January 21
Taylor
A s big, heavy snowflakes begin to fall outside the window of the Sweetheart Bake Shop, I stand inside, alone but for Maggie, who’s curled up asleep in her pink bed. It’s been a quiet business day, and I’m about to shut the doors early as I sometimes do in winter when things are slow and darkness is about to descend.
But first I reach for the valentine box. It’s a habit. Yes, I’m on the lookout for rogue orders, but I actually enjoy rifling through it every day or two. To see and touch the memory that is the box itself, to run my fingers over the childhood valentines that line it, somehow feels safe and familiar, bringing back sweet recollections of my dad. But at the same time, the business cards my customers drop inside remind me that life goes on, and that it’s always changing, and that good memories—and also bad—just slowly become the fabric of our lives.
Though maybe the notion of memories fading into the background felt truer before Luke and Jasmine suddenly turned back up in town, almost at the same time. The valentines in the box and the memories they conjured felt nostalgic, like old news. Now, they don’t feel so old. Things that seemed long since over and done don’t feel so finished anymore. I’ve been transported back to old times and old emotions more than once.
“But I’m not that girl anymore,” I insist in a whisper to no one.
No, I’m the girl who couldn’t hold eye contact with Luke Montgomery the other night when he was about to kiss me. I roll my eyes at my own behavior.
Running my fingertips across the aging cards that line the box’s lid, I’m remembering the little slip of paper that once got stuck there—when the front door opens and two women step inside from the cold. “Welcome in,” I say, promptly sliding the lid back on.
Bundled up in coats and gloves, they both appear awestruck as they look around.
“It’s as cute as it seemed online,” one of them declares from beneath a red knit hat. “Hearts everywhere!”
“And oh my gosh, look at the display case,” the other gushes, pushing a fur-rimmed hood off her head to reveal long, ebony locks underneath. “All the heart-shaped cookies and cupcakes! And that heart cake is so cute!” It’s a lemon cake with icing drizzled in a criss-cross pattern, finished with colored confetti candies sprinkled on top. “And the scents in here.” She stops to breathe it all in. “It’s like heaven. If heaven is filled with cake. And surely it must be!”
We all share a small laugh over that, and I reply, “Thank you so much,” pleased. “Glad you like the place.”
“What gave you the idea?” The lady with the hood asks. “To make everything heart-shaped.”
“Well, the place was once called the Sweetheart Diner,” I explain. “And my dad also inspired me—he noticed hearts everywhere and even made this box for me when I was a little girl.” As I hold it up to show them, they ooh and ahh their admiration.
“He must be very proud,” says the one in the hat.
Deciding to spare them the he-died-when-I-was-twelve story, I just say, “He is.” Since I know that’s true anyway, whether or not he’s here to tell me, and whether or not the shop lasts for decades more or ultimately dies a premature death if the whole town finally goes belly up.
When I ask what brings them in, the hood-wearer tells me they’re road-tripping from Tennessee to Indiana to see a friend and decided to look for some local color on the way. “We found your shop online and had to come. We want to pick up some yummies for our visit while we’re here!”
Ah, if only more people took the slow roads and looked for the local color. Then again, Sweetwater has even almost run out of that , now that I think about it. But not completely. “If you haven’t eaten yet and want a good burger or some soft-serve ice cream, check out the Little Dipper about a mile south of here on the left.”
“Oh, I think we passed that on our way into town,” the hat says. “But maybe we’ll go back.”
“That reminds me,” the hood chimes in, “we passed a pretty farm near there—horses up by the fence, and a gorgeous blue house. We were wondering if that’s a place where you can ride horses, or even just pet or feed them. We were thinking our kids would love something like that if we made a return trip with them in better weather.”
“But I said it looked privately owned,” the hat adds.
“Oh, I know the place,” I assure them. “And yeah, it’s just a family farm where they take in horses who need homes.”
The hat presses her hand to her chest. “Oh my God, that’s so sweet.”
I can’t help but agree. “I know, right?”
“Well,” the hood says, “they should…I don’t know—let people pay a small fee to pet the horses. Just to go toward their expenses.”
I keep to myself that the Montgomery family doesn’t need the money, and instead tell them, “We don’t get many out-of-towners, unfortunately. You know how it is—most people take the interstate and only get off for gas or fast food. Seventy-one passes right by, but our nearest exit is miles away.”
The hood raises her eyebrows in speculation. “Who knows. Give people some reasons to stop and maybe they would. I mean, heart-shaped baked goods were enough for us. Horses might be enough for someone else.”
The friendly ladies order up two dozen cookies and the drizzled lemon cake, and while I’m packing up the order, they drop business cards in the valentine box and coo over Maggie with, “This is the cutest little dog,” and, “Look, her collar even has hearts on it!” And the whole time I’m thinking: Ah—wouldn’t it be great if a few horses were enough to revive the town? But I know it’ll take more than that to bring Sweetwater back to life.
As I’m saying goodbye a few minutes later, hoping they pass back through, I find myself wondering what could make a few horses into more than—well, just a few horses. And as the door closes behind them, I notice a big fat snowflake has blown in to land on my welcome mat. It melts quickly, but not before I notice it’s shaped like a heart.