Chapter 5
Emma
I’m staring at the building I’ve dreamed of turning into my bakery. The for sale sign still hangs in the window, and a part of me feels like it’s taunting me. Laughing at me, even. My fingers trace the flyer for the upcoming bake-off in July, only four months away. I’ve already submitted the entry fee, and I’m feeling a mixture of anticipation and excitement. The path ahead seems daunting.
As I contemplate my next steps, my mind drifts back to the countless hours spent in the kitchen with my grandmother. Her voice echoes in my memory. I feel like she’s standing next to me, encouraging me to follow my dreams, even though I’m feeling doubtful at times.
“Emma, remember, baking is like a dance.”She often would say, “A step at a time, graceful and deliberate. Trust your instincts and let the flavors tell their story.”
She always had a way of making everything feel possible, of turning doubts into stepping stones. Her wisdom was simple yet profound, a guidepost in moments of uncertainty. “In baking, as in life, it’s the heart you pour into it that makes the difference. The most exquisite pastries are those made with a dash of love and courage,” she would say.
I need to decide what to create for the contest—something that not only showcases my skills but also embodies the spirit and love for baking that my grandmother instilled in me. There’s a dance of flavors and techniques waiting to be choreographed, and I can almost feel her guiding hand on my shoulder, encouraging me to take this leap.
In the bake-off, with the pressure of time and eyes on me, I’ll need to be swift yet precise. The right balance of speed and pleasure. It’s a challenge I’ve never faced before, a test of not just my baking skills, but my ability to stay true to my roots under pressure.
I remember another pearl of wisdom from my grandmother: “The oven’s heat forges the best pastries and the strongest bakers. Embrace the heat, Emma, and you’ll emerge triumphant.”
Drawing in a deep breath, I turn away from the building, a new resolve settling within me. I want this building so much, but I have to remind myself that there will be plenty of chances. Even if I don’t get this one, there will be others. I’m a good baker. I must be, because the last few days, Elmwood Falls Heritage Bakery has been thriving, even more than usual. I have the support of my community, and that more than anything, tells me I deserve my own bakery.
But then, thoughts of Alex Carter float to the forefront of my mind, unbidden but undeniable. His sharp critique along with his challenging gaze have ignited something in me, a mixture of irritation and an unexpected drive to prove myself. It’s a feeling that’s both unsettling and exhilarating.
In a way, his presence in Elmwood Falls has also brought clarity. It’s as if Alex’s critique has laid down a gauntlet, and my response is not just to defend my craft but to elevate it. The bake-off isn’t just a competition now. It’s a platform to showcase what I’m truly capable of, a chance to silence any doubts—his and mine.
Each time I recall the way he dissected my pastries, part of me bristles at the boldness, the other part sees it as a challenge I’m more than ready to meet. His words, though harsh, have sparked a determination in me to push beyond what I thought was my best. It’s ironic how someone who initially seemed like just an obstacle may have unwittingly become a catalyst for my growth.
As I walk away from the building, the image of the bake-off stage starts to form in my mind, a place where I can turn the tension between us into a testament of my baking skills. Where I can show Alex Carter, and everyone else, that my pastries are more than just comfort food—they are creations born of passion, skill, and a story worth telling.
Before heading home, I stop off at The Local Grocer and load my cart with ingredients. Croissants, I think I’ll make. It was a favorite of my grandmother’s, and I believe it would go over pretty well with the judges. After I buy everything, I go home to my apartment and lug everything up to the third floor.
It’s a struggle to carry three bags and open the door at the same time, but when I do, Frankie’s there to greet me. He yips, telling me he’s hungry. I set my bags on the counter, then feed him. As I do, my cell dings, telling me a message has come through. I look at it, and it’s Rhonda asking if I wanted to go to the movies.
I respond, telling her I need to stay in for the night and start practicing my baking for the competition. I invite her to come over, and she agrees.
By the time I set everything I need out at my fingertips, Rhonda is letting herself into my apartment with a sigh.
“Tonight was supposed to be movie night with Philip,” she says. “But since we’re broken up, that’s a no go.”
“Sorry,” I say, looking over at Rhonda. “You guys should sit down and actually try talking things out.”
She shakes her head. “I really want to go to Paris. He’s being stubborn.”
“Maybe it’s more about being afraid he’d lose you.”
“He wouldn’t lose me.” Rhonda shrugs. “I mean, he wouldn’t if he were a little bit more supportive. I’ve supported him in whatever he wanted to do. Like when he wanted to switch careers and become a graphic designer, I was all in, helping him set up his portfolio and even finding him clients. Or that time he decided to run a marathon, and I trained with him every morning, even though I hate running.”
I nod, recalling the countless times Rhonda had put Philip’s needs and ambitions ahead of hers. “Yeah, and let’s not forget the vegan phase,” I add with a wry smile.
Rhonda covers her face with her hands. “I don’t even want to think about that! Two months of plant-based recipes, and I can’t even look at tofu anymore. But I did it because it was important to him. Why can’t he do the same for me?”
I stir the ingredients thoughtfully. “You’ve been really generous with your support, Rhonda. Maybe Philip just needs to see things from your perspective.”
Rhonda sighs, picking at a loose thread on the cushion. “Maybe. But right now, I feel like it’s time for me to follow my dreams, you know? Paris has always been on my bucket list. And I can afford it. I just need to go.”
I nod, understanding her longing. “And you should go for it. Paris, art school, everything. If it’s what you really want, then it’s worth pursuing, no matter what. But talk to Philip. I’m pretty sure he’ll come around. He always does.”
She smiles, a glint of her usual determination returning to her eyes. “You’re right, Emma. As always. So, what can I help you with?”
“Well, today’s all about mastering the basics.” I scan the ingredients on the counter. “We’re going to be making croissants. Perfectly layered, buttery, flaky croissants. It’ll be for the signature bake part of the contest. But don’t worry about the clock right now. The first few times will be just about getting the technique right.”
Rhonda gets an apron from the pantry, ties it around her waist and claps her hands together. “Croissants? I love those! But they’re a bit of a challenge to make, aren’t they?”
“They can be,” I admit, pulling out my grandmother’s old, worn recipe book. “But that’s the fun part. We’ll take it step by step.” I open the book to a page marked with a faded, handwritten recipe for croissants. “This was my grandmother’s recipe—a little bit tricky, but absolutely worth it. I haven’t made it in a long time. She had a slightly different method than Mrs. Marlow’s.”
I prop the book on the stand as Rhonda rolls up her sleeves with a dramatic flourish. “Got it. With you at the helm, how hard can it be?”
Famous last words. The kitchen soon transforms into a battlefield of flour and butter. Rhonda’s first attempt at rolling the dough is more like an abstract art project than pastry prep.
“Is it supposed to look like a map of an unknown continent?” she asks, eyeing the dough skeptically.
I can’t help but laugh. “Let’s just say we’re aiming for a bit more…symmetry. And less geography.”
As we continue, the room fills with laughter and the occasional exasperated sigh, mostly from Rhonda. I show her how to gently fold the dough, the key to creating those perfect, flaky layers.
“Okay, so it’s like origami, but with dough,” Rhonda observes.
“Exactly!” I say. “Croissant origami.”
Rhonda tries her hand at it, her brow furrowed in concentration. After a few attempts, her fold starts to look more even. “Hey, I think I’m getting the hang of this,” she says, a proud smile on her face.
“Look at you, a natural baker in the making,” I tease, as we wrap the dough to let it rest.
We spend the next few hours rolling, folding, and shaping the dough, our hands dusted with flour.
As I slide the first two trays of croissants into the oven, Rhonda flops down onto a chair, wiping her brow. “I had no idea baking could be such a workout.”
I laugh, joining her at the table. “Just wait until you taste them. All this effort will be worth it.”
Rhonda leans back, still catching her breath from the baking marathon. She glances at me with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “So, speaking of workouts, how’s the ‘workout’ of dealing with our town’s new critic, Mr. Alex Carter?”
I roll my eyes, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth despite my best efforts. “Ugh, don’t remind me. He’s like a walking, talking baking challenge all on his own.”
“Come on, Emma, admit it. He’s not bad to look at though,” Rhonda says, her lips tugging into a mischievous grin. She nudges me with her elbow.
I let out a reluctant chuckle. “Okay, fine, he’s not hard on the eyes, but his attitude could use some serious sweetening.”
Rhonda picks up a flour ladened wooden spoon, pretending it’s a microphone. “Tell us, Emma, on a scale of one to ‘burnt toast’, how much does Alex Carter ruffle your feathers?”
I play along, pretending to ponder the question. “Well, let’s just say he’s hovering around ‘over-kneaded dough’ level. Annoying enough to make you want to start over, but not impossible to work with.”
“Sounds like there’s a recipe for disaster…or perhaps romance brewing there,” Rhonda says with a wink.
I scoff, shaking my head. “The only recipe brewing is for the perfect croissant to win that bake-off and show Mr. High-and-Mighty-Critic what I’m really made of.”
Twenty minutes later, the oven timer dings, signaling that the croissants are ready. I stand up, feeling a surge of excitement. “Speaking of which, it’s showtime. Let’s see if our hard work has paid off.”
As I open the oven, the warm, buttery aroma of freshly baked croissants fills the room. Rhonda and I exchange a look of anticipation.
“Wow, they all look amazing,” Rhonda says, admiring the golden pastries.
I nod, grabbing a pair of oven mitts. I carefully remove the croissants from the oven and set the pan on the stove. “Let’s just hope they taste as good as they look. Maybe even good enough to impress a certain critic…”
Rhonda laughs as she transfers another two sets of croissants into the oven. “One step at a time, Chef. First, let’s impress Elmwood Falls. Then the judges. And, after you win that money and open your very own bakery, Alex Carter’s opinion won’t matter as much.”
I shake my head slowly. “Why does it matter? People’s opinions never bothered me before. So why does his?”
“Well, truthfully, you’ve never had anyone dis your baking,” Rhonda says.
“Except for Mrs. Marlow. She doesn’t think any recipes other than her own can mingle.” I roll my eyes, remembering the phone conversation I had with her.
“But has Mrs. Marlow actually tasted any of your recipes?”
I shake my head. “No, I don’t think so.”
Rhonda stands and walks to where the croissants are cooling. She chooses one, taking a bite. She chews slowly, as if savoring every taste. “Well, her loss. This is absolutely delicious, and I have no doubt you’ll knock the socks off the judges come July.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I hope so, but you know how this competition is. A lot of the competitors are pros. I feel way out of my league.”
“You’re a pro too, Em. You’re just working with someone that’s been holding you back all these years. Don’t get me wrong. Mrs. Marlow’s really nice, but she needs to give you a fair chance.” Rhonda glances at the kitchen clock as she yawns. “I didn’t realize it was getting so late, Em. I should go.”
“Okay. Thanks for helping out tonight.” I watch as Rhonda gathers several more croissants. “Want a Ziplock?”
She shakes her head. “I doubt they’ll make it to the car.”
I laugh as I walk Rhonda to the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She nods. “Tell me the next time you plan to practice and I’ll be there to lend an assistant’s hand for baking and mouth for tasting.”
I smile, leaning in to embrace her. “I’d like that.”
After Rhonda leaves, the timer goes off, signaling that the next batch is ready to be taken from the oven. After I remove them, I taste one of the croissants. Buttery, flakey…good, but I think they could be better. And they’ll need to be better if I’m going to win the bake-off. But as Rhonda had said, it is getting late, and I need to be sure to walk Frankie before turning in. I carefully box up the croissants, deciding to pass them out tomorrow for free.
After I clean the kitchen—and myself—I put a leash on Frankie and take him out for a walk.
As the cool evening air brushes against my face, I let the rhythm of Frankie’s eager steps guide our path through Elmwood Falls’s quiet streets. The town, bathed in the soft glow of streetlights, feels peaceful, almost reflective.
Turning a corner, my thoughts are interrupted when I spot a solitary figure sitting on a park bench. It’s Alex Carter, his gaze seemingly lost in the distance. I hesitate, contemplating a retreat, but Frankie has other plans and pulls me toward the bench.
“Evening,” I say, as we approach, maintaining a polite but guarded tone. It’s no use trying to pretend I didn’t see him, thanks to Frankie. If only scolding the dachshund would do any good. But since I know it won’t, I won’t.
Alex looks up, a flicker of recognition crossing his face. “Good evening, Emma, out for a walk?”
“Yeah,” I say, keeping my response brief. Frankie, unbothered by our history, sniffs around Alex’s feet.
Alex watches Frankie with a faint smile. “Seems like a good night for it.”
“It is.” I watch Frankie now exploring the grassy patch nearby. The tension lingers, but it’s not as sharp as before, dulled by the tranquility of the night.
There’s a brief pause before Alex speaks again. “I saw your bakery was quite busy again earlier, after the charity event. Seems like your pastries are a hit.”
I nod, cautiously. “They are. People in Elmwood Falls have a sweet tooth.”
“Clearly.” His tone is noncommittal, but there’s no overt criticism, just observation.
An awkward silence settles between us, broken only by Frankie’s occasional sniffling. I’m about to excuse myself when Alex speaks up.
“I’ve been getting to know Elmwood Falls a bit more. It’s an interesting town, different from what I’m used to. The pace, the community. It’s more interconnected than other areas I’ve visited looking for places to review.”
“That’s what makes it so special.” I narrow my eyes at him without intending on it. “And my bakery isn’t just about food. It’s part of the community.”
He nods thoughtfully. “I’m beginning to see that.”
We fall into a silence again, less awkward this time, as we both watch Frankie play. I feel the edges of our previous encounters softening slightly, replaced by a tentative mutual understanding.
After a moment, Alex stands up. “Well, I should let you continue your walk. Have a good night, Emma.”
“Goodnight, Alex,” I reply, watching him walk away.