4. Brie
I’d barely rounded the corner into the kitchen at my parents’ house, shouting, “I’m home!” before I was engulfed in a tangle of limbs, the voices of my sisters floating around me.
I sank into them, a grin on my face.
God, it was good to be back.
“My baby!” my mom wailed over the heads of my sisters, who all backed away to let her through. I loved my mom more than anything, but every time one of us left, it was like the end of the world, our return practically a national holiday.
But I could admit, the enthusiastic greeting did wonders for my ego.
After wrapping me in a Burberry-scented hug, my mother held me at arm’s length.
“You’re not eating enough,” she said matter-of-factly.
I groaned. “Mom, I’m a chef. I’m eating plenty.”
I’d recently finished the first stint of my culinary internship, and I was eating more than ever. Only my good genes and morning jogs along Navy Pier and Lakeshore saved me from gaining weight.
Now that I was home for a brief Christmas break, my mother was intent on smothering me with her unnecessary worries, as usual.
“Well, all that sugar can’t be good for you,” she said, locking her slender hand around my upper arm and dragging me into the kitchen. “Leon!” she shouted for my dad. “Come make Brie something to eat!”
“Why can’t you?” my dad shouted back. “I’m busy!”
My mother turned a conspiratorial smile on me. “Busy watching fishing videos, no doubt,” she said. “I swear, now that he’s thinking about retirement, all he does is dream about the day he can buy a boat and spend his days on the water.”
She sighed dramatically to punctuate her statement, and I giggled.
“Neither of you can cook anyway.”
“Brie Anne Delatou!” my mother scolded me, her grip on my arm releasing into a slap.
“What?” I shrugged. “It’s true.”
“Fine,” she pouted. “You can fend for yourself then.”
My sisters, who were already gathered in the kitchen, broke apart when we walked in, turning innocent looks on my mother.
Mom stopped dead in the center of the room, hands coming to rest on her hips, and said, “What were you four gossiping about this time?”
My sisters shared a look then broke into laughter. “Just discussing plans for the week now that baby Brie is home,” Ella said, waving a hand dismissively.
I narrowed my eyes at them, but Mom simply said, “Whatever” before she turned on her heel and headed down the long hallway off the kitchen, presumably toward Dad’s man cave at the opposite end of the house.
I moved deeper into the kitchen, aiming for the industrial-sized refrigerator along the outer wall—an appliance I knew they purchased for this house when they started construction on it two years ago solely because of me.
I wasn’t mad about it. The exterior was a sleek, shiny black with golden handles, and I pulled them both open to reveal shelves fully stocked with everything I could want and need. In truth, it was about as well equipped as the fridge back in our kitchen in Chicago. Without a word to anyone else, I started pulling ingredients free, and soon, the counter was piled high with the necessary components of my favorite stuffed French toast. It was a recipe I’d been working to perfect for years and finally recently nailed thanks to the help of my mentor.
“God,” Amara said, dropping herself onto one of the stools at the island. “I haven’t had good stuffed French toast in ages.”
My eldest sister, Chloe, slid onto the seat next to her, Delia and Ella bookending them. “Weren’t you just in Paris like…last week?”
“I was working ,” Amara said. “And in France, they’re all about crêpes. Sometimes, I just need a thick slice of white bread stuffed with good old American cream cheese and a ridiculous amount of Brie’s blueberry compote.”
The rest of my sisters hummed in agreement, and I grinned as I set to work preparing our meal.
Conversation flowed easily even though it had been nearly a year—since the previous Christmas—since we’d all been in a room together. Picking up and leaving London while she’d been working on her MBA had been difficult for Amara, but since graduation, she had more free time. My other sisters lived locally, but the holidays wouldn’t have been the same without Amara, so I was grateful she’d been able to come home.
The kitchen with my family around me truly was my happy place. I lost myself in the frozen blueberries, locally sourced maple syrup, lemon, and vanilla simmering in a saucepan. I moved onto dredging the bread in the egg, milk, and vanilla mixture before placing them on the griddle in the center of Mom and Dad’s stove. The scents twined in the air around my head, soothing me in a way nothing else did. My sister’s voices were distant murmurs, but they didn’t try to pull me into the conversation.
“So what is the plan for this week?” I asked later as I plated everyone’s food. My sisters dove into their meals with gusto, moaning happily around forkfuls of fluffy toast topped with smooth cream cheese and a healthy pour of blueberry compote.
“The usual,” Chloe said with a shrug. “Kicking ass and taking names.”
We all broke into a fit of giggles, but I sobered quickly. “No, seriously. I’ve only got nine days, and Mar has even less. I want to pack in as much as I can.”
“Well,” Amara began. “There’s a school production in Traverse City tonight of The Nutcracker that we thought we’d check out. Maybe grab dinner and drinks in the city?”
“Birdie’s?” I asked hopefully.
Amara groaned, but my other sisters perked up at the mention of the relatively new restaurant in Traverse City. Amara’s reticence had nothing to do with the place itself—which served the best food in Traverse City—and everything to do with the fact that she used to hook up with the owner, Owen Lawless .
“Do we have to?” Amara asked.
Delia quirked a brow. “I thought you and Owen were friends.”
“We are ,” Amara assured us. “But I haven’t seen him since I moved to Europe. We text on occasion, but what if things are weird?”
“Do you still have feelings for him?” Chloe asked.
“Hell no,” my second oldest sister said, shaking her head. “We’re just friends.”
“Then I don’t see a problem,” Delia said with a shrug. “Plus, what’re the chances he’ll be at the restaurant tonight anyway?”
“Probably pretty slim…” Amara conceded.
“Exactly,” Ella said, joining the conversation for the first time. “So Birdie’s it is. I could really go for a giant bowl of that house ricotta and toast points.”
My stomach grumbled in agreement despite the fact that I was shoving French toast in my mouth.
I may have dedicated my career to the art of pastries, but I had a culinary arts certification from the Institute of Culinary Education in New York. I knew good food when I tasted it, and Birdie’s had some of the best around. I supposed it helped that Owen was filthy rich and could afford to pay a top chef handsomely.
In fact, I think the only place that may have rivaled Birdie’s for culinary excellence was our very own winery restaurant.
My dad had deep pockets too.
Before we could plan any further excursions for the week, Mom breezed back into the room, my dad hot on her heels. His eyes swept over his daughters before landing on me, and he hustled to where I stood at the island .
A moment later, his arms were around me, pulling me into my favorite bear hug.
“Hi, Daddy,” I mumbled into his chest.
“Hi, sweets,” he responded before he pulled back to study me, exactly as my mom had. “You look good. Work treating you well?”
“Work is great,” I said, emphatically shaking my head. “The patisserie is amazing, and I’m learning so much from Bryce.”
I’d been with Bryce for just over five months, and I’d already honed my craft beyond my wildest dreams. According to her, when I ultimately left her employ next summer, I could have my pick of jobs; she’d even offered me one herself. She never hesitated to sing my praises, always reminding me I could be as well-known and respected as her one day.
But I didn’t want all that—the fame, the fortune, the accolades. I simply wanted to learn from the best of the best then move back to Apple Blossom Bay and open my own bakery.
Finding the perfect space was high on my agenda while I was home, and I already had my eyes on a particular storefront.
“I’m so happy to hear that.” Dad smiled brightly, pulling me in for one more squeeze before letting go. “What else is new? Seeing anyone?”
Ignoring his questions, I said, “There’s actually something I wanted to talk to you about.”
Leaving my sisters and Mom chattering away in the kitchen, I pulled Dad down to his study, closing the door behind us.
All my life, I’d never asked for anything from my parents. I was the dutiful youngest daughter, keeping mostly to myself, making myself scarce. It wasn’t difficult to do when my three eldest sisters had all-consuming personalities that demanded attention. The second youngest of us, Ella, was more like me, quiet and steady.
But when we were born, we’d each been granted a trust fund we would gain access to when we turned twenty-five. So far, only Chloe and Amara were old enough. Amara hadn’t touched it, but Chloe had dipped into hers to build a house a few miles down the road.
As the youngest, I wouldn’t see a penny of that money for another three years, but…I needed some now.
“What’s going on, honey?” my dad asked as he dropped into one of the armchairs in front of his desk. “You’re kind of freaking me out.”
“It’s no secret I want to move home when my apprenticeship is up,” I started.
“No, it’s not,” he agreed. “And we’ll welcome you back with open arms. But if you decide you want to do something else—”
I cut him off before he could continue. “No, that’s not what this is about. I want to come home. You know it has always been my dream to open my own bakery. It just so happens I’ve found the perfect spot.”
One of my father’s dark brows rose. “Okay…” he said slowly, urging me to continue.
“It’s right on Main Street in town,” I said quickly. “I haven’t set foot inside yet, and it’s going to need a lot of work, but I just know this is the place.”
“Where on Main?”
“Three doors up from Blossom’s,” I said, naming the flower shop Ella worked at since she finished college.
His eyes narrowed. “The old Brubaker place? ”
I nodded. “That’s the one.”
“That place was closed down because they continued to violate health code regulations!”
“I told you it would need a lot of work,” I pointed out. “Please don’t say no yet. Just come look at it with me.”
“Why do I need to be involved anyway?”
“Because I want to use my trust fund to buy and renovate it.”
“Absolutely not,” he said quickly, and my heart sank into my butt. Noticing the forlorn expression on my face, he backtracked. “I mean, I’ll go look at it with you, but you’re not sinking your own money into it.”
“Technically, it’s your money,” I mumbled under my breath.
“Brie,” he warned.
“Sorry. I just don’t know of any other way. I don’t have that kind of money right now, and you know there’s always developers sniffing around up here, looking for their next payday. I don’t want some greedy, big city asshole to get his hands on it before I do.”
My father blinked slowly, clearly surprised by my vehemence. I wasn’t blind to the fact that the building—both inside and out—would need a lot of work, but the location was perfect, and given that it had previously operated as a mom and pop cafe, the infrastructure was already there. I had a vision, and I needed my dad to see it too.
“By saying no to accessing your trust fund before you’re twenty-five,” he started, “I wasn’t saying no to purchasing the building. I’m only saying let me handle that stuff for now.”
“But…”
His hand reached out to grab mine. “I know you want your own place, honey. And it will be yours. Your name will be on the door and everything. But you’re not even living here right now. Once we look at it and I decide if the building is worth the investment, I want to handle renovations for you.”
“You’d do that?”
“You’re my baby,” my dad said softly. “I’d do anything for you and your sisters. Plus, if this pans out, it’ll keep me out of your mother’s hair while the winery is closed for the winter.”
“As long as I get to be fully involved.”
“Of course,” he promised. “Whatever you want.”
“I want to go look at it on Saturday.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do.”
After giving him one more hug, we returned to the kitchen, where my mom and sisters gave us various looks of wariness, confusion, and curiosity. But I wasn’t about to spill the beans, not until we scoped out the place and decided if it was worthwhile. Already, my hopes were through the roof, and I’d be devastated if my dad deemed the property a money pit. I wanted my own place so badly, with a Brie’s Bakery sign hanging in the window and a pale orange and cream striped awning over the door.