11. Chapter 11
Chapter 11
Marcy
Now that I’d gotten the meltdown and our first campaign event out of the way, it was time to put on my big girl undies and move ahead with the dream. My dream.
I needed to find a retail space for the bakery. No sense getting worked up over pretend engagements and cracking open trust funds—crying over bread loaves notwithstanding—until I had a bakery space in mind.
I scoured commercial real estate listings in a twenty-five-mile radius. Truth? I wanted closer than a twenty-five-mile radius. My town or an adjoining town. Close by, so the bakery was my community. Three options provided an active downtown with free parking options. Now I needed to find the right spot. Ideally, not a place with a revolving door of failed businesses.
I took notes and stashed them in a folder on my laptop titled: Top Secret .
Better rename that. How about… Totally Just Taxes . No, even more suspect. I wrote again: Dreams .
Next, I needed to know how much money I potentially had available in the trust. Which involved talking to Nonna .
I opened my phone’s contacts tab and tapped favorites. I stared at Nonna’s name.
I stared some more. Why was this woman such a threat? She loved me. She wanted the best for me. Yes, I was currently deceiving her and planning to go against her wishes using the very money she’d saved for me after sacrificing her own dream— Sigh .
I put the phone away. One fear would be left unconquered for today.
“Am I a terrible fiancée? I feel like I’m doing this engagement thing all wrong.”
Hudson looked at me across a dress rack with a neutral expression. “I can’t tell if you’re joking.”
I looked back, waiting.
“You’re not joking.” She blinked. “You can’t do it wrong because it’s all made up.” She held up a pale yellow sleeveless shift dress. “Yellow or no yellow?”
“For you? Yes. For me, no.”
She examined the stitching along the collar. “It’s cute. You can probably do splashes of color if the overall style is classic. For the political events, I mean.”
“Does that after Labor Day rule apply to light yellow? Or is that just white? And only for shoes?”
“I don’t think anyone follows that rule anymore.”
I’d dragged Hudson to our favorite discount chain clothing store to help me dress like a politician’s wife-to-be. Hudson had the uncanny ability to sniff out designer duds from crowded sale racks. I needed a wardrobe beyond office casual separates and flirty retro dresses with plunging necklines. Mayors’ fiancées didn’t wear plunging necklines, did they?
I shook my head. “Let’s go no on yellow.”
Hudson handed me a simple gray A-line dress with a scoop neck and cap sleeves. Modest but stylish. The price tag showed three cross-outs and a final price of $39.99. “Back to your fiancée life, you’re doing fine. Lucas knows he isn’t supposed to talk to anyone right now about your engagement. He’s booked with wilderness courses for the fall, anyway. We’ve got corporate retreats scheduled two weekends of every month through December at the camp, so neither of us will be around much.”
A twinge of hurt hit. Clearly, she had her own life getting a new retreat center business up and running, so living with me was always going to be temporary.
But I liked our living arrangement. In the years since she and I had previously lived together in college, I’d gone through a handful of other roommates of varying levels of annoyance. The total hermit who didn’t like bread (not on a gluten-free diet—just didn’t like it ), the one who signed a lease and then immediately up and moved to Canada (having forgotten to mention she had a pending Canadian VISA), leaving me desperate enough to agree for Matteo to move in for two months until I could find someone else less related to me.
I’d only been solo in my current apartment for the last year. I hadn’t realized how much I needed a body in-house to bake for until Hudson had settled into my office-slash-guest room.
We left the store with three dresses, all in solid colors, which could be easily be styled up or down with the right shoes, jewelry, and other accessories.
I dropped Hudson at home and headed off to meet Patrick. We’d be reviewing schedules or something.
I drove to Patrick’s the next town over. Entering Birchwood Hills’ town limits felt like a cozy hug. The lowered speed limit forced drivers to take in the soaring trees and flower-filled front yards. A quaint but busy Main Street offered plenty of practical stores and restaurants with a few fun shops mixed in. Patrick lived on a side street off Main in a house divided in two as a duplex on a charming street mostly occupied by single-family homes. Small, well-kept yards stretched in front of porches inviting you to sit and stay a while.
Two shiny, expensive vehicles took up the curb space on the street in front of his house. I never parked on the street here, so no matter. I turned into the narrow driveway, taking it past the house to the detached carport, coming to a stop in Patrick’s guest spot beside his own car.
I’d just gotten out when Patrick shot from the back door across the aging patio. “First, I’m sorry.”
“Apologizing before a hello—do I even want to know?”
“You don’t, but you will.”
“Is that her?” A petite woman, definitely shorter than me despite her four-inch heels, swung open the back door.
“It’s Bea Clark,” he said. “She and my mother are here.”
“No worries. I assumed I’d meet your campaign staff at some point.” I looked past Patrick and waved. “Hello! Nice to meet you. I just came from shopping. Would you like me to bring in what I bought? I can show you my campaign wardrobe.”
With a clipped nod, she disappeared into Patrick’s house.
“I didn’t invite them,” he said.
I rubbed his arm. “Deep breaths. This will all be fine.”
I grabbed the shopping bags and box of muffins I’d made earlier and followed Patrick inside.
His small, three-decades-outdated kitchen led to a dining alcove and a living room at the front of the house. Signs and posters reading STRAUSS FOR MAYOR covered the dining table. Blue text against white with a red border. Very American woo-hoo U-S-A colors .
Then again, branding, right? You had to sell the idea of the small-town American dream to get people to hitch to your wagon. Or whatever.
Bea Clark and Mrs. Strauss didn’t pause their conversation when we entered, yet I found myself being guided by Bea to the living room as she spoke. She took my bags and rifled through them, continuing to chatter in election jargon that hopefully would make sense in a few weeks’ time.
A sour expression hit Bea’s face. “Too drab. No personality. Hmm, this one is sufficient. Maybe for the food pantry event where you’re expected to dress down.”
Mrs. Strauss moved in, looking over the dresses in studious review, which eventually landed on a look of mild disgust.
“These are good brands,” I pointed out.
She ran a manicured nail across the red sticker announcing slashed prices, grimacing.
“Good brand,” I mumbled again.
Mrs. Strauss looked at me with mostly tempered pity. “We can do better than this, Marcy. You have a lovely figure. Let me set you up with my boutique in downtown Rochester.”
“Mom, I told you, this is not your campaign.” Patrick removed the dresses from his mother’s hands and gently placed them back into the shopping bags.
“You asked for my help.” Her words came with an innocent inflection, but hurt threaded beneath.
“I trust Marcy’s judgment, including what she wears.”
Bea Clark tsk ed her tongue. “It’s not about judgment, it’s about winning. I know what a winning look is.” She faced a tablet toward me featuring a collage of recognizable women dressed mostly in navy blues, reds, and white. So the No White After Labor Day thing really didn’t matter. I noticed a few royals and national-level politicians. “This is our color palette and style guide. Take Mrs. Strauss up on her boutique offer. They’ll handle everything. ”
I glanced to Patrick, who paced the room, working up a good counter-argument.
The two women stood confidently in front of me. They spoke with their whole bodies that they wouldn’t take no for an answer. This was not my bake-off. “Sure. Whatever you want.” Speaking of bake-off. “Oh! I brought blueberry muffins. I made them for Patrick, but you’re welcome to have some. They’re in the kitchen.”
Bea Clark blinked. “Don’t get any ideas about throwing a bake sale. We’re not running that sort of campaign.”
“Okay. They’re just muffins.” I mumbled that last part. I’d just keep to myself that I’d considered suggesting a bake sale on the way over.
Bea Clark grunted a little harrumph! and swiped to another image on her tablet. A stately, brick mansion-like home graced the screen. “This is where we’re hosting a fundraising dinner.”
She seemed to be waiting for a response. “That’s a beautiful home,” I said.
Mrs. Strauss looked pointedly at me. “It’s the Richenbacher house.”
“Right! Of course. The Richenbacher house.” No idea. Never heard of it.
“It used to belong to the cracker dude, you know, Biscuit King?” Patrick mimed a little dance from the old commercials and I laughed. “Anyway, our family knows them and they rent out the estate for events now.” He rolled his eyes, unseen by the other women. “Meanwhile, I’ll be hosting my own event at Albert’s Pancake House over on Twelve Mile next Wednesday morning. Hitting that senior crowd.”
I grinned. He had great charm and charisma with the elderly set. He’d always had an old soul quality about him that I found sweet and that my brothers tried to beat out of him. Playfully beating, obviously. They’d made it their mission to toughen him up .
Which was ridiculous because Patrick was tough. He had a steel resolve when it came to what he believed in. Convictions that grounded him, though he’d never been shy to question the status quo. And physically? He was fit, sure. Lean the way I liked in a guy where they weren’t too muscley but could definitely throw a sack of grain over their shoulder if they had to—wait, where was I? Oh, right. His look of steel determination.
Patrick continued on about his campaign schedule, involving a host of community events. His confidence as he spoke showed strength. The women quieted for the first time since I’d entered the house.
The conversation continued with campaign talk. I listened. Mostly. Visions of hand pies with puff pastry danced in my head. Rustic chonks of ultra-flaky crust pastry filled with gooey globs of pie filling.
“Marcy? What do you think?” Patrick looked at me.
It was nice he was including me and all but, well, my mind was dough. “Whatever you’d like. I’m good with it.”
He looked a little nervous at my response. Shoot, what had I just agreed to?
After the women left, Patrick relaxed into his usual self. “Want to grab dinner in town?”
I tried not to appear too relieved his overlords in pearls had made their haste. But honestly? This breath of freedom felt like turning on my out of office message for an unplanned vacation day. “Absolutely.”
Thankfully, I hadn’t agreed to anything too traumatizing when I’d zoned out over hand pies. They were so cute and delicious! The hand pies. Not those women. Those women were sharp and low-key dangerous.
Anyway, they’d asked— insisted —I attend some meet-and-greet at the county fairgrounds this coming weekend. An early fall festival. I owned a pair of western boots and already envisioned the perfect dress to wear. I hadn’t said a word about my outfit plans when Patrick’s mother shoved a business card in my hand.
Literally, she put the card in my hand like I wouldn’t simply take it from her if asked.
For whatever reason, she and Bea Clark seemed ready to battle me. I was here for Patrick and if they needed me to do things, I would. Not a bake sale. Definitely not a bake sale.
“Bea won’t make me wear a navy-blue skirt suit to a county fair, will she?” I asked Patrick as I grabbed a cardigan from the trunk of my car.
Patrick and I headed down the driveway to the sidewalk. “Honestly, I have no idea. If you don’t want to do her suggested shopping, I’ll back you up. That’s not what you signed up for.”
I side-stepped a piece of abandoned sidewalk chalk beside a hopscotch in front of his neighbor’s house. “Actually, it’s exactly what I signed up for. To help you win the campaign.”
He slid his hands into his khaki shorts’ pockets. “I don’t want them bossing you around. If it gets to be too much, you’ll tell me, right?”
“With gusto.”
“Definitely with gusto.”
We crossed into the next block with Main Street in our sights up ahead. “What are you in the mood for? Pizza? Chinese?”
The small downtown offered a handful of options, all of which we’d sampled and rated by our own internal hierarchy. The pizza place was average, but moved a notch up from the sandwich shop because of their most excellent cheesy bread. A pub farther down Main reigned in our top slot for an overall trustworthy menu. Never a bad meal. “Burgers. Definitely burgers.”
Where the residential street ended, we turned right and walked along Main for a block before crossing the street.
Patrick hooked his arm through mine and slowed his pace. He swung me toward an empty storefront. “Hey, check this out. This space is vacant.”
I stopped beside him and was about to say something expertly snarky when my breath caught. My words dried up altogether.
A narrow space overall, the storefront was squeezed between a dentist’s office and a hardware store. Beautiful woodwork framed the door painted a dusty blue. A modest bay window faced the street. I peeked inside the darkened glass and gasped. Black-and-white checkered floors—a vintage dream! They didn’t look too worn from here. A clean, empty space with what looked like a countertop running one length of a wall and an open door leading to another room.
I couldn’t take my eyes off the space. “You knew this was here.”
“It’s the darndest thing.” Patrick spoke close, right beside me. “I noticed it the other day. There’s no sign or anything, so I asked around and heard the owner hasn’t put the property up for lease or sale. It’s sort of in limbo for the time being.”
I swallowed. It was perfect. I wouldn’t change the paint color or the floors. It was as if set production on a film crew took my hazy vision of a future bakery and built it right here. Smack dab on a well-traveled street in a cute little town where people kept their local businesses thriving.
“You like it?” His question came soft, almost hesitant.
I turned to him, rubbing my arms through my sweater. “Chills. Actual chills.”
He threw his arms around me. “I knew it!”
I squealed in delight and let myself fall into him, the excitement hitting from every angle. I pulled back. “The building probably isn’t in the online listings—that’s why I never saw it. Are you thinking we can find out who owns this and see if they’ll lease the property? Or better yet, sell?”
“If this is the right place, we can pursue it. Yes.”
My head felt so light, I almost missed that I’d been swept into his arms a moment ago. The air hung thick between us. Possibility, and some other tension I couldn’t name.
Patrick found this space. For me .
But I didn’t dare get any more excited. Not without more information. A barrage of questions came at me. “Was this a restaurant before? Don’t tell me it failed. Or it’s cursed. What if the building is cursed?”
“Hey, if it’s cursed, there’s always sage.”
I meant to laugh at his spirit-cleansing comment, but my attention fixated on the perfect spot of wall for my grandparents’ old clock. Bright walls and well-worn counters and floors. A working bakery that wasn’t all flash and trend. But a little of that too.
I could see it clear as day. I could see everything possibl e.
“Marcy?”
I grabbed Patrick’s hand and squeezed. “I’m so excited, but at the same time completely freaked. What if this is perfect and it doesn’t work out? What if I try and none of it works out?”
I probably sounded completely immature. Here he was spending significant time, effort, and money on a mayoral campaign where a positive outcome was absolutely not guaranteed. Running a campaign was a risk. Even if he did everything right, he could still lose to those old frogs clinging to power.
Neither of our dreams could work out.
Patrick took my other hand. “I’ll do whatever it takes to get you into this building.”
I wanted to believe him. But I always put conditions on my feelings, tempering them with all the reasons why what I wanted would never work out. Logical reasons that squashed any daydreams from becoming more than private documents hidden away on my home computer.
“Marcy.” He spoke low in a tone that bottomed out in my belly.
Everything faded. The street noise, the vision of my dream bakery. Only Patrick remained. His resolve. His steadfast commitment to my dream. His commitment to me .
“I promise,” he said. “I’ll make this happen for you.”
His conviction sold me. I absolutely believed he was capable of getting me this business. “No wonder you’re running for office.” My cheeks flamed like the inside of a wood-fired brick oven. “You’re making me a believer.”
He watched me with an intense sort of curiosity. “When it comes to you, I’ve always been a believer.”
My lips tingled. I had no idea what was happening to my mouth given it wasn’t moving, making sounds, or being attacked by bees. I couldn’t stop looking at Patrick. Something was changing, not just in me, but with us. Between us.
I drew in a breath, my chest tight.
Like a switch had been flipped, his face filled my vision in a new way. Like the focus had been sharpened. His eyes, always alert, softened as their gaze landed on me. I could feel his breath, not from his mouth, but from the gentle rhythm flowing from his hands to mine. Connected to each other in so many ways for so long.
Patrick. My Patrick . Strong, faithful, reliable Patrick. He’d been such a support to me as a friend…and as a fiancé. A fake one, sure. But this wasn’t fake. His belief in me and what I could do was never an act.
We stood close, still holding hands. I was mere seconds from jumping off a bridge with him into the great blue yonder of possibility.
And I wanted to kiss him.
Like, really kiss him. On the mouth .
Maybe with tongue.
A kiss like we hadn’t had since—
“Marcy.” Patrick let go of one of my hands and reached toward my face.
This was it. It was happening. This time, he was going to kiss me .
I let my eyes flutter closed and tipped up my chin.
A tug came at my hair and I winced. My eyes flew open.
“Sorry.” Patrick held a tiny leaf between his fingers. “This was in your hair.”
For a moment, I remained suspended in the dreamworld of our new, romantic existence. A pang of loss hit, morphing into a concentrated shot of embarrassment.
I thought we were about to kiss and instead I had tree junk in my hair.
I yanked myself back to reality, dropping my hand from his grasp. A laugh escaped that sounded not a small amount unhinged.
“We should probably get those burgers, huh?” Patrick turned to head down the block, waiting for me to join him. The leaf spiraled slowly to the ground.