Chapter 13
13
The funk follows me into the next few days. I wake up every morning, hair perfectly coiffed, makeup flawlessly applied. I dress in a rainbow of frills and walk to the bakery, smiling and nodding at everyone I pass along the way. I help Emma with whatever tasks need to be completed at the bakery. And I still can’t seem to get out of my head.
I’m refusing to believe that Jason turning down my offer of clear, available, no-strings-attached sex is responsible for my lingering bad mood because there is no way that man deserves to hold such power over me. His biceps aren’t that big. Of course, sending him home empty-handed at the end of the night effectively crossed off two of my three falling-in-love options. No word yet as to who my remaining mystery bachelor might be, but I’m not feeling super hopeful about our odds. Maybe Mimi is really just setting me up to fail.
Things seem to be going okay on the career front, though I’d be lying if I said I suddenly found myself with an undying passion for baking. I like working with Emma, and she certainly tolerates me better than most bosses would. But while I’m a competent assistant, I don’t ever see myself being more than that when it comes to working at the bakery. I don’t have the passion for it that Emma does. I’m not dreaming up recipes in my off time or thinking of new flavor combinations as I spend hours perfecting a frosting design. I mostly only feel like I’m any good at it because Emma is such a patient teacher.
And as to finding myself a functioning member of the community, I’m beginning to wonder how one even gauges such a thing. Is it how many people wave at me in the morning? Do the smiles cancel out the trauma I inflicted during my stints as bookseller and wedding planner? Does the fact that I haven’t done much else beyond the carnival mean I’m lacking in the community department?
I just don’t know. And not knowing is not something I’m comfortable with. I always know exactly what the goal is and the steps to achieve it. As a kid it was making straight As and getting into an Ivy League, at Harvard it was being chosen as editor of the law review, as partner it was bringing in the most billable hours. In Heart Springs I constantly feel like I’m flying by the seat of my pants.
And if I’m being totally and completely honest with myself, the fact that, despite his offer to catch up soon, I haven’t seen or heard from Ben over the last couple of days feels…bleh. I think I might miss him, which is why I try really hard not to have close friends, so I don’t have to miss them when they inevitably abandon me.
Emma must notice my melancholy because she sends me home after the lunch rush with a warm hug and a box of baked goods, neither of which I feel like I truly deserve.
I decide to swing by Mimi’s on my way back to the cottage since I haven’t seen her in a few days. She’s been suspiciously absent, especially considering how majorly I managed to fuck things up with both Ethan and Jason. I’m on my final job and down to my final man, and yet I’ve received zero guilt trips from the HBIC in recent days.
The bell tinkles as I push through the door, but the café is empty and no one is alerted to my presence. Mimi doesn’t wait for me behind the counter, and as usual, no patrons sit among the distressed tables and chairs.
I slide into a seat to wait, assuming she must be fluttering around the back somewhere, making magic and steering the course of other people’s lives.
I could really go for a coffee though.
Since working at the bakery, I’ve figured out (okay, fine, Emma taught me with an abundance of patience) how to pull my own espresso shots so they actually taste good, and I figure Mimi won’t mind if I help myself. I mean, the woman has basically helped herself to control of my life and all I need in return is some caffeine, so I think it’s a fair trade.
Heading behind the counter, I reach for the espresso and quickly freeze.
Mimi is in the back, I now know for sure, because I can hear her talking. Heatedly. Presumably to someone else.
When that someone else speaks and I recognize his voice immediately, I creep closer to the swinging door separating the kitchen from the café, shameless in my eavesdropping.
“I told you picking Jason was a mistake. She was never going to go for him.” Ben, stating the obvious. “Not seriously, anyway.”
“She was going for him just fine, Ben. The two of them were having a great date until you butted in.” Mimi scolds Ben like she normally scolds me, and I’m not going to lie, it feels great to find out I’m not the only one who can get on her bad side.
“I didn’t do anything! All I did was stop by and say hello to my friend, who I’m supposed to be keeping tabs on anyway.” He sounds defensive, and what the fuck is all this business about keeping tabs? Is he only hanging out with me because Mimi told him to? My brain doesn’t have time to fully digest that interesting tidbit before Ben continues on. “Cam isn’t who you think she is, Mimi. I think you’re going about this all wrong.”
“I’m not wrong. I’ve never once been wrong and I’m not going to start now.”
“She’s different.” Ben says the words with a hint of reverence, and I imagine his eyes softening and a soft smile playing on his lips.
My own lips curve up in a matching smile.
Mimi’s voice is the one that audibly softens. “You need to be careful, Ben. You’re getting too close.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do. You know that your task is to help Cam complete hers. I don’t want you to lose sight of that, or you might end up getting hurt.”
“Why would I be hurt?”
“She needs to fall in love, Ben. And if you care about her—”
Ben starts to protest but is quickly cut off.
“If you care about her, you want her to experience true love. You want her to go back home. It’s the only way you get back home too.”
There’s a long silence, and I wonder if their conversation has come to a close or if the emotions whirling around in my head are just blocking out their words. Ben’s task is to help me complete my tasks? The only way he gets to go home is if I do too?
How could he not tell me something this major? I’ve told Ben things I haven’t told anyone before, and he couldn’t even tell me the truth about his task? I wait for anger to overtake me, but where there should be rage, there’s nothing but an aching emptiness.
Ben speaks up once more, his voice hoarse and a bit choked, and I force myself to listen, to gather all the evidence of his double-crossing. “She needs someone smart. Someone who can keep up with her. Someone who will appreciate her work ethic, but also force her to take a break every once in a while. She needs someone who can make her laugh. Someone who listens. Someone who cares. Someone like…”
Ben.
A fist wraps around my lungs and squeezes until I’m gasping for breath. I clutch the counter, trying to keep myself upright, willing myself not to black out, until I realize the pain isn’t actually physical.
There’s only one person I can think of who fits all of Ben’s requirements, and I thought that someone was my friend, though now I’m not so sure.
“How about Noah?” Mimi suggests.
I want to scream that that’s clearly not the right answer. I wait for Ben’s inevitable protest.
“I think he could make her happy,” is what he says instead.
I don’t hear the rest of the conversation, my brain too muddled to parse out individual words.
I do hear when the two of them move toward the door, and the sound sends me bolting for the exit. Pushing out of the café, the bell tinkling behind me, I race back to my cottage and slam the door.
First things first, I grab a bottle of chilled white wine, yank out the cork, and chug. Replaying the entire conversation in my head, I realize that everything I was feeling for Ben—warm friendship feelings and sparks and hints of something maybe possibly warmer than friendship—was all completely one-sided. Ben doesn’t care for me. Not me as a person. He only cares about me completing my tasks. He only cares about getting back home.
My body aches like I’ve just endured a two-hour spin class and my brain is whirring as fast as the wheels.
Mimi’s words loop in my mind, you’re getting too close .
What does that even mean? How not close is Ben supposed to get when we freaking live next door to each other and he’s apparently my own personal babysitter?
And why did hearing Ben describe the perfect man for me send me into a state of physical shock? Shouldn’t I be grateful that this Noah character has Ben’s stamp of approval? If he thinks Noah could be the one for me, he’s already head and shoulders above Jason, who was mostly just shoulders.
Tucking the bottle of wine under my arm, I grab a pint of ice cream and head over to the couch. I flick on the TV and cover myself with the softest knitted blanket to ever inhabit the earth. The couple onscreen is declaring their love for each other and it should probably make me feel worse, but I mostly just feel numb.
—
I wake up on the sofa the next morning, and despite the almost entire bottle of wine I drank, I don’t seem to have even a lick of a hangover. And a quick glimpse in the mirror reveals my hair and makeup to be perfect, as usual. I frown, not because I’m unhappy with my appearance but because I’m starting to not hate these blasted loose curls cascading down my back like a contestant in a beauty pageant. So surely the apocalypse is nigh.
When I open my closet, I freeze in the doorframe. Gone are all my frilly dresses—there’s not a hint of pastel hiding anywhere among the depths. Instead, I find earth tones and soft knits as far as the eye can see. It should be a relief, but mostly I’m just confused as to why the sudden change.
I tug on a pair of jeans and a camel-colored sweater, praying I don’t sweat to death throughout the day. But I needn’t have worried, because when I open my front door, I’m hit with a blast of chilly autumn air. The leaves of the tree in my front yard have turned red overnight, and bright orange pumpkins line the steps.
“What the actual fuck?”
“Happy fall, y’all,” Ben’s voice chimes from next door.
I glare at him. “Do not greet me with a pillow phrase ever again.” He’s already on thin ice after the conversation he doesn’t know I overheard.
He crosses to the fence separating our yards, his hands tucked into the front pockets of his jeans. He’s wearing a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, which should make me nauseated but sends a small shiver through me. “What exactly is a pillow phrase?”
“You know, one of those cheesy sayings white women have stitched on throw pillows. ‘Live, laugh, love.’ ‘Home is wherever you are.’ Bullshit like that.” I take a few timid steps in his direction, not wanting to get too close. Forearms plus a whiff of his woodsy scent might be potent enough to send me hurtling through another rip in the space-time continuum.
He chuckles, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Got it. I’ll remember that for the future.”
There’s an awkwardly long pause during which I try not to stare directly at him while I also try to examine his face for any sort of clues as to how he might be feeling. Given how emphatic he was about me and this Noah guy, he’s probably counting down the days until he’s rid of me, until I fall in love with someone else and he gets to go home and never see me again.
“So we’re officially in fall?” The question is clearly redundant, but it’s all I’ve got. “Does this mean it’s time for the pumpkin festival?”
Ben runs a hand through his hair, looking everywhere but at me. “I think it’s the Harvest Festival, actually. But I imagine there will be lots of pumpkins involved.”
“Of course.” Another silence descends upon us. “Well, I should probably get to the bakery. Emma probably has a whole new store of pumpkin recipes for me to learn.”
“Before you go—” Ben takes another step closer, running into the fence. He steps back with a sheepish smile. “Before you go, I just wanted to check in and see how you’re doing?”
I study his deep brown eyes, hoping to discern what kind of response he wants. But they betray nothing, and so I decide to go for an honest one. “I’m feeling a little lost, honestly. I like working at the bakery, but there’s no chance it’s my passion in life. I don’t feel like I’m actually contributing anything worthwhile to the community. And I’ve eliminated sixty-six percent of my love interests over the course of two dates.” I keep my eyes locked on his during that last part, waiting for some kind of sign, but he doesn’t even flinch.
I know I should yell at him for keeping the truth from me, berate him for pretending to be my friend when he’s really only concerned about getting himself home.
But I can’t make myself say the words, as if giving voice to them will make them true.
“Well, I’m going to be working on the Harvest Festival if you want to put in some more hours helping the community.” His cheeks redden, and Mimi’s warning not to get too close echoes in my mind once again.
“I would like that.” And I would, I realize in that moment.
He holds my gaze like he’s attempting to send me some kind of telepathic message, but whatever it is he’s trying to impart, I don’t get it.
“You should probably get to work,” he prods after a few seconds. Apparently, the subliminal message was go away .
“Right. See ya later.” I wave over my shoulder, pushing through my front gate and heading down the sidewalk without looking back.
Surprising no one but me, the entire town has undergone its fall transformation. Pumpkins are everywhere, fallen leaves crunch under my boots, even the air smells different. I breathe it in, and the slight chill feels refreshing in my lungs.
It takes me less than five minutes to reach the bakery, and when I let myself in the back door to the kitchen, I’m surprised by the lack that greets me. No heavenly smells permeating the air. No sounds of bowls and spoons clanking together as Emma pours and mixes. And most noticeably, no Emma.
“Hello?” I call out, even though I can clearly see no one waits for me in the back. I stride through the swinging door to the front of the bakery.
Emma is on the floor behind the counter, knees pulled to her chest, head down.
“Oh shit, Emma, what happened?” I drop down next to her, checking for blood or visible signs of trauma, but nothing seems amiss. Other than the heaving sobs wracking her body.
She cries for a few solid minutes, never once lifting her head or stopping for breath. I rub what I hope are soothing circles on her back, whispering nonsense words of comfort hoping they will spur her into telling me what the hell is going on.
Finally, she manages to raise her head just enough so I can see her tear-filled eyes. Her cheeks are streaked with mascara, and I grab a napkin to wipe away the evidence of her distress.
“Thank you,” she chokes out and somehow those two little words stir another bout of tears.
“Emma, you’re freaking me out. What the fuck is going on?”
Wordlessly, she hands me a piece of paper that’s been wedged in between her thighs. I open it up and read, my ire growing with each passing word.
“This is fucking bullshit.” I’m tempted to crumple the letter in a ball and light it on fire, but I have a feeling we’ll need it. Or at least the information contained in it, because I intend to find the writer of this letter and rip him a new asshole.
“They’re going to take my bakery, Cam.” Emma sniffles, but she seems to be all cried out.
“We are not going to let that happen.” I’m already on my feet, searching fruitlessly for a phone so I can set up a meeting with this dickwad lawyer as soon as humanly possible.
“I don’t know what to do.” Her head falls back to her knees.
I crouch down in front of her, forcing her to look at me. “Hey. None of that. I know receiving a letter like this can be terrifying.” Satan knows I’ve sent my fair share of them, to people just like Emma. I’ve just never had to witness the reactions of the people receiving them. “But we are not going to roll over and let these guys win. We have a lot of legal options and lucky for you, I know them all. I am not going to let them take this bakery from you.”
Emma wipes under her eyes. “I don’t know if there’s anything you can do to stop them.”
“No way. Shit like this doesn’t happen here. Heart Springs is this idyllic wonderland, right? So there’s no way the jackass real estate developer succeeds in closing down the locally owned small business. That’s not how these things work here.” I run my eyes over the letter again, searching for the name of the person I am going to skewer and roast on a pit for threatening Emma like this. “Wait a second. Noah Crenshaw? Is there more than one Noah in this town?”
Emma shakes her head. “Not that I know of.”
I collapse on the floor next to Emma.
“What’s wrong?”
I open my mouth to tell her before I realize I’m not supposed to know about Noah yet. Neither Ben nor Mimi has filled me in on the details of my third bachelor, presumably because they know they’ve set me up with a total douche canoe.
Fuck.
They set me up with a total douche canoe because they think I am also a total douche canoe.
Not going to lie, that one stings.
Emma prods me with her elbow.
I clear my throat, determined to examine the implications of this discovery when I’m back at home in the peace and comfort of my bathtub. “Nothing’s wrong. Why don’t you close the bakery for today, take some time for yourself. Go home and relax, or maybe see if there’s someone you can talk to. Ethan’s probably available.” Okay, it’s not exactly subtle, but we’re in a moment of distress here.
“Okay.” She agrees, but it’s reluctant.
I jump up before she can change her mind. I write a note on a blank piece of paper and tape it to the front window. Heading back behind the counter, I help Emma to her feet and hand her her coat and purse. “I’ll do a quick cleanup and make sure the door is locked when I leave.”
Before I can protest, Emma throws herself at me, arms wrapping tight around my torso. “Thank you, Cam. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you here.”
My arms are stiff by my sides, but after a second of being unable to breathe due to the strength of her grip, I manage to pat her on the back a few more times. “No problem.”
She releases me, and tears are shining in her big brown eyes once again, only this time they are accompanied by a small smile. “You’re a really good friend.”
I don’t have a response, and she doesn’t seem to need one. She gives my hand a final squeeze and heads out through the kitchen.
No one has ever called me a good friend before.
I don’t know that anyone has ever called me a friend before.
That thought wouldn’t have bothered me a few days ago, but now I realize how depressing it is.
Well, Emma just might be my first real friend, and that means I can’t let her down. I do a quick wipe down of all the counters and make sure the few ingredients Emma took out this morning get put away before I lock all the doors and head out to the main street on a mission.