Chapter 12
Lauralee
“The Peach Festival is just around the corner,” my mom says, coming into the shop like we’re continuing a conversation started on her drive over.
I laugh to myself as I load fresh scones onto a tray in the display cabinet.
She asks, “Do you mind calling Tagger to help get the decorations down from the attic at the house?”
“I can’t be calling him all the time. We can’t give him a honey-do list like he’s my husband.” Standing upright, I slide the door to the case closed, then lean on the counter to watch her fiddle with a display of peach-themed tea towels with our logo.
Her eyes meet mine over the top of the metal rack. “Chrissy won’t mind.”
“I do, though.” I keep my voice steady despite how I feel. “I can get the decorations down myself, Mom.”
“You’re never home anymore.”
Calling the apartment my home is tempting, but I’m not looking to hurt her feelings. What should I call a place that feels more me lately than anywhere else, though?
Why the hell does Baylor come to mind?
I thought I’d shaken him out of my system, yet he manages to invade my thoughts every chance he gets.
Figures. I roll my eyes for allowing it to happen, like at night when I’m alone and wanting to replicate the orgasm he gave me.
It’s been fruitless, literally, but I refuse to be a quitter. Tonight is a new opportunity after all.
Though, admittedly, I couldn’t even look Chris in the eyes when she stopped in two days ago. If she knew what I imagined her brother doing to me, she’d disown me.
Lordy, I need professional help. I need to look up some tips and techniques on how to free my mind of intrusive thoughts of one of the most handsome men ever to walk the planet. He arrogantly owns my headspace like he owned my body that night. Goodness, he’s made a mess of my mind.
I can’t even make strawberry shortcakes anymore without his absence hitting me upside the head.
All because of that nickname he seems to have adopted for me.
And, secretly, I love it. It makes me feel special.
That’s how desperate I’ve become for attention.
I don’t know whether it’s sad or good that someone can make me feel so alive when we’re together.
Bad. That’s what this is. I shouldn’t be feeling anything toward Baylor Greene other than casual acquaintance or friendship second removed at most.
He's in New York.
I’m here.
No use dwelling on the fact that it’s been two weeks since he was in Peachtree Pass, but I still feel the ghost of him haunting me in my day-to-day.
It’s not fair to me or him, considering I’m the one who agreed he should go.
That was for the best, so why am I mentally dragging him back into my present like he should have stayed all along? Figuratively, of course.
“I’ll do it tonight after dinner.”
My mom comes behind the counter to inspect.
She’s never critical of the changes I’ve made to the shop over the years.
Just curious and more than happy to give advice.
“The paper napkins with peaches on them would be a great upsell near the register for the festival. Have you started cleaning the ice cream cart that will be stationed on the festival grounds?”
The festival is the Super Bowl event for our small town. It’s the best time of the year around here. We’re busy and making money. But it’s also just a good time all around.
Dusting my hands off on my apron, I reply, “Already have the napkins stocked and ready to display. The cart is getting cleaned on Sunday. It’s the only time I have this week to do it, but I did hire two girls to run the cart for the festival's duration. They’re even making their own schedule. I will be approving the final hours.”
“Oh, that’s great.”
Not sure how she’ll take this, so I ease her into the idea while fidgeting with the birthday-candle display on top of the cake counter. “Two of them are looking for regular work. I’ve been thinking about bringing them on a few afternoons a week and for some weekend shifts.”
My mom stills her hands on the register that she had started wiping down and looks at me. “It’s a big job to run this place.”
“Even bigger these days.” I roll a stool over and sit, keeping one foot planted on the floor and the other on the foot bar.
“I’ve turned away three orders in the past few days because I simply do not have the time to add more to my schedule.
Lunches, especially, have become more popular.
We have two small bistro tables, but we have more regulars from Dover County driving in for lunch lately.
I’m out of food by noon and most don’t have a place to sit and eat what food they do get. ”
“The whole area is growing.” There’s concern in her voice as she looks over the shop as if she’ll know what to do after a once-over.
“They built a new subdivision up Highway 160. Fifty-two acres with thirty plots.” Leaning her hip against the counter after facing me again, she adds, “I like that you’re thinking big picture.
I was starting to worry you didn’t want to continue running Peaches. ”
I’m not sure what would give her that impression when I spend every day here—baking, cleaning, prepping for each day and the next.
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. You built this place.
I grew up here. It’s a part of us, but I’ve grown the shop and café as much as I can on my own.
We either need to cut back on what we offer, change around what we do and can offer, or expand into the empty shop next door. ”
My mom’s hair is always impeccably in place. Today is no different, so this is the first time I see her fussing with a curl hanging on her shoulder and rebelling against the flow of the others. I can see her thoughts cloud her eyes before she turns away.
I hate the empty space and the silence between us, but I need to hear what she thinks. As much as I consider this place mine, it’s not really when it comes to legality and paperwork.
Her smile is soft, as if bad news is following when she looks at me. “I can’t take on more loans for an expansion, and I don’t have it in me to make the kind of decisions necessary to run the shop like it needs anymore.”
My heart sinks. What is she saying? I knew my ideas were long shots, but I didn’t expect her not to want any change at all, or worse, to sell it altogether, which is what it’s sounding like right now.
She says, “Peaches also have pits.”
It’s a saying she’s always said. The sweet always comes with sour. Hard with soft. The universe has a way of balancing things out. That’s been true since my dad left us. I just don’t want the pits on the other side of progress to be standing in my way any longer. “I know but?—”
“But . . .” She cuts me off with her hand held up between us. “You can and do.”
“What does that mean?”
With her eyes set on mine and a gentle slope of a smile on her face, she replies, “It means you’re ready to take on those things.
The shop has been yours for years, honey.
I think we should make it official. Once it’s in your name, then it’s not up to me.
It would be yours to do what you want with it. ”
So much crosses my mind that I don’t know what thought to settle on first. I think she can tell because she comes to me, taking my hands though they still have residual flour on them, and holds each in hers.
She’s not deterred, and says, “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time, Lauralee.
It’s not a snap decision for me. I gave you control years ago, but you didn’t own it. Now it’s time to change that.”
“Are you sure?”
Squeezing my hands, she replies. “Very.” When she backs toward the register to pick up dusting it where she left off, she adds, “But I hope you still let me work here and there.”
“Of course. Anytime you want.”
“And since you mentioned it, I think you should expand, hire more employees, take a few days off each week, and take this place to the next level.”
I rush her, throwing my arms around her. “Thank you, Mom. I’ll make you so proud.”
When she turns in my arms, she hugs me tight. “You already have.”
Stepping back, I’m unsure what to do with myself. Celebrate or start planning? But then I stop, and ask, “What are you going to do?”
“The house and car were paid off years ago, so I’ll take some time and figure out my next adventure. Travel?” Flipping her hair over her shoulder, she laughs. “Or maybe I’ll become a small-town influencer on social media. I’m seeing a hole in the market.”
“I didn’t even know you were on social media outside of the ‘Book app.’”
“It’s addicting.” She walks by me, patting me on the arm. “I’m going to grab a sandwich for dinner tonight. I have a feeling you’re going to be too busy to come home with the planning you have ahead of you.”
I grin, almost unbearably so. Hope soars in ways I haven’t felt in years, making the possibilities seem limitless. Yes, the bubble will burst in some ways, but I’ve been preparing for that my whole life. I’m ready to hold on to this feeling for as long as I can.
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Wait, huh? Why would I share this with him?
Oh.
My.
God.
That man! He’s going to haunt me to my deathbed.
Pris will be over the moon. She’s wanted this for me forever. I’ll text her as soon as my mom takes off again. I say, “I promise to get the decorations down this weekend. ”
The shrug is so insignificant that I almost miss it. “Don’t rush on my account. This is all yours now.” She pushes through the door to the back. When she returns with a paper-wrapped sandwich in her hands, she says, “Put it on my tab.”
“Never.” I give her one more hug before she leaves. “Thank you.”
“It’s well-earned. We can start on the paperwork in the next few days.” She cuts through the store toward the door but stops, and says, “I almost forgot to tell you. The apartment got rented.” My heart stops in my chest. “The reservation came in just before I left.”
“For which dates?”
“Prime time. Starting Thursday of the Peach Festival and running for a week in total. That’s our peak week. They already prepaid the full amount.”
My heart starts beating again, but this is the pit in the peach of being given the shop. The bad with the good. “What’s the name?”
“Single traveler out of New York. Mickey something booked it for his boss.” She does a little shoulder shake of excitement. “Who knew our little festival would attract fancy New Yorkers. She pushes through the door. “Love you, honey.”
“Love you.”
I’m happy about the money. That one reservation alone covers a quarter of the costs to build the apartment, so that’s a big win. But a New Yorker? How’d they even hear about our annual festival? “Yeah, who knew.”