10. Cliff
Chapter 10
Cliff
“ G eorge, if you place one more last-minute catering order, I’m going to ban you.”
The older man gruffs out something that might have been a curse word as I carry the box full of bear claws, cinnamon pecan Danish, and almond croissants down the sidewalk to his parked car.
“I’m serious,” I continue. “Maybe even death or something. First degree murder. Premeditated. Same with your bingo group.”
He ignores me, keying open the door. I slide the box into his passenger seat.
“Thanks again, Cliff,” he grunts.
I wave my hand in the air. “Yeah, yeah, you’re welcome.”
“You’ll forgive me tomorrow.”
“I won’t because I’ve already forgiven you now, you old coot.”
I’m giving him a hard time, and he knows it.
With a final wave and a smirk, he lowers into his car, backs out of the spot with the type of lead foot the confident elderly love, and putters down the street toward the community center for evening bingo.
“Why is there a mess?” Carol asks when I get back to the bakery.
“George had a fire drill again. I had to improvise.”
I take my blue apron from its hook beside the prep table and tie it back around me. My trusty apron is old, scarred by burns and multiple stitched-up rips. But Emily’s little kindergarten handprints, smacked on the front in faded red and white paint, are visible beneath it all.
“Brittany didn’t get off the bus today,” Carol observes.
“I know.” I shift a pan of croissants to the left of the steel table to make room.
“I haven’t seen Emily either.”
“Probably at work. I’ll call Lisa later.”
She narrows her eyes. “What are you doing?”
“Baking.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s what I do here.”
“Okay,” she says slowly. “But aren’t you worried about where your daughters are?”
“No.”
Carol shakes her head, pinching her eyes closed. “I’m confused.”
“There are some leftover cannoli in the case if you want some.”
“Don’t change the subject. I mean, yes, I’ll get one, but”—she waves her hands—“not the point! You’re here. You’re never here past three. At least not since Birdie passed. And your girls aren’t running around here either.”
The bell above the front door dings, but before either of us can go to the front, heavy footfalls grow louder and Lars appears in the kitchen.
“Whoa, what’s with the mess?” he asks. “Shouldn’t you be heading out soon?”
I narrow my eyes. “Why are you here?”
“I always pick up a doughnut before opening shop,” he says.
“Every day?”
“Every weekday lately,” Carol sneers. “Freeloader.”
Lars tosses her a wink. “You let it happen.”
He crosses in front of her to grab an already-set-aside doughnut on a square napkin. I was wondering why that was there.
“So, what’s going on, Cliff?”
I clear my throat. “Michelle is watching Brittany.”
Carol gasps, her palm flying to her chest. “Really?”
“It’s not that big of a deal.”
A slow smirk curls onto Lars’s mouth. “It’s driving you insane, isn’t it?”
Carol shakes her head. “God, how’d you trick her into watching Britt?”
I scoff out a laugh. “I don’t trick people. Ever stopped to think that maybe I’m naturally charming?”
“No,” they both say.
I click my tongue. “All right. Well, other people think so.”
“I know, and it’s so annoying,” Lars teases, taking a bite of his doughnut. That’s been Lars’s favorite pastry since we were kids. Specifically, he likes the plain glazed kind. He’s a simple guy.
Carol groans, slouching against the wall. “I swear, Betty asks me weekly if you’re ready to get back on the market. She said she has a niece or a distant cousin or something. I don’t know.”
My stomach clenches. “Definitely not ready for that.”
I’ve been divorced for two years, and Copper Run has been waiting for the gun at the starting line ever since. It’s not that I’m not ready to date. I’m ready for a lot of things—Michelle digging into my pocket last month proved that. The real concern is that I’m not sure who would want to date me. Copper Run wants to set me up, but they don’t know what it’s like to be with me all the time. Tracy wasn’t shy about telling me when I irritated her. I don’t need someone else voicing that again.
Lars talks through a mouthful of doughnut. “You know what? You need to get laid, man. You made two kids, so I know you can do it.”
“Gross,” Carol says, folding her arms over her chest.
“I’m not gonna sleep with just anyone,” I murmur.
“And why not?” he asks.
“Because … I’m not.” I shake my head.
“Because you’ve only slept with Trace?”
Carol groans. “Can we not talk about my brother having sex, please?”
Lars grins wolfishly and takes another bite of his doughnut.
“Anyway, yes,” I continue, “Michelle offered to watch Britt. I didn’t trick her into anything.”
“And why would she offer?” Carol asks.
“I’m giving her hospitality lessons.”
“Why does she need those?” Lars says through a laugh. “Is Michelle not a nice person? She seemed nice to me. And pretty.” He raises his eyebrows and lowers them.
“You’ve got doughnut in your mustache,” Carol says.
I shoot him a look. “Michelle’s not your type. She’ll be here for three months.”
“Oh. Never mind.”
For some reason, relief washes through me. It’s probably because I know the last thing Michelle needs is Lars and his crumb-filled mustache.
“Of course she’s nice,” I say. “But … she’s nice with many walls up.” I smile to myself. “But even brick houses have charm. So, I’m helping.”
“So, you annoyed her into submission, is what I’m hearing,” Carol says.
I snort in response.
Carol nods at the prep table, now smeared with watery flour, which is building up to a sticky substance becoming dough. “And what’s with the mess?”
Wisps of cinnamon litter parts of the table. They smell a bit like Michelle, but not quite. I have to start somewhere though. Birdie’s favorite pastry was cinnamon rolls. I’m determined to know Michelle’s too. It’s like an itch I need to scratch.
“I’m making cinnamon rolls,” I explain.
“Are they for your new friend, Michelle?” Lars asks.
I squint. “Why are you up my ass today?”
“You could use a smoke,” Carol adds.
“And when did you say you’re quitting again?” I ask.
She purses her lips. “Don’t turn this back on me. You’re a mess right now.”
“I’m making rolls, Carol. It’s not a big deal.”
Then, Lars smirks. “You can’t relax for a second, not knowing how it’s going with Britt.”
He’s right. He’s been right about most things since we were kids, and I hate it. He was right about Tracy too—repeatedly asking on my wedding day if I was sure—but he’s too good of a guy to hold that over my head.
“I’m fine,” I say. “I’m great even. I have so much time to do extra things now.”
Carol gasps. “Oh my God, I’ve rubbed off on you. You’re a basket case too.”
I pause mid-dough roll and lean my forearms on the prep table. “Are you always this pleasant in the afternoons?”
Carol smiles. “No, this is only for you.”
“Well, get used to seeing more of this face around this time.”
“What face?” she asks. “The Basket Case’s face?”
“Yeah, we don’t want him,” Lars throws in.
“No, I—” I pinch my nose. “ My face, you two.”
“I don’t like your face,” Carol says.
“Too bad. I’m getting my life together. Baking more for this place. We’ll stay open later. Make more money. It’s good. I’m turning over a new leaf.”
Carol tsks. “Pretty sure the leaves outside are dead.”
My face falls. She shrugs innocently, pulling out her pack of cigarettes and walking out to the front. Lars licks the remaining glaze off the tip of his fingers and grins.
“Have fun,” he singsongs, leaving the kitchen and disappearing out the door too.
I glance through the large windows, watching the trees lean in the fall breeze. Below, a pile of curled—and very dead—leaves gather in a pile.
“Looks like turned leaves to me,” I grumble, throwing a balled-up rag like a basketball to the laundry basket in the corner and completely missing, the rag instead slapping on the tiled floor, as if taunting me.
Two hours later, I walk across Bird & Breakfast’s front yard with a box of cinnamon rolls balanced in my palm. Brittany sits in the grass with two teacups nestled in bare patches. Rocket stoically sits across from her as she tucks a teacup between his stiff paws.
“Drink!” she commands.
He doesn’t move, but his tail wags.
“Britt, I don’t think he understands,” I say, causing her to jump.
“Daddy!” she squeals.
I bend down, set the box on the grass, and capture Brittany in my arms.
“How was your day?” I ask.
“Rocket and I are having teatime!”
I peer over her shoulder. The dog blinks at me, blank-faced and bored.
“That’s … sweet,” I say. “How was school?”
“We made pumpkins!”
“Real pumpkins?” I gawk. “No way.”
“No! Paper pumpkins!” she says with a giggle.
“Ohh,” I say, feigning surprise. “And how was the afternoon with Miss Michelle?”
“Miss Shell gave me apple slices, and I got to talk to some lady from Michigan!”
I swivel my gaze over to the porch. Michelle sits on the hanging swing bench with her legs tucked under her. I grin. She always presents herself so pristinely.
“That’s exciting,” I say to Brittany. “Well, you keep playing for five more minutes.” I pat her shoulder. “Then, we’ve gotta eat dinner, okay?” She reaches for the box, and I swoop it in my arms. “Pastries later.”
“Ahh,” Brittany pouts in an over-the-top way.
I ruffle her hair. “Yeah, yeah,” I mock. “Dad sucks.”
She pokes out her bottom lip and reluctantly goes back to pouring invisible tea.
I crunch over fallen leaves, walk up the squeaking front porch steps, then fall down on the opposite side of the bench swing. My momentum has us swinging back wildly before evening out again. Michelle eyes the box in my lap.
“Brought you something,” I say, tipping open the box to reveal a row of cinnamon rolls, the icing I drizzled over them seconds before leaving the bakery still dripping.
“Are these leftovers from today?” she asks.
“Try one.”
She narrows her eyes, and I laugh.
“Come on. Try it.”
She takes a cinnamon roll from the box, slowly raises it to her full lips, and bites down. Maybe it’s a baker thing, but I love watching people eat pastries. But more specifically, I like how Michelle looks when she eats one of mine. Her eyes flutter closed. The corner of her lips quirks into a smile. And her thin eyebrows cinch together in the middle.
“These are amazing,” she moans.
Christ. My heart is pounding.
“That’s a noise I like to hear,” I say.
Her eyes snap open. I chuckle.
“I’m a baker. We live for others’ enjoyment.”
Except, immediately after, she puts the roll back in the box.
Huh.
I know when a treat belongs to someone—when it captures them so well that they can’t put it down. Cinnamon rolls are not her favorite. Noted.
She assesses me for a moment before asking, “So, why did you want to show me these?”
“Because they’re good.”
“Very cocky.”
“And,” I say leaning in, “because they’re easy to make. You’re gonna start baking these instead of biscuits.”
She huffs out a laugh through her nose. “I can’t make cinnamon rolls.”
“Sure you can. Because I’ll teach you.”
She shakes her head. “We haven’t even started the People Lessons we agreed to.”
“ People Lessons ,” I muse. “Love that.”
“Baking lessons too?” she continues without acknowledging my side comment. “It’s too much, Cliff.”
“Being able to bake a decent breakfast for your guests goes hand in hand with People Lessons. Trust me. Also, I can decide what’s too much, all right?” Before she can protest again, I nod my chin to Brittany. “How’d this work out today?”
“Good. She’s a good kid.”
“Good.”
“She likes Rocket a lot.”
I nod. “I can see that.”
“I’m surprised you’re not more nervous,” Michelle observes. “Given the scar and bite. All the trauma you carry,” she finishes with a sly grin.
“Just because I had a bad moment with a dog doesn’t mean Brittany needs to. I always want better things for her and Emily. Thankfully, Brittany is already far braver than I was at her age.”
“She tried sliding down the banister earlier,” Michelle says. “And she carried a whole conversation with some woman who probably wanted to read the paper in peace.”
I bark out a laugh. “She wasn’t too much work today, was she?”
“No, the woman adored her by the end of it,” she says before adding, “And I’ll decide what’s too much.”
I smile as she lifts a teasing eyebrow.
“Funny.” I think Michelle’s subtlety in her humor is what I like best.
She reaches up to twirl her earring between her fingers. I wonder if it’s a nervous thing. But below her nail polish, I spot a small Band-Aid wrapped around her finger.
“Whoa, what’s this?” I reach out and trace my finger along hers.
She draws in a breath. “I cut myself, slicing an apple.”
“Christ, you’re gonna accidentally kill yourself in that kitchen.”
“I’m not entirely helpless.”
I grin. “This”—I touch her Band-Aid—“and this”—I brush my thumb over the pink burn on her inner arm—“are not helping your case.”
Michelle blinks at my fingers tracing over her arm. Her spine is stiff as a board. Her eyes meet mine, and I feel my brow furrow.
I chuckle. “Everything all right?”
But then I realize I’m touching her.
Shoelaces snapping on concrete interrupt us, drawing my attention over to my house as I jerk my hand away. Emily marches up the driveway. Her headphones rest over her ears, and the Discman is held in a fist by her side.
“Em!” I yell. She doesn’t look up at first, so I cup my palms over my mouth. “Emily!”
She jerks her head up and slides down the headphones.
“How was school, kiddo?”
“Good,” she says, tucking her CD player and her palms into her jean jacket pockets.
I narrow my eyes at the short answer because it’s all too familiar. “Seeing Josh at the video store again?”
“No,” she says defensively. “I worked. After school. I went straight there.”
“That doesn’t sound suspicious at all.”
“I worked,” she repeats, but she’s notably kicking a curled-up leaf on the ground. Her eyes dart to Michelle’s, then back to me.
“So, if I checked your bag, you wouldn’t have a movie in there?”
“Yeah, but it’s from, like, two days ago.”
“What movie?” Michelle calls over.
Emily plays with a loose string on her jacket. “ Nightmare on Elm Street .”
“You’re gonna have nightmares,” I say.
“No, I’m not.”
“Don’t let your sister watch it either. So, how’s Josh?” I ask.
She darts her eyes to Michelle again. Almost nervously. Then, she looks back at me. “He’s fine.”
“So, you were at the video store today.”
She groans. “God, you’re so insufferable about him.”
“Doing my dad-ly duty,” I call, but she’s already ripping open the screen door to our house and clunking through the threshold.
“‘ Insufferable ,’” I mimic with two finger quotations. “She’s gonna ace the SAT with words like that.”
Michelle’s gaze lingers on the closed door before swiveling to me. “You don’t like Josh?”
“I don’t have many opinions about the guy. But he’s a teenage boy. And he thinks teenage-boy things.” I laugh under my breath and lightly kick the porch, sending our bench rocking back. “Her mom and I got together at that age. And, well, sex education didn’t exactly exist for us. So, Emily was our surprise.”
“You don’t want her to get pregnant,” Michelle detects, but it’s not a question.
“I want her to do whatever she wants to do,” I answer. “But I want her to be smart about it. I wouldn’t trade Emily for the world, but parenting was hard. Teenagers trying to parent is hard . We were so young. I don’t want hormones to make the decision for her.”
The front door of my house squeaks open again, and Emily holds out our phone. One hand covers the receiver as she yells, “Brittany, it’s Mom!”
I swallow. The heart-jerking moment of my ex calling never ceases to darken my good day like a light switch.
Brittany scrambles up from the grass and across the yard, saying goodbye to only Rocket and not me or Michelle. I shake my head with a grin, but Michelle stares at the front door for a second or two after it closes.
Behind us, the inn’s door creaks open, and a guest pokes her head out.
“Hi,” she says, looking at Michelle but lingering on me when I smile back at her politely. “Do you have any flyers for the Harvest Festival?”
“It ended last week,” Michelle answers quickly. It’s short. To the point. Not exactly irritated. Factual. No hint of a smile.
The woman’s eyebrows pinch together, and she nods. “Oh. Right. Well, thank you.”
Michelle nods, then turns back to me as the guest ducks back into the inn. The door snaps shut behind her.
I blink at Michelle, choking out a laugh.
“What?” she asks offensively.
I chuckle. “I’ll drop by for lunch tomorrow.”
“What? Why?”
“Trust me.”
“You’re inviting yourself over?”
“Pretty much.” I rise from the bench to stretch.
“Why?”
“Because we’ve got to kick-start those People Lessons.” I pocket my hands. “I didn’t realize it was that bad.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“That”—I point to the door—“was sad.”
Her face falls. “Really?”
“Oh. It was terrible, Michelle.”
“What did I do? I gave her the information she’d asked for.”
I tilt my head to the side and mutter a teasing, “And you don’t even know what you did wrong.”
Michelle purses her lips and twists the corner of her mouth. “Fine,” she spits out. “Lunch tomorrow.”
“Attagirl.”
I head toward the stairs, but she stops me with, “And, Cliff?”
“Hmm?”
“You’re insufferable.”
I give a full-blown grin. I can’t help myself. “So I’ve heard.”