11. Beth
Chapter 11
Beth
T he next morning, I arrived at the bakery with a bounce in my step. It was four in the morning, early enough to relish the quiet before the rush. Christmas lights twinkled around the windows, casting a warm glow on the snow-dusted sidewalk outside. I loved these moments—the peace before the chaos, the chance to gather my thoughts.
I unlocked the door and stepped inside, greeted by the familiar scent of flour and sugar. The cozy warmth of the bakery wrapped around me like a hug. I flipped on the lights, illuminating the rows of cookie cutters and mixing bowls waiting for action. I hung my coat on its peg and tied my apron around my waist, ready to start baking.
My hands moved on autopilot as I mixed dough and measured out ingredients. Kneading, rolling, cutting—each movement felt like a small piece of home. But even in this comforting routine, my thoughts kept drifting back to Daryl.
There was something about him that gnawed at me. His rough exterior didn't match the brief glimpses of vulnerability I'd seen in his eyes. Why couldn't I stop thinking about him? Maybe it was his guarded nature that intrigued me, or perhaps it was that fleeting moment when he'd overheard me singing. I'd caught a glimpse of surprise on his face, almost like he saw me differently for just a second.
I shook my head and focused on cutting out gingerbread men. They lined up neatly on the baking sheet, waiting their turn in the oven. As I worked, snippets of lyrics floated through my mind—words I'd never had the courage to share with anyone.
The smell of cinnamon and cloves filled the air as cookies baked to golden perfection. I pulled out a tray and set it aside to cool, then started another batch. My gaze wandered to the old guitar propped up in Daryl's garage. How long had it been since he played? What kind of music did he like? The questions buzzed in my mind like bees.
I dusted powdered sugar over a batch of cookies and smiled to myself. Maybe Ellie was right; maybe I could crack his shell one way or another.
As dawn approached and light began filtering through the bakery windows, I hummed softly to myself—a tune I'd been working on for weeks but never finished. The morning rush would start soon enough, but for now, I savored these quiet moments and let my mind wander where it wanted.
Once the dough was ready, I rolled it out on the floured countertop, enjoying the tactile sensation of the smooth, pliable surface beneath my fingers. I cut out more gingerbread men and placed them on a baking sheet, arranging them neatly in rows.
Wiping my hands on my apron, I glanced at the wall calendar. A smile tugged at my lips when I saw today's date circled in bright red ink. It was open mic night at the café, one of my favorite events. There was something magical about listening to people pour their hearts out through music and lyrics. Each song told a story, revealing pieces of their soul.
I loved how open mic nights brought people together. Strangers became friends as they shared their passion for music. Some were shy, their voices trembling as they took the stage for the first time. Others were confident performers, their melodies captivating the audience from the first note.
As I prepared another tray of cookies, I hummed softly to myself, lost in my own world of music and baking. The café would soon be bustling with customers, each one bringing their own stories and songs to share.
Tonight's open mic promised to be special. I felt it in my bones—the energy in the air, the excitement building inside me. Maybe I'd even work up the courage to sing one of my own songs someday. But for now, I was content to listen and support others as they bared their souls on stage.
The timer dinged, pulling me back to reality. I carefully removed the first batch of cookies from the oven and set them on a cooling rack. The aroma was irresistible, filling every corner of the bakery with holiday cheer.
I glanced at the clock and knew it was time to start getting ready for the day ahead. Customers would be arriving soon, eager for their morning coffee and freshly baked treats. And later tonight, they'd return for an evening of music and camaraderie.
As I tidied up my workspace and prepared for the morning rush, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was going to happen tonight. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking or maybe it was that undeniable sense of possibility that always accompanied these events.
Either way, I couldn't wait to see what stories and songs would unfold.
A half hour before open mic night, Ellie waltzed into the café, arms full of books and a well-worn notebook. She plopped down at the counter, sighing dramatically.
"Really?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "Homework?"
"The dungeon dragon has assigned his class extra credit but not extra credit," Ellie remarked dryly, flipping open her notebook with a flourish.
"What does that even mean?" I asked, bewildered.
"Dunno." She shrugged, doodling absentmindedly in the margins. "All I know is he's a Scrooge who really needs to get laid. But enough of this grinch talk. You doing open mic night tonight?"
I hesitated, arranging some freshly baked cookies on a platter. "I don't know," I murmured. "Maybe."
"Maybe if a certain mechanic Walkers on in?" Ellie teased, wiggling her eyebrows with exaggerated mischief.
I laughed despite myself. "You're terrible."
"I need to laugh about something," she replied, leaning back in her chair and stretching. "It's been a week from hell."
I glanced around the café, noting how the festive decorations seemed to shimmer in the soft light. The anticipation for tonight's event hummed in the air like an unplayed chord. Customers filtered in and out, some greeting me with warm smiles and others lost in their own thoughts.
Ellie started scribbling furiously in her notebook, muttering under her breath about historical inaccuracies and impossible deadlines. I watched her for a moment before turning my attention back to preparing for the night ahead.
The thought of performing made my stomach twist into knots, but there was also a small spark of excitement. Maybe tonight would be different. Maybe I'd finally muster the courage to share one of my songs.
Ellie glanced up from her work and caught my eye. "Seriously though, you should totally do it. You've got a great voice, and your songs are amazing."
I blushed, shaking my head slightly. "We'll see."
"Beth Morrison, always so modest," she teased again before returning to her notes.
The clock on the wall ticked closer to showtime. The café buzzed with activity as regulars found their favorite seats and newcomers looked around curiously.
With one last glance at Ellie, who was now fully immersed in her homework, I took a deep breath and stepped behind the counter to make sure everything was ready for another memorable open mic night.
As the clock struck seven, I felt a familiar flutter of nerves in my stomach. The café had filled up quickly, with regulars and newcomers alike taking their seats. The holiday lights twinkled merrily, casting a warm glow over the room. I took a deep breath, smoothing down my apron as I stepped onto the small stage.
"Good evening, everyone," I said, my voice sounding steadier than I felt. "Welcome to our open mic night! We're so glad to have you all here. We've got some fantastic talent lined up for you tonight."
The crowd responded with enthusiastic applause, and I smiled, feeling a bit more at ease. My eyes scanned the room briefly—no sign of Daryl, but that was no surprise. Still, the thought of him lingered at the back of my mind.
"First up, we have an amazing singer who's been coming to our open mic nights for a while now," I continued. "Please give a warm welcome to Sarah!"
Sarah, a young woman with bright red hair and a shy smile, made her way to the stage amid cheers and claps. She adjusted the microphone stand and gave me a grateful nod before strumming her guitar. Her fingers danced over the strings with practiced ease.
As she began to sing, the room fell silent, captivated by her soulful voice. It was moments like these that reminded me why I loved hosting these nights. The connection between performer and audience was electric, almost tangible.
I moved back behind the counter but kept my eyes on Sarah. Her song flowed effortlessly, each note wrapping around us like a comforting blanket. The crowd swayed along, some mouthing the lyrics they knew by heart.
Ellie looked up from her books and caught my eye, giving me a thumbs-up. I grinned back at her, feeling a surge of pride for our little community.
When Sarah finished her song, the café erupted in applause and cheers. She blushed deeply but smiled wide as she took a small bow before stepping off the stage.
"Let's hear it for Sarah!" I called out, clapping along with everyone else.
The energy in the room was infectious. As Sarah made her way back to her seat, several people reached out to congratulate her or give her high-fives.
"Next up," I announced once the applause had died down, "we have Tom with his poetry reading."
Tom stepped onto the stage with his usual confident stride. The night had only just begun, but already it felt like something special was in the air.
Tom’s poetry was a hit, his words painting vivid pictures of small-town life and the beauty in everyday moments. The crowd responded with heartfelt applause, and I felt a swell of pride for the diverse talent that frequented my café.
“Let’s hear it for Tom!” I called out, clapping along with the audience. He waved sheepishly as he returned to his seat, clearly pleased with the reception.
I glanced down at my list of performers. “Next up, we have… Jenny with her ukulele.”
I scanned the room, expecting to see Jenny making her way to the stage. But no one moved. The murmurs from the crowd grew louder as moments passed without anyone stepping forward.
“Jenny?” I called again, hoping she might just be running late or momentarily distracted.
Still nothing. The silence stretched awkwardly.
From the back of the café, Ellie’s voice cut through the murmurs. “It’s your turn, Beth!”
My cheeks burned as every eye in the room turned to me. The audience started chanting my name, encouraging me to take the stage. My heart raced; I hadn’t planned on performing tonight.
“I don’t have anything to play with,” I said, blushing furiously and looking around for an escape.
“I’ve got something.” Daryl’s deep voice rumbled from behind me.
I spun around, eyes wide as he approached the stage holding an old guitar—his guitar. My breath caught in my throat as our gazes locked. He looked hesitant but determined.
“Thank you,” I managed to say, taking the guitar from him.
Our fingers brushed in the exchange, sending a jolt through me that left me momentarily speechless.
The room seemed to fade away as I stared at Daryl, feeling a mix of surprise and gratitude. And honestly? I was just happy he was here.
He nodded slightly before stepping back, giving me space on the stage.
Taking a deep breath, I adjusted the guitar strap over my shoulder and settled onto a stool. The familiar weight of the instrument was comforting, though my hands trembled slightly as they found their positions on the strings.
The crowd hushed in anticipation. I glanced at Ellie, who gave me an encouraging nod and a thumbs-up again. Then I looked at Daryl again—he stood near the back now, arms crossed but eyes fixed on me.
With one last deep breath, I strummed a chord and began to play.