Chapter Twenty-Six
I woke to a series of pings and beeps from my phone. I squinted at the nearby clock, hating the offending daylight. I hadn’t crawled into bed until after midnight. Then I’d struggled to settle my mind. This was my day off, my day to sleep in.
My phone dinged again, pulling my eyes open. When did I shut them? And what was that sound?
“Stop,” I whined, taking a swipe at the persistent device. “What are you even trying to tell me?” These weren’t my usual alerts or an alarm. I pulled the phone off my nightstand and cursed whichever app had lost its mind.
A stack of notifications filled my lock screen.
I recognized the seven new-order icons. That was a lot, especially overnight.
Probably a local group or school with a bake sale or fundraiser.
The other notifications were from people tagging the Invisible Baker’s account on social media.
Those must’ve been the unfamiliar sounds.
All remnants of fatigue vanished as my brain kicked into gear.
No one ever tagged my business. My customers didn’t talk about where they got their goods. That was the whole point. First rule of fight club, and all that. So what the heck was happening?
The sense of doom that came next sat me upright.
I hoped I hadn’t received a complaint. I baked so often at night, exhausted from my long days.
What if I’d ruined something and never knew it?
What if I mistook salt for sugar, or swapped baking soda for baking powder?
The finished products looked beautiful and smelled delicious, but what if something was fundamentally wrong, and I’d delivered it to a customer?
I tapped the screen and scrolled in search of the problem, and it was worse than I’d imagined.
All the tags on my account stemmed from a video posted by Virginia’s Secrets.
“Dear lord in the morning,” I whispered. I pressed one palm to my heart and tapped Play with the other. Then I braced for whatever came next.
Virginia stood in a kitchen, flour on one cheek, and her hair in a snit.
A child cried in the background, and everything visible behind her was in disarray.
“Ever feel as if you can’t possibly do it all?
” she asked the camera. “Then one of your kids gets off the bus with a note saying they need thirty-six gluten-free cupcakes by eight a.m.?” With a defeated sigh, she turned to lift the toddler from their seat.
“The last time this happened, you bought the treats on your way to school, causing you both to be late. Then you caught hell from your boss, and your kid came home with a note from another mom implying your effort wasn’t good enough?
Because the parents who really care about their kids make their baked goods at home.
Those parents don’t buy preservative-laden sweets from a store.
Like you.” She made a disgusted face. Then a child, clearly dressed for soccer practice, ran in holding their shoes and asking for help, because they were late.
I lowered the hand from my chest. I didn’t hate where this was going.
I’d anticipated a witch hunt, but she’d accurately captured the reason I created the business in the first place.
Moms could be judgmental and sometimes downright mean to one another.
And for what? Weren’t we all just doing the best we could?
Who were these women that had enough time on their hands to care what other moms did or didn’t do?
I barely knew what I was doing when Camilla was young, and I’d stayed home with only one child!
The whole thing burned my biscuits every time I thought about it.
The image of Virginia and her chaotic household blurred. “Did you also know that if you live within delivery distance of one small town, you don’t have to deal with that nonsense anymore?” Virginia asked.
My lips pinched. “Here we go.”
The next scene revealed Virginia in a cute sweater set and capris.
Her hair and makeup were done, the kids were playing nicely, and her home was clean.
She lifted a palm, and my logo appeared above it.
“Just hire the Invisible Baker, and let them handle the baking for you. No questions asked, all requests accepted, and they’ll never say a word to anyone.
It says so right there on the home page of the company’s website. ”
Links to my site and social media accounts appeared along the bottom of the screen.
My heart fluttered, and a thrill raised goose bumps on my arms. She didn’t bash me or demand my identity be revealed.
“If you don’t need enough pastries for a classroom, you can still enjoy the delicious treats at one popular riverfront restaurant.
Chez Margot has taken the private baking company out of the shadows and put it in a display case.
I’m not sure how this helps busy moms, but it definitely helps locals and commuters with a craving for something sweet.
I’m guessing the orders help the company, too, and whoever is behind the veil deserves a raise.
Because these macarons?” She lifted a treat into view and made a show of enjoying a bite. “Worth every penny.”
I zoned out as she segued into her “like, follow, and share for more” requests, and I watched the numbers on all those icons increase in real time, along with a growing amount of comments.
In the hours since the video was posted, it’d been shared by hundreds of viewers and liked nearly two thousand times.
I set my phone aside to process what this meant.
When Virginia didn’t return to the restaurant, I’d assumed she changed her mind about pursuing the story. But someone had clearly made the trip to Chez Margot for that macaron. I didn’t have any recent orders for those outside the restaurant.
Thankfully, Lucas gave her the story about an older man being the company’s owner, I thought.
Maybe that was enough to dissuade any further interest. My stomach sank a little at the thought.
The state of Virginia didn’t allow anonymously owned LLCs, and I’d registered the business in my name.
My contact information was directly connected to the company, and anyone with enough motivation to check the state’s business page would easily find me.
I could only hope it didn’t come to that.
At least my customer records would be safe, even if I was outed.
Every customer except Chez Margot. I couldn’t deny that one, but Lucas wasn’t trying to hide the affiliation.
He’d put a sign with the company’s name in the bakery display.
I groaned. No wonder he hadn’t placed another order after Virginia came snooping.
He probably didn’t want the drama and nonsense that came with an online personality’s interest.
If only I’d done the same. Maybe if I’d temporarily closed the online shop, she would’ve left things alone.
I dragged myself out of bed with an ugly snort and headed downstairs for coffee. Who was I kidding? Closing up the day she came hunting would’ve surely fueled her fire.
Raisin raced past me on the stairs, and I grabbed the handrail for balance.
“Lunatic!” I called. “If I break my neck, who will feed you?”
At least he didn’t stop to bite me. I had to count my blessings where I could find them.
A free trip to France, for example.
I stuffed the thought into a mental lockbox and wrapped the container in chains. I wanted to go, but the reveal of my lie could result in a withdrawal of his offer. I couldn’t think about that before I had at least one cup of coffee.
My phone dinged as I padded across the first floor toward the kitchen. Another order for the Invisible Baker.
I’d have to work all day to fill the orders, and I’d have to turn away additional orders to catch up. The influx was a result of Virginia’s video, and if her views and responses kept growing, my orders might as well.
Until I learned to duplicate myself, or stop time while I worked, I had no hope of keeping up with demand. Champagne problems, I thought. But the issue remained nonetheless.
I fed Raisin, then made a cup of coffee and carried it onto the patio.
Dew clung to the blades of grass, and a chill lingered in the air. My second season in this house, and a new era in my life. Nature’s fanfare felt poetic. A rainbow of autumn leaves. Pumpkins and mums on doorsteps. Little ghosts and goblins soon flooding the streets on Halloween night.
I couldn’t wait. I craved every change, big and small. New traditions. New memories. I wanted it all. But only if I could share the moments with my daughter.
I sent my eleventh text since our botched lunch, begging for her to talk to me. Then I sent up the usual prayer to go with it. Please let me fix this. Let me heal us.
I needed a plan to deal with the obstacles in my path. My phone buzzed, and I smiled. Instead of an answer to prayer, I received another order. I guessed I’d start there.
If I wanted to help as many customers as possible, I had to streamline.
A number of favorite seasonal desserts came to mind.
Mini pumpkin pies, baked apple fritters, and cinnamon-spiced coffee cakes, for starters.
Limiting available options would allow me to bake in bulk, satisfying more than one request at a time.
Buying only ingredients for the set options would save me time and money as well.
I opened the notes app on my phone and started a list. An incoming call from Cami interrupted the process.
I looked at the ceiling, hoping my mom could see this, and that she’d help me do better with my daughter than she had with me. “Cami,” I answered. “I’m so sorry for the things I said. I promise I’ll do better.”
“I know,” she said. Her voice was soft and remorseful. “It’s okay.”
I shook my head, though she couldn’t see me. “It’s not okay. Stealing your joy is never okay. I let my old wounds cause you fresh pain, and that’s not acceptable. Ever.”