Chapter 3
Emma
The next morning, my cell phone goes off during the lunch rush hour, and I look at the caller ID. My heart plummets to the ground as I realize it’s Mrs. Marlow. A part of me considers ignoring the call, but I know she’s going to continue if I don’t answer. And then, she’s going to want me to explain why I’ve been ignoring her.
“Hey Ashley, can you hold down the front for me?”
Ashley, sitting near the counter, looks at me, her eyes twinkling. “Really?”
She’s only twelve years old, but Ashley’s mature for her age. She’s a brilliant young girl. I know I can trust her, so I nod. “I’ll only be a few minutes. And I’ll be right outside if you need me.”
“Okay!” Ashley shovels the rest of her dark chocolate walnut pie into her mouth as she stands, closing her school book. “But I only have ten more minutes before I need to get back home. Even though it’s the weekend, if I’m late again for lunch, Mom’s going to ground me.”
“That’s fine. Let me know if you need to leave, all right? I’ll do my best to get Mrs. Marlow off the phone. And wish me luck. I want to try to convince her to let me have my desserts here permanently.” I wink at her.
“Oh! That’d be so awesome,” Ashley says, crossing her fingers on both hands.
I thank her as I walk into the kitchen next to the oven, then out the back door. It’s quiet out here, compared to inside the bakery, which is filled with chatter. It smells a little because of the large dumpster filled with leftover food from a few days ago.
I press the screen of my phone and answer. “Mrs. Marlow! How’s Mexico?”
“We’re in Venice now, dear,” Mrs. Marlow says in the normal snooty tone she uses. I often wonder if that’s her real way of speaking because, despite the air of authority she gives out, she’s actually quite nice. As long as things are done her way, of course. I glance nervously at the back door as if she’s going to appear in front of me and scold me for baking my pastries and desserts.
“Oh, that sounds wonderful,” I say. “I’ve always wanted to visit there.”
“I’m sure you would love it, dear. I just wanted to call and check in on you. See how my baby’s doing.”
I have to swallow laughter at Mrs. Marlow referring to the bakery as her baby. But, then again, she did start this place from the ground up and it’s thriving.
“It’s doing great, Mrs. Marlow,” I say. “Actually, I’m wondering if you’d mind if I try out a few of my baked goods? To see how the people like them? You know, I have a lot of great recipes handed down from my grandmother. You remember how she was loved by the town.” I know I’m rambling, so I clamp down on my bottom lip. I don’t want to push it.
Mrs. Marlow’s silent, and my heart’s beginning to beat faster. I’m hoping she’ll say yes. Please say yes. Then I won’t feel so bad lying to her and going behind her back.
“I don’t know, dear.” Mrs. Marlow sighs. “I don’t know how your pastries will mingle with my recipes.”
If only she knew, I think to myself. But I decide at least it’s not a definite no.
“I’d appreciate the opportunity,” I tell her. “It would mean so much to me.”
Mrs. Marlow’s pause is longer this time, and when she speaks, her tone is apologetic but firm. “I’m sorry, dear. I appreciate your enthusiasm and dedication to the bakery, but I prefer to keep the menu as it is. My recipes have served Heritage Bakery well over the years. Let’s not fix what isn’t broken.”
My heart sinks. The disappointment is a heavy weight on my chest. “I understand, Mrs. Marlow. Thank you for considering it.”
“We’ll talk more when I return from my world cruise,” she says, and after a few more instructions and reassurances, we end the call.
I lean against the wall outside, feeling deflated. The rejection stings more than I thought it would. I’ve poured so much of myself into this bakery, into these dreams. For a moment, I let myself feel the full weight of the disappointment.
But then something shifts inside me. A spark of determination ignites. Mrs. Marlow’s refusal, though disheartening, is not the end of my dream. It’s a challenge, a hurdle to overcome. I’ve always known that my path wouldn’t be easy.
And I have the support of the town. The people seem to crave my treats. That alone is enough motivation to keep going. If Mrs. Marlow won’t allow my baked goods to “mingle” with hers, then I’ll just have to work harder to make my dreams come true.
I straighten up, my resolve strengthening.
With renewed purpose, I step back into the kitchen, making my way to the front. Ashley looks up, her expression questioning.
“Not this time, Ash,” I say with a small smile. “But that’s okay. It just means I’ll have to think a little more creatively.”
Ashley nods, her look one of understanding. She’s a smart kid. She gets it.
She gathers her things, and before she says goodbye to leave, I give her another piece of the dark chocolate walnut pie on the house.
The rest of the morning passes in a blur of customers and the familiar routine of baking. But my mind is racing, already planning, always dreaming. As the bell above the door jingles, signaling new customers, I glance up and see Rhonda entering.
I smile at her, but my face immediately falls when I see frustration written all over her.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Is it Philip?”
“Emma, you might want to sit down.”
I narrow my eyes, putting my hand on my hips. “Why? What’s wrong?”
“Remember that guy I told you about? The one I ran into last night?”
I nod.
“Well, he’s a food critic.”
She pauses, and I’m sensing there’s something more to what she’s saying.
“Come on, out with it,” I tell her. “You’re making me nervous.”
“He came to the bakery yesterday. He wrote a not so glorified review of Heritage Bakery.”
“A food critic came here?” I search my mind, trying to remember a critic coming, but I don’t. Truth be told, I was tired most of the day, baking and dealing with customers. I probably wouldn’t have noticed my own mother walking in. “Let me see.”
She hands me an article from The Traveling Taste, a popular foodie magazine. Feeling apprehension, I look at Rhonda, then I read the headline: Elmwood Falls Heritage Bakery: A Place Where Sugar Coats More Than Just the Pastries.
I’m sure my face is probably paling right about now.
“The nerve!” I gasp as I’m reading. “The blueberry crumpet at Elmwood Falls Heritage Bakery offers a comforting, if unremarkable, experience. It’s a pastry that whispers of potential yet comfortably sits in the realm of the ordinary.”
Who is this guy? My mind is going around in circles. I’m done for if Mrs. Marlow reads this review and finds out I’ve been using my grandmother’s recipes. My eye flits over to the picture of the reviewer.
At that moment, the room begins to spin. Alex Carter. He was in the bakery just yesterday! My head snaps toward Rhonda.
“This is that guy! The guy who came in when I was closing the other night. The guy who came in yesterday and bought one of everything!” I turn the paper into a ball, tossing it into the trash can. “He’s got some nerve. If Mrs. Marlow finds out about this, I’m done. Oh, I’m going to give that man a piece of my mind when I see him!”
“Well, you might not have to wait for long,” Rhonda says, leaning against the counter.
I follow her gaze out the window. Alex Carter is talking to Ryan Meadows near the stop sign. He’s laughing at something Ryan’s saying.
Without thinking, I storm around the counter and make my way outside to where the men are standing. It’s Alex who sees me first. He’s looking at me, his lips twitching slightly upward. I’m trying not to be bothered by how handsome he is. I want to be mad and stay mad. Not only did he insult me and possibly put me in hot water with my manager, but he lied to me.
“Hey! You with the keyboard and the adjectives!” I say, pointing a finger in his direction.
Alex’s brow raises toward his hairline. “I’m sorry?”
“That review of my bakery! You know what I’m talking about. How dare you write trash like that? And how dare you lie to me?”
“Whoa, wait a minute, there,” Alex says, holding his hands in front of him as if to protect himself from any blow to the stomach I might make. “I never lied to you. I just never told you who I was.” He narrows his eyes, glances at Ryan who’s watching the scene, then looks back at me. “I’m actually surprised you didn’t know.”
“You told me you were on vacation.” I jab an accusing finger at his chest.
“I said vacation and work,” Alex says. “As it so happens, my weekly magazine is doing a series of articles on small-town dining. Elmwood Falls Heritage Bakery happens to be one of the most talked about amongst tourists. It’s the introduction piece to The Traveling Taste. This week, I’ll be going around to other restaurants and cafés, reviewing them.”
“You…you…y—” I’m now finding it hard to accuse him of lying. I remember him saying he was here for work. “Well, that stuff you wrote is all bull,” I say. “My Maple Pecan Pastries are not dry.”
“To me, they are. Everything in that review is my own honest opinion.”
His composure in the face of my anger only serves to fuel my frustration further. “Your ‘honest opinion’ is putting my dreams at stake,” I snap, the words sharp with emotion. “You waltz into town, and with a few keystrokes, you think you can judge years of hard work and dedication?”
Alex’s expression remains steady, but there’s a flicker of something—perhaps surprise, in his eyes. “I’m a critic, Emma. It’s not personal. It’s about the food, the experience. I write about what I see, taste, and feel. That’s my job.”
“You wouldn’t know a good pastry if it bit you in the behind! You probably think Pop-Tarts are haute cuisine!”
Ryan, still watching, chimes in with a smirk, “Careful, Emma, he might write a scathing review about your verbal tirade next.”
“Great. I’ll make sure to serve my words with a side of dry Maple Pecan Pastries,” I retort, rolling my eyes. “Maybe then he’ll get a taste of his own medicine—extra bitter, just like his reviews.”
Alex sighs, clearly struggling to keep a straight face. “Emma, I’m not here to ruin your business. I’m here to give honest feedback.”
“Honest feedback? More like unfiltered snark! Next time you visit, maybe try writing your review with a sprinkle of kindness and a dash of taste buds.”
He takes a breath, and his response is measured. “Every critique is a chance to improve, to push beyond. If you’re as good as you believe, use this. Prove me wrong.”
His words sting, a challenge laid bare between us. “Oh, I will,” I promise, the words laced with determination. “I’ll show you and everyone else that Heritage Bakery is more than just a page in your critique book.”
“Looking forward to it,” he replies, an edge of challenge in his voice.
I turn on my heel, storming back into the bakery. As I step inside, my feet betray me, and I go down like a sack of flour, landing face-first on the floor with a not-so-dignified scream.
Customers rush over, pulling me to my feet, all asking if I’m okay.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I say, trying to maintain a shred of dignity while my face burns hotter than a fresh batch of cookies. “Just testing the gravity in here. Still works great.” My voice takes on a growly edge as I stumble toward Mrs. Marlow’s office, pretending the entire bakery isn’t watching my impromptu gymnastics routine.
Using the key Mrs. Marlow gave me, I step into the office, then close the door, leaning against it with a groan. I can’t shake off the mixture of anger and motivation swirling inside.
Most of the pastries he wrote about were from my grandmother’s recipes. And he dares to criticize her! I’m determined to prove to Alex—and anyone else who doubts—that my pastries are a force to be reckoned with.
Alex Carter has thrown down the gauntlet, and I’m more than ready to pick it up.
“Feeling better?” Rhonda asks as I arrange the blueberry muffins on the table.
We’re setting up our table for the charity event for underprivileged children. This is the fifth year Elmwood Falls is taking part in it, and it’s one of my favorite activities. I enjoy raising money for a good cause. It’s a nice feeling, giving back to the community.
It’d taken hours for my anger to finally cool after reading that ridiculous review. I can only pray Mrs. Marlow doesn’t catch wind of it, but the truth of the matter is that Elmwood Falls is a small town. She’s going to find out one way or another. I’m just hoping that the end result won’t end up with me being baked—no pun intended.
I look at Rhonda and see her staring at me. Forcing a smile, I say, “I’m fine.”
Rhonda gives me a knowing look but decides not to press further. “Your blueberry muffins will be the hit of the day, as always,” she reassures me. “And don’t worry about Alex, all right? This entire town is crazy about your pastries and desserts.”
“It’s not the town I’m worried about, Rhonda,” I say under my breath as I see Mr. Peterson, the town’s librarian, ambling over. He stops at our table, leaning on his cane. His eyes light up at the sight of the muffins. “Emma, my dear, your muffins look as delightful as ever. You’re a true artist, you know that?”
I laugh, handing him his favorite—a double chocolate chip muffin. “Only the best for our most avid reader. How’s that novel you were telling me about?” I shout loudly. He’s as hard of hearing as he is sweet.
“Oh, it’s a thrilling ride! But not as thrilling as this, my girl,” he winks, taking a bite and savoring it with closed eyes. “Mmm, heavenly!”
His hands shake slightly as he reaches for his back pocket to pull out his billfold. After retrieving a ten-dollar bill, he hands it to me.
“I hope you enjoy the rest of the event,” I say.
“I sure will, young lady.”
As Mr. Peterson wanders off, Mrs. Jenkins, the town’s florist, approaches with her characteristic burst of energy. Her apron is adorned with flower stains, and her hair is a wild mane of curls. “Emma, darling, these muffins are a sight for sore eyes! Might I have one?”
“Sure thing, Mrs. Jenkins. I didn’t see your husband today. Is he here?”
“Oh, he woke up with a head cold this morning, poor thing. He’s staying in bed today.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Rhonda says.
I nod in agreement. “Let us know if we can do anything to help make him better.”
“Aren’t you sweet?” Mrs. Jenkins says. “I don’t suppose you can bring me one of your apple strudels later? It’s not a pie, but I’m sure he’ll enjoy it just the same. That man of mine sure loves his baked apples.” She chuckles softly, shaking her head.
“Consider it done.” I smile as her eyes twinkle. She pays me for the muffins, then hurries toward her booth.
I serve muffin after muffin, exchanging pleasantries and listening to snippets of local gossip. I’m not much of a gossiper, but I do find it intriguing from time to time what the latest big news is.
I’m handing a muffin to Luke, the mayor’s son, when I overhear a snippet of conversation that makes my heart skip a beat. “…Did you hear about the new food critic in town? I hear he’s quite the character.”
My hand pauses mid-air, the muffin momentarily forgotten. Alex. I haven’t seen him since my confrontation with him.
Shaking off the distraction, I turn my attention back to Luke, who is eagerly awaiting his treat. “Here you go, champ. Extra chocolate chips just for you.”
His beaming smile brings me back to the moment, to the heart of Elmwood Falls, where every small gesture adds up to something meaningful. And for now, that’s all that matters.