Chapter 8
Alex
The next morning, as I step out of the inn, I find myself instinctively taking a familiar route through the town. This ritual, walking through Elmwood Falls’s quiet streets, has become an unexpected part of my daily routine. It’s curious, considering I’ve never been one for aimless strolls. Back home, walking was always a means to an end, never a leisurely pursuit. But here, there’s a gentle nudge to slow down and absorb the world around me.
As I wander, my thoughts inevitably drift to Emma and our conversation last night. There’s something about her—an earnestness, a passion for her craft—that lingers in my mind long after our encounters. I notice a subtle shift in my heartbeat when I recall her smile, the way her eyes light up when she talks about baking. It’s not something I can easily explain, this quiet pull towards her. It’s not the kind of dramatic infatuation I’ve read about in novels or seen in films. It’s more understated, like the gradual lightening of the sky at dawn—almost imperceptible, yet undeniably there.
I wonder about this new sensation, this soft fluttering in my chest at the thought of her. It’s a far cry from the usual critical detachment I maintain in my professional life. In Elmwood Falls, amidst its simple charms and Emma’s unguarded moments, I find myself appreciating subtleties I never used to notice. There’s an unspoken longing, not just to see her but to understand the world as she sees it.
This realization that I’m drawn to her presence in a way that’s both unfamiliar and intriguing is something I think about as I walk. And I’m hoping that I might bump into her. But to my disappointment, I can’t seem to leave early enough to catch her. I find myself wondering if she lives in that bakery.
I’m heading there now, just to see a glimpse of her. When I reach the bakery, though, my cell phone rings. When I pull it out from my back pocket, my heart sinks. I close my eyes, the desire to ignore the call coursing through my veins. I don’t want to deal with her. Not when I finally found a sense of peace.
Eventually, the ringing stops, and I reopen my eyes, letting out a sharp breath. I’m reminded now that my time in Elmwood Falls is limited. I’m staying only a few more months to judge the competition. Then I’ll be going back home. I’ll deal with things then.
The bakery door swings open, and Rhonda steps out, her hand entwined with a man I haven’t seen before. A genuine, radiant smile lights up her face, a stark contrast to the reserved expressions I’ve seen before. “Looks like you’re becoming quite the regular,” she comments playfully. Her gaze briefly drifts toward the bakery’s window. “Something tells me Emma doesn’t mind too much.”
She walks away, but not without sending a mischievous wink my way, which strangely sends a warm flush across my cheeks. I watch them disappear down the street, the easy laughter between them lingering in the air. Turning back to the bakery, I step inside.
The aroma of freshly baked goods envelops me. The bakery is bustling with the usual morning crowd, but I spot a lone table near the window, bathed in soft sunlight. Making my way through the scattered patrons, I approach the counter.
Emma, her hair pulled back in a practical ponytail, glances up from arranging a tray of pastries. Our eyes meet, and there’s a moment where I can’t quite read her expression. Is it surprise, indifference, or something else?
“Hey,” she says, her tone neutral, but her eyes betraying a flicker of curiosity. “What can I get for you?”
“Just a coffee, please,” I reply, trying to sound casual. There’s a brief pause as she turns to prepare the drink, giving me a moment to observe the rhythmic, almost hypnotic way she moves around her domain. The bakery, with its quaint charm and the soft clatter of dishes, feels like a world away from the one I’m used to. But the more often I find myself standing here, the less I want to leave.
Emma returns, placing the steaming cup of coffee in front of me. “Here you go,” she says, her voice softer now. “Anything else?”
I shake my head, our gazes lingering just a moment longer than necessary in a silent exchange. Then, suddenly, I ask, “Actually, before you go, what’s your personal favorite from all of these?”
Her eyebrows arch in mild surprise, as if no one had thought to ask her preference before. “My favorite?” she echoes.
“Yeah, I’m interested to know.”
A small, genuine smile touches her lips. “Well, I’d say the Blueberry Danish Bites.”
“Another from your grandmother?”
She nods warily.
Intrigued, I retrieve my wallet and slide out a credit card. “I’ll take that then, along with the coffee, please.”
“Oh, okay.” She accepts the card with a hint of hesitation, her movements deliberate as she processes the transaction and returns it to me. I observe as she carefully selects a danish, placing it on the counter with a kind of reverence.
“Thank you, Emma,” I say, offering a smile of appreciation.
“You’re welcome,” she responds. But then her focus shifts as someone else in the bakery calls out her name. She gives me a brief, polite nod. “Excuse me,” she says, moving gracefully toward the other end of the counter.
As I take a seat at the window table, I find myself more aware of Emma’s presence in the room than the bustling crowd around me. I can’t take my eyes from her as she chats with the locals.
I watch as she goes to each table, making conversation, making sure no one needs anything else. When she gets to my table, she eyes my untouched blueberry danish.
“You don’t like it?”
“No, I do,” I say, taking a bite as if to make a point. The danish is very tangy. I can even see why she enjoys it.
“Can I ask you something?” Emma bites her bottom lip, and her nose twitches slightly.
“Of course.” I gesture with my hand to the empty share across from me.
Hesitantly, she takes a seat, her eyes still locked on mine, and I can tell she’s thinking on her words carefully before speaking.
“Why are you still in town?” she asks finally. “I thought you were only going to stay a week.”
“I was,” I acknowledge, aware of the curiosity in Emma’s eyes. “Initially, my stay in Elmwood Falls was just part of a broader project, exploring small-town culinary scenes. It was supposed to be a brief visit, but then something unexpected happened.”
I pause to take another bite of my danish, then I chase it down with a sip of coffee. “My editor called with a change of plans. She thinks it’d be a good opportunity for me and my paper to be involved with the Great American Broadcasting Network’s national bake-off. I’m sure you’ve heard of it.” I shrug. “She signed me up as a judge for the competition.”
Emma’s eyes widen slightly at the mention of the bake-off. “You’re going to be a judge at the bake-off?” Her voice wavers between surprise and an unmistakable flicker of concern.
“Yes,” I reply, watching her carefully. “Is something wrong?”
“N-no,” she stutters, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her apron. “Of course not. I think that’s great.” She glances around, a layer of calm barely masking her discomfort.
“Are you sure?” I prod gently, sensing there’s more beneath her strained smile.
Emma pauses, biting her lip. “So, it’s just about the bake-off then?” The question hangs between us, and I can tell something’s bothering her.
“Sort of.” I hesitate, noticing her heightened anxiety. “I’m also kind of extending my vacation. There’s stuff back home that I’m avoiding. Adding to it, I—”
Cutting me off, Emma looks away briefly, composing herself. “I see. Well, I need to get back to work. Enjoy your danish.”
Before I can say anything more, Emma leaps up from her chair. In her haste, the chair tips over with a clatter, echoing in the conversation-filled bakery. She lets out a nervous chuckle, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment as she sets the chair on its legs. Muttering a quick apology, she escapes to the refuge behind the counter and disappears through the back door.
Left alone, I lean back, mulling over the abrupt end to our conversation. It hits me then—she’s entering the contest, isn’t she?
Driven by a newfound realization, I follow her outside to where the dumpster is, the reeking odor filling the small alleyway. Emma’s leaning against the wall, eyes closed, a solitary tear betraying her composed facade.
“Emma,” I begin cautiously.
Her eyes snap open, fiery and accusing. “You knew, didn’t you? All this time. You know I’d be a contestant, and you’d be a judge. How could you do that? How could you lie like that?”
“I didn’t, Emma,” I insist earnestly. “Believe me. I didn’t know all this time. When I first came here, it was only supposed to be a week. I was supposed to be visiting several small towns and writing editorials about the restaurants in each.”
“And then what?” she demands, her voice sharp. “You realized I was probably going to enter the competition, and you wanted to find a new way of mocking me with your refined tastes?”
“That’s not it at all, Emma. I don’t even want to do this.”
“Then withdraw,” she pleads, hope flickering in her eyes.
“I can’t, Emma,” I admit, feeling a pang of regret. “I wish I could. But my job’s on the line. But I do promise you this. I’ll judge fairly.”
She looks at me, her expression shifting from anger to desperation. “Tell her it’s a conflict of interest or something. Alex, do you not even care how much this means to me? I deserve a fair chance to win. And if you’re judging, how is that fair? You already hate my pastries.”
“No,” I counter, my voice firm. “I don’t. I told you before. You’re quite talented.”
“But not talented enough to win, right? You need to leave.”
“Emma, please, just listen.”
“I have work to do.” With a swift motion, she brushes past me.
Frustration and confusion churn within me as I watch her retreat. Why hadn’t I realized her involvement in the competition sooner? Did it matter to me more than I was willing to admit?
Back inside the bakery, Emma busies herself with the oven, her movements brisk and purposeful. I approach her, my mind racing for the right words.
“Emma,” I begin softly, “if I could withdraw, I would. But my job’s on the line. I’ll judge fairly, I promise.”
Her gaze meets mine, no longer fiery, but filled with sadness. She says nothing as she sets the baking tray she removed from the oven on a table and starts transferring her pastries to a cooling rack.
Resigned, I step outside, dialing Roxanne. As soon as she answers, I say, “I can’t do it, Roxanne. I just can’t.”
“Do what, Alex?” Roxanne’s voice carries a note of confusion.
“Judge the competition. There’s a local baker here who’s competing. It’s…a conflict of interest.”
Roxanne is silent for a moment, then she speaks, her tone practical. “Alex, this is part of the job. Conflicts of interest are common in our field, but we handle them professionally. You’re not there to make friends, you’re there to provide an unbiased critique based on the quality of the baking.”
“But Roxanne,” I press on, “it’s complicated. This baker, Emma, she…”
“Emma?” Roxanne interrupts sharply. “Wait, is this about the girl from Elmwood Falls Heritage Bakery? The one you’ve written about before?”
“Yes,” I say. “I’ve gotten to know her and her situation here. Judging her work now, it just doesn’t feel right.”
There’s a brief pause before Roxanne sighs. “Alex, listen to me. You’re a professional critic. Your job is to be objective, no matter who is competing. It’s essential for your credibility and for the integrity of the paper. You can’t start pulling out of assignments because of personal connections. That’s not how this works.”
I run a hand through my hair, feeling trapped. “I understand that, but…”
“Alex,” she cuts in, her voice firm but not unkind, “use this as an opportunity. If this Emma is as talented as you believe, then your fair judgment will only validate her skills. And if there are areas she needs to improve, constructive criticism can help her grow. Either way, you’re doing your job.”
I take a deep breath, letting her words sink in. Roxanne has a point. I can’t let personal feelings cloud my professional judgment. It’s the foundation of my career. “All right, Roxanne,” I say finally, the decision settling heavy in my chest. “I’ll do it. I’ll judge the competition.”
“Good,” Roxanne says, a hint of relief in her voice. “And Alex? Handle this delicately. Be fair, be honest. That’s all you can do.”
“Understood,” I reply, ending the call. I stand there for a moment, looking back at the bakery, a sense of determination slowly replacing my earlier conflict.
I need to do this right. For my career, for Emma, and for the integrity of the competition. It won’t be easy, but it’s the right thing to do. I’ll judge fairly and let the best baker win.