19. The Finish Line
The Finish Line
By Saturday morning, the bakery didn’t look like a construction site anymore.
There were still traces of it, sure: an empty paint bucket shoved under a prep table, a ladder leaning in the hallway, blue tape flags on a few stubborn spots of trim, but the bones of it were done.
The floor gleamed. The pendant lights over the counter cast hazy halos across the glass. The big front windows were clean enough that when Jenna wiped at one out of habit, the paper towel came away almost spotless.
If she squinted, she could almost see customers here. Almost.
“Menu draft, version fifteen,” Emmie announced, thumping a stack of laminated pages onto one of the new café tables. “We have officially reached the point where the font choices have broken my spirit.”
Casey leaned over her shoulder, dimples deep on her warm brown cheeks, her curls pulled into two messy space buns that somehow suited her. “You say that,” she said, “but you’re going to change at least three things before lunch.”
“I reserve the right,” Emmie replied primly. “Artists evolve.”
Jenna tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and set down the cardboard box of freshly washed silverware she’d lugged from Grace’s kitchen.
“Well, evolving artist, your mom’s cinnamon roll recipe needs to be in the top left,” she said, tapping the first page. “It’s the anchor of the whole thing.”
Emmie rolled her eyes, but there was a faint smile at the edges. “It’s already there. You trained me well, O Wise Keeper of the Training Guide.”
The training guide sat open on the next table, its thick white binder already smudged with flour fingerprints and coffee rings.
Weeks of work lived inside those plastic sleeves filled with Grandma Hart’s handwritten index cards, scanned and typed, Grace’s adapted versions for The Blue Cypress, new notes in Jenna’s brisk, practical voice, and Emmie’s comments in the margins.
Add nutmeg like Grandma did.
Mom always put extra orange zest here.
We can’t cheap out on the chocolate or I revolt.
Jenna ran a fingertip along the spine. Three generations of women, threading themselves into a book.
“Okay,” Casey said, flipping a menu page. “We have sweet, we have savory, we have carb heaven. Do we have drinks?”
“Bottom right,” Emmie said. “Coffee, tea, espresso, seasonal specials. The Greek frappe gets its own box because Mom said so from heaven.”
“Pretty sure that’s how that works,” Casey agreed solemnly.
Jenna tried to smile. It even mostly worked. “We’ll print extra blank pages for seasonal stuff,” she said. “Pumpkin in the fall, peppermint in December, citrus in the spring. We’ll adjust as we go.”
From the back, something clattered, sheet pans being stacked, voices swapping quick jokes. Footsteps crossed the vinyl plank floor in a measured, familiar stride she recognized instantly.
She didn’t look up.
“Front’s good,” Cole said from somewhere near the coffee bar. “We’ll hit the hallway and back entry next. Don’t touch the wet baseboards.”
“Copy that.” One of his design crew answered. Every part of her body knew exactly where he was.
They’d managed a full three hours without speaking directly to each other. Only logistics with a brief exchange about the timing of the final walkthrough, and an even shorter one about the inspector coming on Monday. No jokes. No glances that lingered. No quiet comments side by side.
He hadn’t brought her a bottle of water. She hadn’t teased him once. It felt unnatural, like trying to use her left hand to write.
“All right, display geniuses,” Jenna said, forcing brightness into her voice. “What’s our plan for the cases?”
Emmie pushed away from the menu table and hopped off her chair. “We start with the heavy hitters,” she said, striding toward the glass display. “Cinnamon rolls, spanakopita, baklava, lemon bars. The classics go at eye level. Pretty things in the middle, grab-and-go near the register.”
Casey trailed behind her, already holding a tray of empty white plates. “I nominate myself Head of Aesthetic Vibes,” she said. “Emmie, you can be, like, Director of Flavor.”
“Excuse you, I am CEO of Flavor,” Emmie corrected, opening one of the case doors with a careful click. “These are just staging pieces, remember. No actual food until we’re past inspection.”
Jenna leaned over the counter, watching the girls work. Emmie’s movements were efficient, deliberate; she’d been in kitchens her entire life. Casey was less precise but made up for it with enthusiasm and an eye for color.
“Those cake stands look cute layered,” Casey said, stacking two mismatched pedestals. “Like . . . levels of temptation.”
“That should be the name of a cupcake,” Emmie said absently. “Levels of Temptation. Triple chocolate with salted caramel.”
“Write it down,” Jenna said, grabbing a sticky note from the stack by the register and sliding it across. “Pilot flavor for October.”
A broom scraped over the hallway floor. A moment later, Cole’s voice drifted in from the back, giving someone instructions about the restroom mirror height. The sound of it brushed over her skin in a way she stubbornly ignored.
Emmie straightened, eyeing the direction of the noise. “Is he mad at you?” she asked casually.
Jenna’s head snapped toward her. “Who?”
Emmie gave her a look. “The only he in this building. Like literally.”
“He’s not mad,” Jenna said too quickly. “We’re just . . . busy. Big weekend.”
“He hasn’t brought you water all day,” Emmie said, turning back to the display but watching her in the reflection of the glass. “And you haven’t made fun of him once. It’s weird.”
“I do not make fun of him,” Jenna protested.
“You absolutely do,” Casey said from inside the case, arranging plates like puzzle pieces.
“You roast him, actually. It’s, like, a love language.”
Jenna grabbed a stack of napkins that did not need rearranging and fussed with them anyway. “What is with you guys and love languages? We’re fine,” she said. “It’s just a lot to do before tomorrow, that’s all. I don’t have time to harass him.”
Emmie slid a tray into place with a little more force than necessary. “Did something happen last night after we left Capt’n Jack’s?” she asked quietly. “You two had one of those weird heavy-eye moments before we left. Casey said it felt like you were talking without talking.”
“I did say that,” Casey confirmed, raising a hand. “Very intense eye contact. Like, emotionally-charged eye contact.”
Emmie closed the case door and finally turned to face her. “If he’s being weird, you can tell me,” she said. There was something older in her voice, something that sounded too much like Grace. “I can handle people being weird.”
“He’s not being weird,” Jenna insisted. The lie tasted flat. “I promise. It’s just . . . complicated.”
Emmie’s eyes softened, sharp edges rounding. “Is it complicated in a bad way or in a ‘this feels like a rom-com setup’?”
“Please don’t say that out loud ever again,” Jenna said, pressing the heel of her hand to her forehead.
Casey snorted. “She didn’t deny it, though.”
“I’m going to go wipe down the outside tables,” Jenna said, retreating before she said something she couldn’t unsay. “You two keep plotting world pastry domination.”
She grabbed a rag and a spray bottle, grateful for the excuse to step out into the heat. The sidewalk outside The Blue Cypress was already warming, the sun slanting in at an angle that made the gold lettering on the front windows glow.
Across the street, a couple walked past with a dog, pausing to peek in. The woman nudged the man, pointing, her lips forming the word bakery.
Grief brushed against her, light but undeniable.
We’re almost there, Gracie, she thought, wiping at a perfectly clean table.
The door opened behind her. She didn’t have to turn to know it wasn’t Cole; his steps landed differently, heavier. These were lighter, quicker.
“Hey,” Emmie said, sliding into one of the metal chairs. “You sure you’re okay?”
Jenna sank into the chair across from her. “Yeah,” she said. “I’m sure.”
“You’re lying,” Emmie said calmly. “But I’m choosing to respect your boundaries or whatever.”
Jenna huffed out a laugh despite herself, “Thank you?”
Emmie propped her chin on her fist. “Just . . . don’t let him hurt you, okay? Or if he does, let me egg his truck. He was already warned.”
“That is a very specific threat.”
“Well, I have access to eggs,” Emmie reminded her.
“Unlimited eggs.” Jenna’s smile wobbled, then held. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
From inside, someone called Emmie’s name about labels, and she popped up, already halfway back to the door. “Don’t stay out here too long,” she said over her shoulder. “You turn pink in, like, three minutes.”
Jenna watched her disappear back into the building, the house Grace had loved, the bakery Grace had dreamed.
Jenna knew Emmie had imagined herself here a thousand times as a kid, behind the counter, running the place with her mom.
Just never like this. Never without Grace. Never with Jenna stepping in as the other half of the team.
When she finally stood and went back inside, Cole was on the far side of the room, talking quietly with one of his team about the art placement on the wall.
He didn’t look at her. She didn’t look at him. Everyone else noticed.
* * *
By the time noon rolled around, Cole felt like he’d been holding his breath for six hours.
The bakery looked good. Better than good.
The tile work he’d agonized over in the planning phase caught the light exactly the way he’d hoped.
The open shelving they’d installed the day before now held clean white dishes in staggered stacks, ready for whatever Emmie decided to plate.
The back hallway smelled mildly of bleach and fresh caulk, but the sharp edge of construction dust was gone.
On paper, it was one of the smoothest final weeks he’d ever run. In practice, it felt like walking around with a cracked rib.