Chapter 29
Holly
As I watch Denton disappear through the door, I can’t move.
Outside, the snow falls in flat, lazy flakes against the darkening sky. Inside, the lights strung across the beams feel garish and mocking. The cheerful red and green garlands make me want to vomit.
A low whimper escapes me before I can choke it back. I press the heel of my hand hard against my mouth, biting down on the fleshy part to keep the sob trapped.
It doesn’t work and heaving gasps tear through me, doubling me over the counter. Tears, hot and scalding, spill down my cheeks.
The sound of hesitant footsteps cuts through the sounds of my grief. I don’t look up.
“Hols?” Charlie’s voice is soft, tentative. I feel the warmth of her presence beside me before her hand lands gently on my shaking back. “Hey. Hey now.”
“He…” The word rasps out, choked by tears. “He left, Charlie. He just… walked out.” Saying it aloud makes it real. Horribly, irrevocably real. Another sob rips free. “He’s taking Tabby and moving to San Francisco to play out there. Said he needs more stability. For Tabby.”
Charlie doesn’t say “I told you so.” She doesn’t launch into a tirade about emotionally unavailable men. She just makes a low, sympathetic sound in her throat. Her hand moves in slow, soothing circles on my back.
“I know, honey,” she murmurs. “I saw him leave. Saw his face.” She pauses. “Looked like he was walking to his own execution.”
Had he hesitated? Maybe looked back? Does it even matter? He kept walking. That’s the only thing that counts.
The tears slow, eventually, leaving me drained.
My face feels swollen and tight, my eyes tired from all the tears.
I push myself upright, wiping my cheeks with the back of my flour-dusted hand.
Charlie silently hands me a clean towel.
I take it, burying my face in the soft cotton, inhaling the faint scent of bleach.
“He’s gone,” I whisper, the words muffled but clear. Stating the impossible fact. “And this…” I gesture weakly towards the eviction notice on the counter. “This is real. December 26th.” Saying the date aloud feels like the end. For Sugar Rush. For this chapter of my life.
Charlie follows my gaze. Her jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, a flicker of anger tightening her features before it smooths into grim resolve. She bends, picks up the notice, folds it once and tucks it into the pocket. Out of sight. For now, at least.
“Okay,” she says, her voice regaining some of its usual pragmatic strength. She looks around the bakery, her gaze sweeping over the festive displays, the lights, the half-empty display case still holding a few perfect snowflake cookies.
“First things first. We both need some strong coffee. Then…” She takes a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. “We go upstairs and have a Christmas special marathon? We can watch Rudolph, Frosty, Charlie Brown Christmas… what else?”
“I think we should pack up a little bit first. I don’t want to wait until the last minute.”
“Yea, but is now the time to start, Hols? You’ve had a really rough day. Packing sounds like the last thing you should be doing.”
“I know it sounds crazy, but that’s what I want to do. Just a little bit of it. To get started. And to make it more real.”
Charlie nods and moves towards the small sink area behind the counter. I hear the familiar sounds: the scrape of the coffee grinder, the hiss of steam from the espresso machine.
I walk towards the front window. The large display I spent hours perfecting just days ago – a miniature winter village made of gingerbread houses dusted with powdered sugar snow, surrounded by tiny marzipan trees and spun-sugar reindeer.
It’s magical. Or it was. Now, it just looks like a monument to a dream that’s about to be bulldozed.
My fingers brush the cold glass as I look out the window. The streetlights cast long, lonely shadows. No Denton-shaped silhouette hurrying back. No last-minute apologies.
Charlie appears beside me, holding out a large, steaming mug of coffee.
I take the mug and the heat seeps into my cold fingers, a small, fleeting comfort. I take a sip. It’s black, the way Charlie knows I take it when things are bad.
“Thanks,” I murmur, my voice hoarse.
She nods, sipping her own coffee. We stand side by side, looking out at the snowy street, not speaking. After a long moment, she sets her mug down on the nearest table.
“Okay, then,” she says, brushing her hands together. Her tone is brisk, businesslike, cutting through the fog of despair. “Where do we start? Front of the house? Kitchen? Office?”
The question hangs in the air. Where do we start dismantling a life?
My gaze drifts over the bakery. The cozy seating nooks, now empty.
The counter piled high with boxes waiting for cookies that won’t be baked.
The cheerful menu board with its festive specials.
The Christmas tree in the corner, covered in ornaments.
“The… the decorations,” I say finally, the words sticking in my throat. “We should take down the decorations.” It feels like the least painful place to begin.
Charlie nods, understanding flickering in her eyes. “Okay. Decorations it is.” She heads towards the storage closet tucked behind the counter where we keep the spare boxes and packing supplies. I hear the rustle of cardboard, the sharp tear of packing tape being pulled from the dispenser.
I take another gulp of coffee, the heat burning a path down to my stomach, then set my mug down beside Charlie’s. Time to move. To do something. Anything is better than standing here, drowning in the silence.
I walk towards the tree, a cheap, pre-lit thing I bought on sale years ago. It’s bedecked with mismatched ornaments collected over seasons: chipped ceramic bells, lopsided popsicle stick snowflakes made by neighborhood kids, glitter-dusted pinecones.
Focus. Just take it down. One thing at a time.
I reach for the slightly tarnished silver star first. I drop it into the open box Charlie has placed on the floor nearby. It lands with a dull thud.
Next, the ornaments. I work mechanically. Unhook a glittery pinecone. Drop it in the box. Unhook a chipped red ball. Drop it. A felt reindeer with googly eyes. Drop it.
Charlie’s starts carefully taking down the garlands strung along the counter, coiling the faux pine garlands into neat loops.
Her presence is a balm, steady and undemanding. She doesn’t try to fill the silence with chatter or false optimism. She’s just there. Working beside me. Sharing the burden of dismantling our little world.
We move to the window display next – my miniature gingerbread village. I’d been so proud of it. Each little house painstakingly iced, the rooftops dusted with sparkling sugar snow, the pathways lined with crushed peppermint candy. I’d even piped tiny wreaths on the doors.
Now, it just looks pathetic as I dump the whole thing in the trash.
We begin packing the smaller decorative items from the counter – the ceramic Santa mug holding pens, the little bowl of cinnamon-scented pinecones, the ‘Joy’ sign painted in holly berries. We wrap each item carefully in newsprint before placing it in a box.
“Remember when Mrs. Gable tried to ‘help’ decorate the sugar cookies last year?” Charlie asks suddenly, her voice cutting through the silence. “Sprinkles ended up everywhere. In the espresso machine. In the cash register.”
A tiny, choked sound escapes me – not quite a laugh, more like a gasp.
“She was convinced edible glitter was just… regular glitter,” I murmur, picking up a tiny gingerbread lamppost. “And there was no convincing her otherwise.”
“Or what about when Mr. Henderson started a book club and they met here for the first meeting?” Charlie muses.
I smile faintly at the memory. "God, that was a disaster. Those six men crowded around our smallest table, looking like they were at a funeral instead of discussing—what was it again?"
"Some thriller. Patterson, I think." Charlie chuckles, carefully wrapping a snowman figurine. "The men looked like the last thing they wanted to do was be here together, talking about some book. Their wives must have made them come. I'm pretty sure they never had another meeting."
"Mr. Henderson kept trying to get them to share their 'feelings' about the protagonist," I say, the memory momentarily distracting me from the hollowness in my chest. "And that one guy with the bow tie just kept checking his watch every thirty seconds."
"The best part was when they all ordered black coffee and nothing else, then looked horrified when you brought out those lavender shortbread cookies as a courtesy." Charlie shakes her head. "You'd think you'd offered them poison."
"Except Mr. Henderson. He ate like six of them." I place the last of the snowman figurines in the box. "Remember how they all left at exactly the one-hour mark? Like they'd synchronized their watches."
We work in silence for a few minutes. The weight of reality settles back over me as we continue to pack up the knickknacks.
“Oh god, and then there was that time that new lady joined the knitting group. I still don’t know who told her about the group but those other ladies were not having it.”
Charlie snickered, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Oh, that was brutal. What was her name again? Marjorie? Margaret?"
"Marion," I said, remembering the petite woman with her bright pink cardigan. "She came in with those circular needles and started doing that continental style of knitting."
"And Mrs. Winters looked like she'd just witnessed someone commit murder in her living room." Charlie shook her head, carefully placing a snowglobe into the box. "The way she kept clearing her throat every time Marion looped her yarn."
"And don't forget how Mrs. Pemberton kept 'accidentally' bumping Marion's elbow," I added. "And then they all started that passive-aggressive critique session."
"'Oh dear, that's certainly an... interesting technique,'" Charlie mimicked in a perfect imitation of Mrs. Winters' nasal tone. "'In my fifty years of knitting, I've never seen anyone hold their needles quite like that.'"
I nodded, remembering how the group of older women had huddled together, shooting disapproving glances at Marion's quick fingers. "Then there was that whole 'proper ladies knit English style' lecture from Mrs. Fitzgerald."
"Poor Marion just sat there turning redder and redder." Charlie sighed. "I tried to rescue her by bringing some cinnamon rolls over, but by then the damage was done."
I look over at Charlie, so grateful that we’d shared so many memorable times together at the bakery. And desperately wishing that they didn’t have to end.
“I think that’s all the packing I can do today,” I say, putting one last snowglobe in the box. “Are you still up for coming upstairs for a Christmas marathon?”
“You know I am. I love those shows so much I watch them year-round.”
“What do you want to eat?” Just as I ask I hear my stomach growling.
“Thai from down the street?”
“Ooh, yea. Good call. I’ll call it in while you open up the wine. Oh, and grab some of those sugar cookies that just came out of the oven.”
Charlie heads into the kitchen and grabs way too many cookies while I call Golden Elephant.
I manage a faint smile, tucking my phone away after ordering our usual – pad thai for Charlie, green curry for me, and spring rolls to share. The familiar routine feels surreal against the backdrop of today's devastation.
We trudge up the narrow staircase to my apartment. Each step feels heavier than the last, my body moving on autopilot while my mind cycles through the day's events like a horror movie on repeat. Denton's face as he walked out. The eviction notice. The trade to San Francisco.
My apartment welcomes us with its familiar warmth. The small Christmas tree in the corner shines with white lights, casting a soft glow across my living room. The space is tiny but mine – for another few days, anyway. The thought sends a fresh wave of panic through my chest.
Charlie sets the cookies down on my coffee table and moves to the kitchen to grab the wine and glasses.
I sank into the worn cushions of my sofa, pulling the chunky knit throw over my legs, suddenly cold despite the apartment's warmth.
My gaze falls on the framed photo on my side table – me on opening day of Sugar Rush, beaming with pride, keys in hand.
The woman in that picture seemed like a stranger now.
Charlie comes back with the wine and pours us both glasses. She hands one to me, the deep burgundy liquid sloshing against the sides.
"To new adventures," she says, raising her glass with a determined gleam in her eyes.
I clink my glass against hers, the sound hollow and small in the quiet apartment. The wine tastes bitter on my tongue, but I take a long swallow anyway, welcoming the burn as it slides down my throat.
"New adventures," I echo, the words tasting as bitter as the wine. "Like becoming homeless the day after Christmas."
Charlie settles beside me on the couch, tucking her feet under her. "You're not going to be homeless, Holly. You know you can stay with me as long as you need."
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. The thought of leaving this place, of boxing up my life and moving into Charlie's spare room, sends a fresh wave of grief through me. It's not just losing the bakery—it's losing the home I've made above it, the life I've built here.
"I know," I manage finally. "Thank you. I just... I can't believe this is happening."
The doorbell rings, announcing the arrival of our Thai food. Charlie jumps up to answer it while I take another long sip of wine, hoping it will dull the sharp edges of my pain.