Chapter 30
CHAPTER 30
PENELOPE
T he soft glow of the desk lamp illuminates the scattered papers before me, casting long shadows across the worn wooden surface. The bakery’s books are spread out like a complex puzzle, one I’m desperately trying to solve. I’ve been staring at these numbers for hours, willing them to change, but the stark reality remains unchanged.
I rub my tired eyes, the scent of lingering pecans and vanilla from today’s baking clinging to my sweater. It’s a comforting smell, one that usually brings a smile to my face. But tonight, it only serves as a bittersweet reminder of what we might lose.
Grandpa shuffles into the room, his slippered feet making a soft swishing sound against the hardwood floor. I look up, taking in his weathered face, the lines around his eyes deeper than usual. He’s wearing his favorite cardigan, the blue one that’s slightly frayed at the cuffs, a testament to years of wear and love.
“How’s it looking, sweetpea?” he asks, his voice carrying a note of hope that makes my heart ache.
I force a smile, but I know it doesn’t reach my eyes. “It’s... not great, Grandpa,” I admit, gesturing to the books. “We’re giving things away. We could raise our prices, but—.” I don’t know what I can say. People don’t want to pay ten dollars for a cinnamon roll, even his? That sounds too cruel to voice.
Grandpa sighs, sinking into the chair across from me. His bright blue eyes, usually twinkling with mischief behind his wire-rimmed glasses, are clouded with worry. “We used to do well all year round,” he muses, his gnarled hands fidgeting with the edge of one of my papers.
I reach out, covering his hand with mine. His skin is warm and smooth from years of being in butter and creams and thickened by years of kneading dough and shaping loaves. “So what? We’ve been through tough times before.” I assure him, trying to inject some optimism into my voice.
But even as the words leave my mouth, I can taste their hollowness. The air in the room feels heavy, laden with unspoken concerns and fears.
Grandpa shakes his head slowly, a rueful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Any more of a slump, and we’ll be out of business.” He pauses, and I can see him steeling himself for what he’s about to say next. “I’ll look into selling the place in January. It’s the logical thing to do. ”
The words hit me like a train. I feel the color drain from my face; it is such an odd sensation of going cold. My heart pounds. I knew this was a possibility, but hearing it feels so much worse than imagining it. “Sell the bakery?” I whisper, my voice sounding small and far away to my own ears. “It’s home.”
He reaches out, patting my hand gently. “I own the building, sweetpea. We’ll always have a roof over our heads. But the bakery... well, sometimes we have to make hard choices.”
I want to argue, to tell him we can find another way, but the numbers on the papers tell a different story. I nod mutely, blinking back the tears that threaten to spill over.
Grandpa’s gaze drifts to the shelf behind me, where Nick’s gift sits. The miniature model of our bakery, crafted with such care and attention to detail. I brought it in here because it seemed like the right place for it. I couldn’t keep it all to myself in my bedroom. Grandpa and Noelle should see it and take joy from it too.
“You should invite Nick to a game night,” Grandpa says suddenly, his voice brightening a bit.
The abrupt change of subject catches me off guard. I let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Yeah, because he would love to play Uno with us,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. Actually, he would, and I know it. Nick is up for anything that involves me and Noelle. We had so much fun ice skating together today—like old times. I almost forgot the last three years of loneliness.
Almost .
“I think he would love it. Probably one of the few men on the planet who would.” Grandpa cuffs my shoulder.
Before I can respond, he stands up, leaning over to place a soft kiss on the top of my head. The familiar scent of his aftershave—almost overwhelming pine—envelops me, bringing a lump to my throat.
“Don’t stay up too late, sweetpea,” he says softly. “Things always look brighter in the morning.”
I watch as he shuffles out of the room, his steps a little slower than they used to be. When I hear his bedroom door close, I let out a long, shaky breath.
My eyes are drawn back to the miniature bakery. In the soft lamplight, it looks magical, like a scene from a snow globe. I reach out and touch the glass dome. How did Nick know? How did he understand that the bakery was more than just a business to me, that it was the heart of my family?
The thought of Nick sends a confusing swirl of emotions through me. The warmth of his hand in mine, the sound of Noelle’s laughter, the way he looked at me when he thought I wasn’t noticing—it’s all still fresh in my mind. It had felt so right, so natural. For a few blissful hours, I had allowed myself to forget about the bakery’s troubles, the Bazaar, the light parade, and all the things I had to do, and I did something I wanted to do. It was bliss.
Reality has come crashing back, and I struggle to find that same sense of completeness and rightness that I felt this afternoon while sipping cocoa on the shore of a frozen pond.
The miniature bakery seems to mock me, a perfect, unchanging version of a dream that might be slipping away. And yet... It’s also a reminder of Nick’s thoughtfulness and ability to see into the heart of what matters to me.
I imagine Nick sitting at our kitchen table, laughing over a hand of cards, his green eyes crinkling at the corners the way they do when he’s truly amused. The image is surprisingly easy to conjure, and it brings a warmth to my chest that I want to melt into.
I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts. There are more pressing matters to worry about than Nick Kringle and his potential fondness for board games. And yet, as I turn back to the unforgiving numbers in the bakery’s books, I can’t quite shake the image from my mind.
The clock on the wall ticks steadily, marking the passage of time as I pore over the financial statements once more. Outside, a gentle snow has begun to fall, dusting the window sill with a fine layer of white.
I run my fingers through my hair, feeling the soft curls tangle around my fingers. The thought of losing it all makes my chest tighten with anxiety. I can almost taste the fear on my tongue, bitter and acrid.
I shake my head, trying to dispel the terror.
I jump back to the image of Nick sitting at my table, but that image is just as scary as losing the bakery.
It’s dangerous to let myself hope like this, to imagine Nick fitting so seamlessly into our lives. And yet, I can’t quite shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, it’s not as impossible as I’ve been telling myself .
Before I can talk myself out of it, I reach for my phone. My fingers hover over Nick’s name in my contacts for a moment before I take a deep breath and start typing.
“Hey Nick,” I write, then pause, considering my words carefully. “I was wondering if you’d like to join us for a game night sometime this week? Nothing fancy, just some cards and maybe some of Grandpa’s Mexican hot chocolate. Let me know if you’re interested.”
I hit send before I can second-guess myself, then set the phone down, my heart racing. It’s a small step, but it feels significant somehow. Like I’m opening a door that I’ve kept firmly shut for far too long.
The soft ping of an incoming message makes me jump. I pick up the phone, holding my breath, when I see Nick’s name on the screen.
Nick: I’d love to. Name the time and place, and I’ll be there with bells on. Literally—I have a Christmas sweater with actual jingle bells.
A laugh escapes me, surprising in its genuineness.
Me: Friday at 8:00
I feel a shift in the air around me. It’s subtle, but it’s there, a sense of possibility, and I decide that I’d much rather live in that than the sense of loss that threatens to bleed into it.