Chapter Two
Elliott Sinclair had a complicated relationship with perfection. She demanded it from her pastries, but absolutely refused to accept it was possible from other people, who inevitably disappointed her.
The raspberry tart in front of her, however, was coming dangerously close to earning her approval.
She adjusted the angle of the plate for the fourteenth time, checked the light streaming through the window of her small kitchen, and raised her camera.
The glazed raspberries caught the afternoon sun like tiny jewels.
The pastry cream beneath them was the exact shade of pale gold she wanted.
The crust had achieved that elusive balance between rustic and refined that food bloggers lost their minds over.
"Fine," she muttered, which for Elliott was practically a standing ovation.
She took seventeen shots from different angles, checked each one with a critical eye, and finally allowed herself a small nod of satisfaction.
The cookbook was coming together. Her cookbook.
The one she'd been dreaming about since Milly had first put a whisk in her hand and told her she had the touch.
The bell above the bakery door chimed, and Elliott heard familiar footsteps on the stairs.
Slower than they used to be, but still carrying that particular rhythm she'd know anywhere.
She set down her camera and wiped her hands on her apron, already composing her face into something that wasn't quite a smile but wasn't a scowl either. It was the closest she got to warm.
"There's my girl." Milly Gordon appeared in the flat doorway, eighty-three years old and still managing to look like she could out-bake anyone who challenged her.
Her white hair was pulled back in its usual practical bun, and her eyes crinkled at the corners when she saw Elliott.
"Still torturing that poor tart, I see."
"It deserved it." Elliott moved to pull out a chair. "Tea?"
"Please." Milly settled into the seat with a soft sigh. "Though I'm afraid I'm not just here for a social call."
Something shifted in Elliott's chest. She busied herself with the kettle, keeping her back turned. "Oh?"
"I won’t beat around the bush. I've sold the bakery."
The kettle slipped slightly in her hand. "Sorry. You've what?"
"Sold it." Milly's voice was gentle but firm. "To some woman in London. A mother buying it for her daughter, apparently, from what the estate agent said." She paused. "Rich people are peculiar."
Elliott set the kettle on the stove with more care than strictly necessary. She was trying very, very hard not to let any feelings in. "When?"
"The sale completes this week. She'll be arriving soon after, I imagine."
This week. Elliott gripped the edge of the counter.
The bakery downstairs. Where she'd learned to cream butter and sugar until it was fluffy, where she'd discovered that baking was the one thing in her miserable life she was actually good at, where she'd built something like a home.
Gone. Sold to some rich girl from London.
"Right." Her voice came out steadier than she felt. Good. She'd had a lot of practice at that.
"I know you’re not happy." Milly reached out and caught Elliott's hand. "But I’m an old woman, Elliott. And I’ve been thinking. The money from the bakery is more than I need, really. I want you to have some of it."
"I don't need your money." The words came out sharper than she intended. They always did.
"I know you don't need it." Milly's grip tightened.
"But I want you to have it. For your cookbook.
So you can focus on making it everything it should be, without worrying about rent or bills or any of that nonsense.
" Her eyes, still sharp despite her age, met Elliott's. "Let me do this for you. Please."
Elliott wanted to argue. She wanted to insist she'd be fine, that she didn't need help, that she'd managed perfectly well on her own since she was seventeen and could keep managing, thank you very much.
But Milly had a look in her eye, the look that said she wasn′t going to take no for an answer, and that she knew Elliott didn′t want to say no, not really.
"Fine," she said, and if her voice cracked slightly on the word, neither of them mentioned it.
"Good." Milly released her hand and sat back. "Now, about the other thing."
"There's more?"
"I'm moving into Chilton Gardens."
Elliott felt the floor tilt slightly beneath her feet. First the bakery, now this. "You don't need a retirement home. You're perfectly capable of…"
"I'm eighty-three." Milly interrupted. "I'm tired, love. My knees hurt, and I can't manage the stairs like I used to, and honestly? I'm rather looking forward to someone else cooking for me for a change." She chuckled. "Though I reserve the right to complain about it."
"But…" Elliott stopped. What was she going to say? Don't leave me? She'd spent the last decade and a half proving she didn't need anyone. She wasn't about to start admitting otherwise now.
"I'll be twenty minutes away," Milly said gently, reading her mind as always. "And I expect regular visits. Someone needs to tell me all the gossip about whoever takes over this place."
Elliott managed something that might have been a nod. The kettle began to whistle, and she was grateful for the excuse to turn away, to hide whatever her face was doing. She made tea with hands that weren't quite steady, poured two cups, and set one in front of Milly.
"You'll be fine, you know," Milly said, wrapping her hands around the cup. "You're stronger than you think."
"I know I'm strong." Elliott sat across from her. "I don't need reminding."
"Mmm." Milly sipped her tea. "Stubborn as the day I met you. Do you remember that?"
Elliott did. Seventeen years old, with nothing in the world but a backpack and a chip on her shoulder the size of Yorkshire. She'd wandered into Milly's bakery looking for a job and found something she hadn't known she was missing.
"You gave me a croissant," she said. "And told me my attitude was dreadful but my hands were steady."
"Still true on both counts." Milly's eyes twinkled.
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, drinking tea. The afternoon light shifted, and Elliott tried not to think about how many more afternoons like this she had left.
"Promise me something," Milly said finally.
"Depends what it is."
"Don't close yourself off completely." Milly set down her cup. "I know you think being alone is easier. Safer. But humans aren't meant to be islands, Elliott."
"Islands are very peaceful," Elliott said. "No one bothers them."
Milly just looked at her with knowing eyes, and Elliott had to look away first.
After Milly left, Elliott cleaned up the tea things, packed away her photography equipment, and contemplated eating the raspberry tart. But she wasn’t hungry. She sighed and looked around the flat.
It wasn't much. A small sitting room and a kitchen corner, a bedroom barely big enough for a double bed, a bathroom that required creative maneuvering.
But it was hers. She'd painted the walls herself, chosen the secondhand furniture. She mopped the floors every Sunday. And Milly came in whenever she wanted. It would be lonely without someone popping by, she thought. Especially if she didn’t have to work in the bakery anymore.
But then she’d have money. For the first time in her life, she’d be able to do what she truly wanted without worry. It was a tantalizing thought.
She set the tart on the counter and stared out the window at Oakhaven's high street below.
It was a pretty town, all honey-colored stone and winding lanes, the kind of place that appeared on postcards and made tourists sigh with contentment.
She'd never meant to stay this long. Then again, she'd never meant to stay anywhere.
Her phone buzzed. She ignored it.
It buzzed again.
And again.
With a sigh, she picked it up.
Emergency
The word glowed on screen. Shay. Her erstwhile best friend. Not that Elliott every remembered making that decision. Shay presumably had decided their relationship by herself. Another message came.
Come out tonight. I need you.
Elliott had time to take half a breath before her phone buzzed again.
Really cute new bartender at the pub and I need moral support. El? Are you ignoring me?
Elliott shook her head as another message came through.
I can see you’ve read these, you know?
She typed fast: can’t, busy.
The response was immediate. Busy doing what? Staring at your unfinished cookbook and brooding? You do that EVERY night.
Despite everything, Elliott felt her mouth twitch. Shay was chaotic, optimistic, and fell in love approximately once a week, sometimes more often. She was also the only person besides Milly who had ever managed to crack Elliott's defenses.
Not tonight, Elliott typed. Had some news.
There was a brief pause, then: what news? You can’t just say that and not explain! ELLIOTT DON’T MAKE ME COME UP THERE!!!
Elliott sighed and typed. Milly sold the bakery. Moving to a retirement home. I'll fill you in later.
She turned off her phone before Shay could respond with the inevitable flood of sympathy and questions. She didn't want sympathy. She wanted to sit in her flat and eat raspberry tart straight from the dish and pretend that everything wasn't about to change.
She sighed, and ate a mouthful of tart despite her lack of hunger, standing at the window, watching the sun set over Oakhaven's rooftops, and tried to convince herself this was fine.
Better than fine, really. This was what she'd wanted, wasn't it?
Freedom. Independence. Time to focus on her cookbook without the distraction of working in the bakery. It was practically a dream come true.
So why did it feel like having a layer of her skin peeled off?
Later, lying in bed with the lights off, she stared at the ceiling and made a mental list of all the reasons this was actually a good thing.
She'd have more time for her cookbook. She wouldn't have to deal with customers asking stupid questions about whether the croissants were "really French.
" She could sleep past four in the morning for the first time in years.
All of which was brilliant. But then there was going to be the issue of downstairs. A new person.
Elliott groaned and pulled a pillow over her face.
If she didn’t die of suffocation in the foreseeable future, she was going to have to deal with the new bakery owner.
She'd probably be one of those perpetually cheerful types.
All bouncy enthusiasm and bright ideas and "let's make this an adventure!
" Elliott could picture her already: blonde, probably.
Expensively dressed. The kind of person who'd never worked a real day in her life and thought running a bakery would be "fun. "
The kind of person who'd want to be friends.
Elliott shuddered.
She had work to do. She was going to be busy. She’d just have to keep the doors locked and not answer any knocking, that was all.
She didn′t need another friend. She had Shay.
How hard could it be to avoid one person?