Chapter 10
“I came to slay with sugar, not get ambushed by guilt.” ~ Parker
Parker
I roll the gingerbread house into city hall at five minutes to ten. With Jeremy’s help, I was able to finish decorating the house, including adding all the candy waves, sugar pearls, and fondant mermaids on time.
Although, I did have to stop him from trying to pipe icing when a large blob exploded from his piping bag. Good thing the blob landed on his shoes and not on my gingerbread house.
I giggle at the memory. Who thought Jeremy, the billionaire who thinks Smuggler’s Hideaway is a Podunk island, would help out at my bakery? I never expected a billionaire to have blue icing on his shoe. Maybe he’s not as much of an asshole as I thought.
I reach the foyer. “I’m here!”
The area is a hive of activity. There are at least twenty bakers setting up their gingerbread houses. My stomach drops. I didn’t think there would be this many entries.
Son of a barnacle. I knew I should have protested when the city council opened the contest to non-inhabitants of the island.
Lana and Jennifer make their way toward me. “We were worried you wouldn’t make the deadline,” Jennifer says.
She’s not the only one.
Lana frowns. “I wasn’t worried. I knew you’d be here.”
“Where do you want me?”
There are tables scattered around the foyer to display the gingerbread houses to visitors who can vote on their favorite house. The house with the most votes wins. I’m hoping my Smuggler’s Hideaway themed gingerbread house will be a local favorite.
“We have your table right here.” Lana motions to a table in the middle of the foyer.
I want to cry. This location is the best one. Not only is it in the middle of the room, but the table is the largest and it’s slightly elevated. No one entering city hall will fail to notice it.
“Chop. Chop,” Jennifer says. “You’ve met the ten o’clock deadline, but you still need to have your gingerbread house in place with any extra decorations by noon.”
I nod to them before slowly rolling my creation through the room to my spot. As I pass the other gingerbread houses, I evaluate them. All of them appear perfect but they’re also boring. Not a mermaid or pirate or kraken amongst them.
Smuggler’s Hideaway doesn’t enjoy boring. Good. Maybe I can win this contest after all.
I begin by placing a treasure map table runner with “X marks the spot” near where the house itself will be. I ordered this table runner when I thought Pirate’s Pastries was going to be included in the Mermaid Treasure Hunt.
My stomach sours. The treasure hunt was a great opportunity to expand my business and save my bakery from bankruptcy. Next year, I promise myself. Next year I’ll have the cash to be a stop on the hunt.
With as much caution as possible, I transfer my gingerbread house to the table. Once it’s in place and hasn’t broken, I can breathe again.
Okay. Time to get to work. For the next two hours, I scatter chocolate gold coins and rock candy ‘crystals’ around the house.
I add mini fondant moonshine barrels and tiny candy rum bottles, as well as gingerbread pirate figures.
I coil licorice ropes around the pirate figures before adding gummy fish, starfish, and jelly sea creatures.
And now for the finishing touch. I use icing to create kraken tentacles that peek out from underneath the house and add edible glitter to give the entire display a magical sea sparkle.
When I’m finished, I step back to admire my creation. It’s perfect. It’s a bit eccentric with the pirates and sea creatures, but this is Smuggler’s Hideaway, where we believe in mermaids. Eccentric is part of our charm.
“Time!” Lana yells. “From this point forward, you are not allowed to touch your gingerbread house. Jennifer will photograph each house every morning to ensure no one’s cheating.”
Smugglers love to cheat, but since there aren’t any other locals entered in the contest, I’m not worried about anyone cheating.
I pack up my supplies and place them on my cart. Jennifer arrives and snaps a picture of the house.
“I knew your gingerbread house would be awesome,” she says as she tapes the picture to the corner of the table.
“Of course, it’s awesome. Parker attended one of the best pastry schools in the country.”
“The best? I think you mean the most expensive.”
Flipping fishcakes. What are my parents doing here?
Jennifer pats my arm. She’s well aware of the relationship I have with my parents. Everyone on the island is. It’s impossible to keep a secret here, especially when you decide to move out of your parents’ house in the middle of the night.
“I’m okay,” I whisper to her.
She purses her lips. She doesn’t believe me, but she moves on to photograph the next gingerbread house. Thank the mermaids. The town secretary is the queen of the gossiping inhabitants. The last thing I need is for her to eavesdrop on my conversation.
I blow out a breath and force myself to turn around to face my parents.
“Mom, Dad. How are you doing?”
Mom scowls at me. “You’d know if you’d bothered to show up to our house for Thanksgiving.”
Bothered to show up? They never invited me.
“I was working all day on Thanksgiving.”
“You must have missed our house when you were out delivering pies,” Dad says.
I fist my hands. This is what they mean by ‘show up’. Not show up to spend the holiday meal with them. Nope. ‘Show up’ as in give them a pie free of charge.
I’m supposed to supply their baking needs and yet they complain about my business not doing well. Do they not understand the correlation between the two?
“I thought you went to Hideaway Haven Resort for Thanksgiving.”
Hideaway Haven Resort is an exclusive and super fancy hotel and restaurant on the beach. Hudson Clark built the place after he got injured and was forced to retire from the NFL.
My parents spend all of their holidays at the resort because they can afford it. While they complain about how expensive my culinary school education was, they don’t need the money. They’re orthodontists and have the sole orthodontic practice on the island.
My dad’s nose wrinkles. “Their pumpkin pie was very bland this year.”
“I spoke to Hudson,” Mom says and I bite my tongue before I groan. I also try to come up with another topic of conversation. But I don’t manage before she speaks again. “He’s searching for a new pastry chef.”
I’m aware since he contacted me and offered me the job. But I’m not closing my bakery to work for someone else. I don’t do well under someone else’s control. Witness my interactions with my parents.
“I’m certain he’ll find someone,” I say.
“You could go work for him,” she pushes and I sigh. Here we go.
“He pays very well,” Dad adds.
My parents don’t care how much the job pays. They care that the resort is owned by a famous man and, therefore, is prestigious. Unlike owning a quirky little bakery.
“Did you ask him what the salary is?” I can’t stop myself from poking at my parents. Money isn’t everything but try and tell them anything of the kind.
Dad’s eyes light up. “You’re interested?” He digs out his phone. “I bet Hudson would interview you today.”
“I’m not interested. I have a business to run.”
Dad shoves his phone back in his pocket. “A business to run into the ground,” he mutters just loud enough for me to hear.
“Things are going well. Thanks for asking.”
I’m not lying. Much. Thanksgiving was a success and once I win this gingerbread house contest, I’ll have ten thousand dollars to put toward my debts. Plus, the loft above the bakery is rented out for two months when it usually sits empty.
Things aren’t all doom and gloom for Pirate’s Pastries.
“Going well?” Mom raises her eyebrows at me. I don’t squirm. She can’t guilt me. She lost the right after all of the snide comments.
Why aren’t you running a patisserie in Paris? Why did you return to this island? You’re such a disappointment. I thought you had grand ideas.
I did have grand ideas. Which were crushed by one asshole who I never told my parents about. I knew exactly how they’d react and I had no interest in being caught up in litigation for years. No thanks.
I force a smile. “Yes, going well.”
“The chain coffee place on the boardwalk is packed whenever I’m there,” Dad says.
His comment hurts worse than being devoured by a kraken. My parents frequent the other coffee place on the island. They’d rather spend money on a chain place than help out their daughter.
I need to get out of here. Why do I ever bother trying to speak with them? All they ever do is push me to do as they wish. They don’t want to support my dreams. They want me to live out theirs.
“I need to get back to the bakery,” I claim, even though the bakery is closed today.
I practically run as I push my cart out of city hall and away from them.
If I had children, I would never be mean to them the way they are with me.