Chapter 27
It’s a perfect day for a farmers’ market.
I arrive early with the cutest booth setup inspired by my “Porch Palette” and Zoey’s branding. I have a big banner to hang
in the back of my booth, flyers to give out to anyone who so much as glances at my table, and what has turned out to be an
absolutely adorable display.
After my conversation with Lennon, I buried myself in baking, but I struggled to divert my attention to the tasks at hand.
Her words had landed a little too hard.
I set up the kitchen, arranging canisters of staple ingredients around the workspace and figuring out the best workflow. And
trying not to think about the words “Do you want to be in a relationship with him?”
I turned on my Bluetooth speaker and found my favorite band on Spotify. Their folksy, acoustic, earwormy music drew me in,
but the story of how the band formed when two guys sent a Facebook message to a singer in England made me love them even more.
I was hoping that if I played their songs on a continuous loop it would drown out the noise in my head.
All it did was make me think of Miles.
Because lyrics about stealing away, and butterflies, and moments in the sun will do that.
I mixed and measured and poured and baked, and somehow I ended up with a nice assortment of cookies, cupcakes, bars, and muffins, all meant to give the general public a sneak peek into what they can expect when the storefront is ready, when I open in two weeks.
Looking at it now, I’m still not sure how I got everything done. The last forty-eight hours have been a bit of a blur.
“This. Is. Amazing!” Lennon walks up carrying the cutest little toddler I’ve ever seen in my life, Daniel behind her, pushing
a stroller.
“Is this Eve?” I rush to her, anxious to meet the other love of her life. “Good grief, Lennon, she’s beautiful.”
The little girl has Lennon’s big blue eyes and Daniel’s dark hair, only hers is curly. She smiles, and my teeth ache from
the sweetness. A few minutes later, I see Zoey walking in our direction. Behind her, Kevin and Ava.
And behind them, Miles.
My insides decide at that precise moment to discombobulate, and my mouth goes dry.
“Claire! It looks amazing!” Zoey rushes straight to me, looking around at the reality that she helped me dream up. She did
an amazing job getting my social media up and running, helping design the flyers, and getting the word out about The Porch.
She took the idea and boiled it down into an easily digestible mission—one that people could get on board with. One that I
could execute.
In some ways, today is as much Zoey’s triumph as mine. Her fingerprints are all over this place.
“Hey, Zoey!” I look past her at the others. “Hey, everyone. Thanks for coming.”
“We were promised cupcakes,” Miles says.
Zoey smacks him across the chest. “Work first, Dad.” She rolls her eyes.
Miles smiles.
And part of me relaxes.
“We’re here to help wherever,” Zoey says. “If you need it.”
They all look so happy to be here—I’m not sure how to process the kindness.
“Oh, do you all know Lennon and her husband, Daniel?” I motion over to where my other friends are standing, pausing as the
thought hits me—my other friends.
But I don’t have time to linger on it or continue the introductions because a man walks up to my booth and starts looking
around.
“Claire,” Zoey hisses, giving me a wide-eyed look that’s clearly meant to remind me I’m not here to socialize. I step back
behind the table as the group—my group—moves away from the booth, giving people space to browse.
Miles doesn’t move. Instead, he looks around at everything I’ve baked, eyes lingering on the Scotcheroos. He glances up and
finds me watching him when I should be talking to my potential customer.
I force myself to get to work, thrilled when the man decides to buy a package of lemon bars. As he’s leaving, Zoey hurries
over and gives him a flyer, telling him the details of the grand opening. “Two weeks. The perfect neighborhood bakery. Sit,
sip, and stay awhile.”
Once the man has gone, she shoots me a look. “Sell yourself a little, Claire.”
Miles strolls up beside me, wearing one of my extra aprons. “She’s not going to do that,” he says to Zoey.
I frown. “How do you know?”
“It’s not your style,” he says. “There’s not an arrogant bone in your body.”
“It’s not arrogant to want to share the things you’re good at,” Zoey says.
Miles points to her, then to himself. “We know that.” Then he hitches a thumb in my direction. “She’s still learning.”
“I resent that,” I say. “I used to put together huge fundraisers all by myself. I was good at that.”
He crosses his arms and looks at me. “But did anyone know you were the one who did all the work?”
I fold my arms back, defiant, but finally admit, “No.”
“I thought so. Can you tell the next people who walk in here that your snickerdoodle scones are incredible? Or that the cookies
are the perfect balance of crispy on the outside and soft in the center? Or that your lemon cake will make them want to be
a kid on a trampoline again?”
I’m struggling to defend myself, because he’s right. “I . . . will . . . have a hard time with that.”
“So.” He makes a motion like he’s rolling up his sleeves, even though he’s wearing a white, short-sleeved Henley shirt with
three buttons at the top. “Let us do it for you.”
Zoey’s eyes brighten. “Yes! We’ll be the cheer squad!”
An older woman walks up to the table and starts looking around. Miles grins. “I’ve got this.” He walks right up to the woman,
who’s carrying two crocheted bags, one empty, one with vegetables in it. “Good morning!”
She looks up and, not surprisingly, seems instantly charmed by him. “Good morning.”
“You’ve made the best decision of the day stopping here in our booth,” Miles says. He launches into a spiel about my baked
goods that is so perfect it sounds rehearsed, only without the stiff delivery. He’s so natural with everyone, and he has no
problem selling her on the half dozen sampler—a box of six different treats, perfect for the indecisive and nondiscriminating
sweet tooth.
As he’s ringing her up, he tells her where the bakery is located and when we’re opening, then leans in closer and says, “And
she’s kind of shy, but that’s the baker right there.” He points to me. “She’s very talented.”
The woman looks at me and smiles, then hands her money over to Miles, pats his hand, and tells him to keep the change. She waves the flyer in my direction. “Can’t wait to come by when you open!”
“Thank you!” I call out as she walks off.
I turn to Miles, but before I get a word out, two more people step into the booth, and he starts the spiel all over again.
He begins by asking them questions about themselves, and he actually seems interested in their answers. This appears to hook
them. After that, he tells them about the bakery.
Despite what I thought of him when we first met, Miles is one of the most sincere people I’ve ever known.
He’s also one of the most enthusiastic fans of my baked goods.
Still. Fan or no, genuine or dishonest—he doesn’t do relationships.
Never mind that sometimes I still catch him looking at me like he’s remembering the night we kissed.
Like maybe he wants to do it again.
I’m lost in thought when Lennon steps right in front of me. She’s been at the market for over an hour, and I’ve seen her walk
by my booth at least three times. I notice that she’s carrying a stack of flyers, and I’m pretty sure she’s been handing them
out to everyone here.
She gives me a knowing look, makes a point of moving her eyes over to Miles and then back to me.
I frown.
She slowly lifts her shoulders, as if to send me a message telepathically.
I shake my head and go back to the customers. Because she is making a point that doesn’t need to be made.
Around noon, when things finally wind down, I look around the booth and realize . . . I’m practically sold out. I’m just finishing
up with a sweet young mom who bought a big sugar cookie for her little boy. She gives me cash and hands the boy the cookie.
His eyes go wide.
“We’re going to share that.” She looks at me. “He’d live on cookies if I let him.”
I smile, remembering those days. “Have a great weekend!”
As they walk off, Miles comes up next to me. “Well, I’d say that was a huge success,” he says, looking around at the empty
display.
“Thanks to you guys,” I say. “I never could’ve done any of this without you.” I go quiet. “And I can’t believe you gave up
your Saturday to do this.”
He shrugs. “I’m just here for the Scotcheroos.”
I grin, but then a yell cuts through the noise of the market, followed by a loud, “It’s too yucky, Mommy!”
I turn and see the young mom and her son only a few feet away from the booth. He’s holding out the cookie, spitting the bite
out onto the ground. “I don’t like it!” He bursts into tears.
I frown. “Oh no.”
“Don’t sweat it,” he says. “Kids are picky.”
“But kids love my sugar cookies,” I say.
But then Zoey rushes into the booth. “Hey.” Ava is right behind her.
I frown. Because they both look panicked. “What’s wrong?”
She pulls me toward the back of the booth, her face serious. “Claire, did you taste the stuff you sold today?”
My stomach drops. “Of course, I know all my recipes by heart.”
“No, but like”—she presses her lips together and looks around the empty booth—“as you were baking these things, did you taste them?”
I feel like she’s coming at me with kid gloves when I need her to sock me in the face and tell me what’s going on.
“What’s wrong, Zo?” Miles asks calmly.
“This.” Ava holds out her phone, and Miles clicks on a paused video, moving beside me so I can watch it too.
On the screen, there’s a video by a girl whose social media account is Shannon in Chicago. She’s standing in the midst of the foot traffic of this very farmers’ market, and now that I look at her, I remember her buying a sampler box.
“Good morning, Shan-fans, we are here at the Lincoln Square Farmers Market, and we’ve just stumbled across a brand-new bakery
coming to the neighborhood in just a couple weeks. You know we are all about supporting small-business owners here at Shannon
in Chicago, and we were super excited to hear the concept of a small-town, Midwest-inspired bakery right here in the heart
of the city. It’s called The Porch, and the whole idea is that you come in, and you feel like you’re spending time relaxing
on the big, cozy porch of an old farmhouse.”
My stomach sinks because I know there’s a “but” coming—a “but” that’s going to feel a lot like an anvil being dropped on my
head.
Zoey turns away, and Ava chews her thumbnail.
“So I was excited to try it. You guys know I love my sweets. But . . . something is really off with this stuff. We ordered
the sampler pack, a box of six signature treats that are going to be featured at The Porch. The Scotcheroo, Porch pecan bars,
snickerdoodle scones, oatmeal cream pie sandwiches, lemon bars, and your traditional sugar cookie.
“They all look amazing.” She holds them up to show the camera. “But I took a bite of every single one, and I can tell you,
without hesitation, that these are”—she walks over to a trash can and tosses the whole box inside—“garbage. I’m pretty sure
that the baker at The Porch needs to get back to basics and learn the difference between salt and sugar.” She laughs. “Now
I’m going to go find something to drink to get the horrible taste out of my mouth.”
The video ends, and I stand there unmoving, my vision cloudy and out of focus.
“Claire,” Miles says.
My mind races. What went wrong? What did I do?
“That can’t be right,” I say, hands shaking. “I need to get back to the bakery. I need to check on this.” I look around. “There’s no way I made such a basic, simple mistake.” I look at Miles. “Are we sure this woman isn’t just trying to sabotage me? Maybe she’s another bakery owner or something?”
“She’s not the only one talking about it,” Zoey says softly.
My eyes fill with tears. “No.”
She looks at me. “I’m so sorry, Claire.”
“Let me see,” I say.
Zoey’s holding her phone, but Miles puts a hand on it before she can show it to me. “No.”
“I need to see what they’re all saying.”
“You don’t,” he says firmly. “We’re going to break everything down, and we’re going to come up with a plan.”
“What kind of plan could possibly make this okay?” I ask, tears spilling down my cheeks. “I sank everything into this business!
Everything! This was supposed to work out, this was supposed to show everyone that I—” I can’t even finish.
I know how negativity travels on the internet. And I also know that launching in two weeks in the wake of this mess is going
to be an absolute disaster.
And there’s no one to blame but myself.
A single, horrible, unwanted thought drops into my mind.
John was right.