Chapter 2 #2
I spent twenty minutes making mental notes.
There were sheets on the bed, a towel hung over the bathroom door, and a bar of soap that smelled like hotel shampoo.
No food in the fridge except for a single bottle of mustard and two cans of Diet Coke.
I made a list: groceries, new pillows, towels, toiletries, and so many other things. But that was a start.
First priority, though: a new mattress. If I were going to survive this, I needed sleep that didn’t come with springs poking at my kidneys.
I checked Google Maps—turns out, Dairyville had exactly one furniture store, on the square, just two doors down from my own building.
I called; the woman on the other end sounded so chipper I wanted to hang up.
Yes, they delivered. Yes, today. I ordered a queen-size mattress and frame, nothing fancy, and paid with some of that newfound money.
Next, I dialed the water company, putting them on speaker so I could start unloading cleaning supplies downstairs.
The hold music was a nightmare loop of eighties country, and I had to repeat my name four times before the woman believed I was real.
When I told her the address, there was a long pause.
“You said Buttercream rumor is she owed half the county money.”
I tried to sound cheerful. “Well, I paid the bill. Or, my mother did. I’m starting fresh. Can you send someone out to turn the water on?”
She promised a technician within the hour. For the gas, I needed a plumber to sign off, and for the oven I’d need to wait until everything was up and running. I thanked her, told her to have a lovely day, and hung up.
Without water, I decided to start removing trash and sweeping.
I started at the top and worked my way down, as Mama always said.
Dust before you sweep, sweep before you mop, then wipe every surface twice.
I found the cleaning supplies in a plastic bucket under the sink—mostly vinegar and bleach, plus a terrifying pink sponge that looked older than me.
I threw the sponge away and raided the hardware store for fresh supplies.
The man behind the counter was about sixty, with a face like beef jerky and hands that could crush walnuts.
He watched me the whole time I shopped, his eyes following me down every aisle.
I bought gloves, rags, a broom, and a gallon of lemon-scented cleaner.
At the checkout, he rang everything up in silence.
“Y’all are new to Dairyville, aren’t you?” he said finally.
I nodded, offering a half-smile. “Moved in this morning. I’m opening the bakery back up.”
He grunted, not quite friendly, not quite unfriendly. “People here like things the way they are. Don’t much care for change.”
“I’m not here to change anything,” I said carefully. “Just bake some pastries, maybe a few cakes. Hopefully, I’ll make a few friends.”
He slid the bags across the counter. “You let me know if you need a contractor. My son does odd jobs—painting, repairs, whatever.” His gaze softened, just a hair. “Good luck.”
I stopped at the door. “Matter of fact, I could use a painter. I’d love to have the front painted a pretty, sunny yellow. If he’s available and not too expensive.” He gave me a quote, and it seemed reasonable. And suddenly, I’d hired the man’s son and apparently had a new friend to boot.
When I got back to the store, I heard water running in the kitchen sink.
I’d clearly left the faucet open, and someone had turned the water on while I was at the hardware store.
So, I rolled up my sleeves and got to work.
I scrubbed the windows until my knuckles ached, cleared the cobwebs from the corners, and polished the glass case next to the front counter until I could see my own puffy-eyed reflection.
Every sweep of the rag peeled away a layer of grime, a decade of lost hope.
It wasn’t pretty yet, but it was starting to look alive.
The lemon cleaner made the whole place smell like a Florida orchard, sharp and clean.
I set up the tables in the front room, arranging the mismatched chairs so they wouldn’t look so lonely.
There were only six tables, enough to seat maybe twenty people if they squeezed.
I dusted each one, scoured the salt and pepper shakers, and the sugar caddies to get them ready to be filled with the first grocery delivery that would soon arrive.
Around noon, a battered pickup rolled up in front of the bakery. The driver was a guy in paint-spattered jeans and a camo hat, carrying a five-gallon bucket and a ladder. He knocked once, hard.
“You Aspen?”
“That’s me.”
“Dad said you needed the outside painted.” He didn’t wait for me to answer, just started unloading.
The paint cans were sunshine yellow, the kind of color you couldn’t look at straight on without smiling.
He covered the front door with plastic, taped off the windows, and set to work like he’d been born with a brush in his hand.
I watched from the inside, every stroke a little brighter than the last. The old mustard color was gone within the hour, replaced by the bold, almost absurd optimism of fresh paint.
I couldn’t help but think of Mama, and how she used to paint our rooms every spring, chasing away the gloom of winter with wild shades of turquoise and coral.
The plumber showed up next, a woman in coveralls and a bandana. She took one look at the mess in the kitchen and shook her head.
“You got your work cut out for you, girl,” she said, hands on hips.
“I know,” I replied. “But I have a secret weapon.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
I smiled for real this time. “Stubbornness.”
She laughed and got to work under the sink.
It was so odd that, speaking to strangers around here turned out to be much easier than speaking to the coven members back home.
By the time the sun set, things looked much better. I still had a ways to go, but as I sat down in a chair by the front window, with a real cup of coffee in my hands, for the first time, I felt like maybe I could do this.
I glanced up at the sign, now freshly painted and clean.
Buttercream as much as I could.
The kitchen was mine now—every polished handle, every clean bowl, every square inch of the ancient butcher block.
I decided to keep the existing oven. The expense of an industrial bakery oven would have set me back several thousand dollars, and this oven wasn’t actually all that old.
It just looked like hell from the abuse it had taken from the previous owner.
It took a couple of days, but I scrubbed it until it looked so bright and hopeful.
I was willing to do anything to make the old thing work. I’d even sing to it, the way Mama used to when she wanted a loaf to rise just so. I’d made a batch of cinnamon roll dough and left it to proof while I checked the oven to see if it would preheat.
The plumber had signed off; the gas was flowing, and the thermostat blinked in neon orange.
But when I pressed the preheat button, nothing happened.
The click of the igniter was just air; the burners stayed cold, unblinking.
I tried again, slower this time, reciting the steps from memory like a prayer.
Still nothing.
I stared at the empty racks inside, willing them to heat up, and for a minute I wanted to smash the oven windows. Then I remembered how Mama had talked to the kitchen when things went sideways. Not just muttering, but full-out bargaining. I felt stupid, but desperation is stronger than pride.
I set my hands on the oven’s cold steel, closed my eyes, and tried to remember the kinds of things she said.
I set my intention and spoke, “Come on, baby,” I murmured, slow and low.
“You’re stronger than this. You’re made for helping to create delicious things with your heat.
Don’t let me down. It’s your time to shine. ”
Nothing at first, just the hum of the cooler and the tick of the wall clock.
Then, in the space where my palms met the metal, a warmth buzzed through my skin.
It tingled up my arms, a charge that made my hair stand on end.
The oven shuddered once, then sparked to life with a roar that was half mechanical, half alive.
I jumped back, nearly tripped over my own feet, and stared at the oven like it was a living thing. The burners glowed. Heat poured out, thick and sweet, and a single tear rolled down my cheek; not from sadness, but relief.
“Mama?” I said, half-laughing. “Did you see that?”
The kitchen didn’t answer, but I felt something settle in the room, a softness, like someone had wrapped me in honey.
I went back to the dough, rolled it out, then added the cinnamon mixture and cut it into neat strips.
I rolled the spirals and loaded them onto trays.
The oven was perfect—hot, steady, faithful.
I tried the same trick on the coffeemaker, and when it coughed to life, I felt the same pulse in my fingertips.
The industrial mixer, too. The more I spoke to them, the more they responded.
Every whir and beep and hum felt like a conversation, a secret language I’d never known I spoke.
I started to wonder if all those years in Verdant Hollow, I’d been more than just a dud. Maybe the coven had bound my magic, kept it tamped down until I was alone and too far gone to matter. Maybe Mama had known, and that’s why she bought me this place; to give me a chance to grow.
By early afternoon, the bakery was full of the smell of cinnamon, sugar, and fresh bread.
I stacked pastries in the window, lined cookies on cooling racks, and filled the air with the sharp, dark scent of strong coffee.
I played Mama’s old playlists on my phone, singing along to country ballads and golden oldies, dancing from counter to counter like no one was watching.
I worked until my feet hurt and my arms ached, but it was a good kind of pain—a building pain, not a breaking one.
For every tray of muffins I pulled from the oven, I whispered a thank you.
For every loaf that rose just right, I patted the countertop and said, “Good job, sweetheart.” I wiped the sweat from my brow, looked at the full display case, and felt a surge of pride so fierce I nearly burst.
When the sun set, I turned off the lights, locked the doors, and stood outside to look at the bakery. The yellow paint glowed under the streetlamps, every window bright and inviting. For a second, I imagined Mama standing next to me, arms crossed, a smirk on her face.
“You did it, baby,” I said, just for her. “We did it.”
I’d built something beautiful from nothing, and no one could take that from me.
As I sipped my coffee, I made a wish: that the people of Dairyville would come. That they’d smell the bread, see the light, and maybe, just maybe, give me a chance.
I’d been here for several days now, and lots of people had stopped to look in the window. Today I’d finally put some teaser items in the window. Guess I’d find out tomorrow if they’d take the bait.