

“Finally!” I choke out loud as a car pulls away from in front of Wild Sage, the new hip restaurant that opened a year ago. I’d popped in there myself during their Christmas season kickoff celebration to check out the high-end establishment. It seemed like half the town made it out for the event, but I hadn’t stayed long. My mind had been on other things that only dampened the atmosphere of the evening.

Sliding the vehicle into the spot, I hop out and almost skid against the ice on the sidewalk, catching myself against the hood of my car with a gasp.

Mr. Bennet calls out to me as he exits the Daily Grind, and I turn to look at the familiar face, shocked at how much older he appears now that I haven’t laid eyes on him in a decade, approaching me with a large coffee in his hand. The green Bennet’s Hardware Store apron covers most of his torso, the flap of his parka wide open to show it, a plaid shirt beneath the polyester rousing a half dozen more memories of this little town. Has Mr. Bennet ever worn anything else in his whole life?

“Is that Ava Norwood?” he cries, shuffling closer, adjusting his thick glasses as if he can’t believe his eyes.

I smother a small groan but force a smile, turning to face him as I close my car door. My eyes trail toward the bakery a few feet away. I’m already way behind schedule. There’s no time for chitchat, but I can’t brush him off. It would be rude, especially when I haven’t seen him in literal years.

“Hi, Mr. Bennet!” I reply cheerfully. “Long time, no see!”

“Indeed, it has been a long time!” he agrees, bobbing his head with so much vigor, his glasses fall askew. “You’re back to run things now, are you?”

I guess we’re going right in for the jugular this morning. My smile falters, but I maintain it, bowing my chin as I struggle to find the right response to this. I lack the confidence that I will live up to my mother’s high standards.

“That’s the hope,” I answer brightly.

“If there’s anything you need at your shop, you know where to find me. Amanda and I had quite an understanding on that front.”

I swallow a grimace. How can I explain to him that I am not my mother and that I want to do things my way, not in her shadow?

“Right now, I just need to get to the bakery,” I reply, lifting my head toward the still-closed storefront. “There’s a lot to do. The changeover took a little longer than expected, so the doors have been closed for a couple of days.”

“Yes, I noticed that. Your mom couldn’t wait to escape the cold weather and get down to Florida, could she? And December is her busiest time of year,” he chuckles. “But that’s Amanda for you, always on the go. That’s what made her so successful. Those are some big shoes to fill.”

He really likes to talk and can get going when someone gives him the chance. I’d forgotten that little fact about Mr. Bennet.

“I’m fine, Mr. Bennett, really. But thank you. Your concern is really appreciated. I’m sure you’ll see lots of me now that I’ve moved back.”

I give him my most winning smile, and he nods solemnly like he’s about to say something else, but I don’t give him the opportunity as I offer him a friendly wave and walk down Main Street. To my utter relief, he doesn’t keep up his well-intentioned chatter and bids me goodbye.

To be fair, my mother’s abrupt retirement is still spinning me in circles, too. I had always known that one day, the revered Amanda Norwood would pass the torch, but knowing Mom, I figured it would be when I was old and gray. The call to come and take over my family legacy had me scouring in Boise, elated but also alarmed. I’d rushed to pack up my apartment, my car, and give notice to my job, all based on a childhood promise to take over the bakery one day. I feel like I’m chasing a fairy tale.

Am I ready for this?

I head to Sweet Treats Bakery, my mom’s pride and joy, heels clicking unevenly over the half-salted sidewalk. I should know better than to wear footwear like this during December in Spruce Crossing. My toes are already frozen, and I have a full day ahead of me in the bakery. Or do I? The truth is, I have no idea what really awaits me there. I haven’t stepped foot inside since arriving in town three days ago, but with Christmas coming up in only four weeks, I have no choice but to address the orders which have undoubtedly piled up. Putting them off is only going to make things worse. Sweet Treats is the only bakery in town, and now it’s completely on me to oversee their completion.

Pulling my oversized purse onto my shoulder, I ensure my car is locked, but that seems silly. There’s no crime in Spruce Crossing. It’s not Boise.

I pause in front of the store, noting that it’s the only one without Christmas decorations all along Main Street. Mom didn’t do her annual decorating before heading out to Tampa. It’s one more thing I have to add to the list that’s ever growing in my mind.

Unlocking the front door with my keys, I’m met with the ringing of the landline telephone, and I rush to answer it, getting to it just before voicemail can capture it.

“Sweet Treats Bakery. Ava speaking.”

There’s dead air on the line, and I announce myself again. “Hello?”

The phone clicks, and I sigh, replacing the cordless device on its charger. I will not take this as a bad sign.

But as I look around the storefront, I am suddenly overwhelmed with what needs to be done, even though Mom has reassured me it’s turnkey ready.

As if on cue to my thoughts, the front door opens, and a timid-looking young woman enters. I peer inquisitively at the blonde as she ventures closer, wringing her hands.

“Are you Ava?” she asks worriedly. “Ava Norwood?”

“I am. Do you have an order?” I respond with just as much concern, praying she doesn’t because there aren’t any orders filled. I haven’t even looked.

“Oh! No. I’m Carlie. I work here… or rather, I worked here? I’m a baker.” Her blue eyes widen, and she blinks once, glancing back at the street like she would like to run back onto it. “I was on schedule for today, but I don’t know if I still have a job.”

A wave of relief washes through me, and I exhale. Carlie probably has a better sense of what’s going on here than I do. I’m glad to see her, even though she’s another thing Mom forgot to mention before leaving for Florida.

I’m going to try to call her again tonight, I think, but I don’t have high hopes that I’ll get in touch with my mother. She told me she doesn’t want to think about the bakery until the New Year. After feeling extremely overwhelmed for more than a year, her first panic attack scared her into retiring much faster than either of us would have liked.

“It’s a good thing you’re here,” I tell Carlie honestly, and her slender shoulders sag. “I literally just walked in the door?—”

My words are cut off as the phone rings again, but before I can reach for it, Carlie offers to get it with a simple gesture. I eye her uncertainly, still unsure about her role in the place. At the same time, I have to admit, she definitely knows more than me.

“I can handle the front if you want to get organized in the back,” she suggests. “You can look over the inventory and get yourself acquainted with the shop.”

It’s a semblance of a plan. Better than what I had in my own head—which is nothing at all.

“We need to bake for the day,” I inform her. “It’s already late in the morning, and there’s nothing on the shelves if we want to open.”

“I know,” she agrees, holding up a finger as she answers the call. “Sweet Treats Bakery, Carlie speaking… Oh, hi, Mr. Smith. Yes, your cookie order is still on track for Friday… Yes, you can pick it up here as always. Our hours will remain the same.” Carlie’s gaze settles on my face, and I nod to confirm. “Yes, Mr. Smith. We’ll see you Friday.”

She hangs up and exhales. “There are about two dozen orders that need to be filled,” she explains. “I can probably do most of them if I work overtime.”

“I know how to bake,” I tell her, raising an eyebrow.

She’s shocked at my confession, but I see the relief on her face. “Oh, I didn’t realize that.”

I frown. Mom never talked about me? They don’t know I’m a classically trained pastry chef?

“Is there any other staff?”

“We have weekend staff, but during the week, it’s usually just your mom and me. I handle the front, she handles the back, and we split the baking and orders.”

Again, the phone rings, and Carlie reaches for the receiver. I wait until she placates yet another worried customer before asking her, “Is it always like this, or is it just because my mom is gone?”

Carlie shifts her weight uncomfortably and looks out the window before looking back at me. “They’re worried since your mom is gone,” she confesses.

I nod stiffly. “We’ll get their orders,” I promise sternly, sliding off the stool and pivoting toward the back. The scent of stale dough rises to meet me as I reach up to push through the swinging doors. “But let’s get the day’s goods going, okay? We’re already way behind schedule. I assume we run on normal baker’s hours here.”

“Yes, typically, but the bakery has been closed for a few days. I only came now because someone from the Daily Grind called to say they’d seen you go inside. Normally, your mom is here by five, and I arrive at six. We open at six-thirty and close at 3 p.m.”

That makes sense. I push open the swinging doors, but Carlie’s voice stops me. “Miss Norwood?”

I stop and glance at her. “Ava,” I correct her. “Call me Ava.”

“Why haven’t you come to Spruce Crossing before?” she blurts out.

I tense at the question. “What did my mom tell you about me?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse framed photos lined behind the counter—my mom and me as I grew up, grinning at the camera, covered in flour and icing in various stages of baking. We look so happy in those photos, and I remember every one of them. She didn’t forget about me entirely if she left the pictures up. I guess I should be grateful for that.

“Not much,” Carlie confesses, and the words are knives to my chest. “She said you were too busy to make the trip from Idaho.”

I was the one who was too busy. That’s fresh.

“I had a job in Boise that kept me busy,” I tell her, turning back toward the rear of the shop.

Carlie is either satisfied with the answer or knows better than to ask more as I make my way through the small but spotless kitchen toward the office, unlocking the wood door to let myself inside. Closing the door behind me, I sink into the worn, squeaking swivel chair and stare at the overflowing desk, which is a mess with invoices and bills. The task before me is just as insurmountable as the one beyond the office door.

I’m irate with Mom for just abandoning her prized bakery at the busiest time of year. I got the call two weeks ago, and it was a miracle I was able to pick up and leave so quickly. It definitely helped that a recent breakup fueled my need for a change of scenery.

A part of me almost turned down the opportunity, but I waited so long to hear her say she was entrusting me with her beloved business. Now I have it, and a part of me wants to run screaming down the snowy street. But that’s not me. I’ve given up my entire life in Boise now, my job, my apartment, the few friends I had. I’ll keep Sweet Treats going just like I’ve always dreamed of doing.

“It’s time to get cracking, Ava,” I can hear her whispering in my ear. “No time for self-pity.”

Drawing in a deep breath, I shuffle the mound of papers in front of me to make room for a list. My hand scrawls all the stray thoughts that have been bouncing around in my mind since I rolled into town.

A knock on the office door almost half an hour later shatters my reverie, and I look up as Carlie stands at the threshold, wafts of freshly baking cookies and croissants floating into the windowless office.

“Sorry to bother you, Ava,” she says. “But there’s a call for you.”

Guiltily, I reach for the office phone. “You started baking without me,” I comment. “I’ll be right out.”

“I can handle it,” Carlie informs me dismissively and is gone before I can argue, closing the door behind her back.

Sighing, I pick up the holding call. “Ava Norwood speaking.”

“Ava, hi, I’m calling from the Pine Tree County Baking Association.”

Blankly, my eyes fix on the page in front of me, half-listening to the woman on the other end.

“Uh, huh?” I mumble absently, not cluing into the purpose of the call.

“Your mother will certainly be missed on the circuit,” the woman continues to babble in my ear.

“I’ll let her know,” I reply. If I ever get ahold of her again. “How can I help you?” I ask, hoping to rush the call along.

“I’m calling regarding the Holiday Baking Competition in a few weeks,” she says. I’ve already forgotten her name—if she said it at all—but she has my attention now.

I settle back in the chair and rub my eyes with my thumb and forefingers, a dull headache forming at the back of my skull.

“Competition?” I repeat. “I just got into town, so I’m trying to get up to speed. Is the bakery catering your competition?”

Her laugh is high-pitched and borderline irritating. “Oh, heavens no, honey. Your mother partook in the competition every year—or rather, Sweet Treats did, usually with your mother at the helm.”

“I see…” I say slowly, sitting forward as I scour the desk for some evidence of this event anywhere in the pile of papers.

“Obviously, given the circumstances, we understand if Sweet Treats will need to withdraw?—”

I sit upright, blinking. “Well, hang on a minute,” I interject, a familiar sense of failure overcoming me, even though I’ve done nothing at all. “We’re up and running. There’s no reason to withdraw us from the competition.”

“I know, honey, but without your mom, I just don’t see how you expect to win.”

The comment is a rude slap in the face. My hand closes tightly around the phone, and I steel my temper. “I think I can do it,” I say shortly. “I’ll just need the details.”

She makes a surprised chirp, but it’s mocking to my ears.

“Well, if you’re still interested in being a part of the event, we’ll keep your name in the running,” she purrs placatingly, as if she didn’t just insult me. “I’ll have my assistant email the details to the shop again.”

“Thank you,” I mutter, and we say goodbye before hanging up. But the second I put down the phone, I silently curse myself.

Why did I agree to that? I have enough to worry about without a baking competition on top of everything else!

The headache is full blown now, and I rub my temples furiously as the answer to my own question washes over me.

Because even without Mom physically breathing down my neck, I am trying to prove to her I am good enough. And this time, I don’t have the option of running to another state to escape all the eyes on me.