Chapter 6 - Gracie
The cold caught at the back of Gracie’s throat the second she stepped out of the bakery van, but the sun was high and blindingly bright. Wind buffeted the “Reserved for Sugarfall Bakery” sign on the brick wall behind her shop as she hugged her coat tighter and unlocked the back door.
It led her into the kitchen, which was bustling under the care of her store manager, Amanda Thackery.
She glanced around, checking out the pie station, the cakes, and a tray of dreamy Christmas cookies just out of the oven, the familiar and comforting scents of butter, cinnamon and sweet pastry crust greeting her.
Even that comfort wasn’t enough to wipe away the cocktail of emotions that had her reeling this morning.
Not one of those emotions was anger, though.
She never got truly mad at Benny, even on the rare occasions when she should.
The child could engineer a backyard rocket launch and light her rosemary bush on fire, and all she’d feel was pride for the flawless trajectory and gratitude that Red kept a hose handy.
Maybe she should be mad about this ruse he and Olivia had cooked up to make a match where one would likely never be.
She stood for a moment in the kitchen, hearing the hiss of the espresso machine, the soft thud of the proofer door closing in the back. With her coat still on, she walked through her little domain, greeting the two bakers on duty, and seeing Amanda hustling at the front counter.
Was the case down? Were the cream puffs selling? Did Benny want a father that badly?
The thought was a needle running through all other thoughts, stabbing and a little painful.
Of course he did. Of course he did. She wasn’t oblivious—she’d seen his face when his friends talked about their dads at school functions, the way he gravitated to Red like a planet around the sun. She’d made a life for him that was calm and safe and sweet, but it was a life without a father.
She’d only had her own father until she was thirty, and in those far too short years, he’d left such an imprint on her. One of the things George McBride showed her was how a man should act, and that had formed her. Benny didn’t have a father or a grandfather to teach him.
Yes, he had Red—but for how long? Red was eighty-three! He’d be in his nineties when Benny was navigating the challenges of being a young man.
She slipped into her back office, delaying the trip across the street as long as possible.
What was she going to say, anyway? Gee, we can’t do this because our kids orchestrated it?
Benny and Olivia had been stunningly…effective. She could almost admire the scheme, from a logistical standpoint. The setup was absurd, yes, but also tidy—Red would skate as Grumpy Santa, she and Marshall would collaborate on the gingerbread house.
Brilliant? Well, it was from the brains of Olivia and Benny. How could it be anything but brilliant?
But it was wrong. The meddling, the strings, the pressure. She inhaled and let the exhale firm her spine, clicking her computer to life for a distraction, hoping for a little crisis in her email that would further delay the inevitable.
There was none.
With a grunt, she pushed the chair back and walked through the bakery—which really wasn’t as crowded as she’d expected it to be.
“Be right back,” she called to Amanda, who waved and continued rearranging the muffin display case.
Her heart rate increased with each step across the street. She pulled open the door and instantly noticed a distinctly different aroma inside Craving Clean. It was…pure. Light. Salty fresh with no pesky…sugar.
Glancing at the tables—not full, but not lackluster—she noticed there was a line but not shockingly long. He had more customers than she did at the moment, but not a tidal wave.
As she looked around for Marshall, she wondered if maybe she should launch a “Sugarfall Light” line of products. Or increase her ads. Or run a new daily special. Or sponsor an event or—
“Can I help you?” A young man she recognized interrupted her mental panic-marketing session. “Gracie, right? I’m Roberto. Assistant manager.”
“Yes, I remember. Hello, Roberto.”
“Looking for Marshall?”
Well, she wasn’t looking for a Clean Puff, that was for sure. “Is he available?”
“Actually, he ran out for a bit to get some custom cutters. Something about a gingerbread house?”
Oh, boy. She needed to talk to him and put a stop to anything he might be investing.
“Can I give him a message for you?” he asked when she didn’t answer. “Or you want to text him?”
She considered saying she was pulling out of the gingerbread project without an explanation, but that would be sheer cowardice and leave the door open for more confusion.
“I’ll come back later. Will he be here in an hour or two?”
“He should be,” Roberto said. “I’ll tell him you were here.”
“Thanks.” With a mix of disappointment and relief, she walked toward the door, catching one of the counter staff announce to a customer that they were out of pumpkin chia bars because they were so popular.
Should she tell the patrons that she had pumpkin tarts bathed in whipped cream and…
Her cell phone hummed, so she slipped it out of her bag and stepped outside, looking at the caller’s name before answering.
“Hi, Nic,” she greeted her cousin. “Are we still on for lunch at 501?”
“Yes, and I’m early,” Nicole replied. “But be grateful because I got a table and this place is packed.”
“I’ll be there in a minute.”
Knowing that she needed cousin time more than anything, she rushed toward 501 on Main, a favorite restaurant in the heart of the historic district.
A few minutes later, she ducked into 501’s vestibule and shook out her hair, then stepped into the dining room’s noise and light. Creamy tall walls, dark wood, and massive arched windows framed Main Street like a Christmas card.
The Saturday after Thanksgiving meant the tables were filled with skiers in knit caps, kids with red noses, the whole town trying to squeeze in brunch at one of Park City’s best eateries.
Here, the scents were different yet again—coffee and rosemary and caramelized onions. A whole different kind of comfort on a plate.
Nicole had indeed snagged a primo table in the window and had a mug between her hands, steam curling against her face. She brightened when she saw Gracie and waved her over.
Gracie gave her a hug and shrugged out of her coat to sit down. “You look pretty, Nic.”
“Oh, I have hat hair.” Nicole made a face but smoothed her dark waves, which couldn’t look bad before or after a hat. “You look pale. Also pretty. But pale pretty. What’s wrong?”
Gracie picked up the menu like a shield. “Nothing that Park City poutine can’t fix. Share some?”
“You don’t have to ask.”
A server arrived instantly, taking Gracie’s order for the holiday hot cider, the poutine, and a promise to order something more substantial even though they knew they would split the roasted beet salad and the turkey club because they never veered from perfection.
“So,” Gracie said when they were alone. “What’s new? How’s Cameron? Wedding plans coming along? Should I be doing anything as maid of honor?”
“After that shower you and Elise gave me last month?” Nicole beamed. “I’m still on Cloud Nine, which was the absolute perfect theme, by the way.”
It had been a great event, Gracie knew, with spun sugar clouds on the champagne flutes and a heavenly theme. Elise might be wheelchair bound, but she was officially the “best woman” for her brother and had taken the role quite seriously.
“To answer your first question,” Nicole said. “My fiancé is wonderful but wrapped up in paramedic finals. What’s new with you?”
Gracie pressed both hands to her cheeks. “You are not going to believe what Benny did.”
Nicole settled deeper into her seat like she’d just bought a ticket for a great show. “Try me.”
The entire story poured out. Right at the moment where Marshall was out buying something for the gingerbread house, the poutine arrived.
Nicole had both hands over her mouth and tears in her eyes—laughing, not crying, so hard that Gracie had to put in the rest of their order.
“They’re criminals,” Nicole said when she could finally breathe. “Absolutely ruthless. I love them.”
“Do not love them,” Gracie said, but she was smiling. “They’ve lost their minds. And that’s saying a lot for those little brainiacs.”
“They’re clever little matchmakers,” Nicole sang like it was something to celebrate.
“They’re meddling,” Gracie corrected. “Adorable, sure. But this is ridiculous.”
Nicole’s eyes were all mischief. “Is it, though? I mean, is it?”
Gracie felt it—that ridiculous telltale warmth climbing up her neck. “Do not.”
“You have a crush on him the size of Utah,” Nicole said softly, not mean, just true. “You say his name like you’re trying not to smile.”
“I do not say his name at all,” Gracie said primly.
“Say it.”
“No.”
“Gracie.”
She gave up the smallest smile, betraying herself. “Fine. Marshall,” she said, and there it was: the warmth again. Broad shoulders. Forearms that did things to her soul.
Nicole looked purely delighted. “See?”
“Even if I did find him the tiniest bit attractive—”
“The tiniest bit,” Nicole repeated, deadpan.
“—so what? He’s across the street, and we are, at best, friendly acquaintances and bakery rivals.”
“You also both bake,” Nicole said. “Imagine what that could mean.”
She took a bite of the poutine, using it as an excuse not to answer.
Nicole helped herself, then waved a fry. “Okay. Plan?”
Gracie swallowed. “I told you, the plan is to end the plan. I’m going to tell Marshall the truth.
That his daughter and my son are entirely too smart for their own good.
I’m going to explain what they did, we will laugh about it, and then we’ll—well, I’ll—embarrass myself and turn as red as the beets we’re about to eat.
Then we’ll both go tell Eleanor that we’re submitting two separate gingerbread houses and putting this whole ridiculousness to bed. ”
Nicole chewed, considering. “No.”
“No?”