16. Brie
JULY
All my worries went away the second I drove back into Apple Blossom Bay. Nothing settled me quite like being back on home soil. There was an added prickle of anticipation against my skin this time, knowing that I was coming home for good and that I was only a few weeks away from opening my very first bakery—a dream I’d had since I was a little girl.
In the seven months since I’d last been home, I’d spent countless hours on the phone with my dad and Jay Daniels, our contractor, going over every detail to make sure it was perfect.
They’d started off by gutting the space, addressing all structural issues and potential health hazards, then rebuilding it all. All the important pieces were in place—my counter and POS system, topped with a large bakery display case. Tables and chairs were ordered for the open space, and booths had been constructed along the walls. The kitchen was honestly a wet dream, with top-of-the-line appliances and a massive island workspace where I could prepare all my confections.
My dad had spared no expense, and while having the family company retain ownership of my baby wasn’t ideal, I had to admit, it wound up being for the best.
When I pulled up to my parents’ house, I barely remembered to shut my car off as I sprinted inside, shouting for my dad as I burst through the door.
He met me with a wide grin in the hall halfway between the kitchen and foyer.
“Well, hello to you too, sweets,” he said when I threw myself at him, letting him sweep me up in a big hug. “This is quite the greeting.”
Once I landed back on my feet, I grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the door. “Enough with the pleasantries. I want to see my bakery.”
My dad chuckled but let me lead him back out the door, shouting to my mom that he’d be back later.
We wound up taking his Tahoe instead of my car, mostly because my dad’s six-foot-three-inch frame couldn’t squeeze into my RAV-4 when it was packed full of everything I owned.
“So…I’ve got a surprise for you,” he said as he navigated us down the peninsula toward town.
“Okay…” I said slowly.
“You absolutely don’t have to accept it. We’re… Well, I’ll explain more when I show you.”
I rolled my lips between my teeth, resisting the urge to press him for more information.
I found out soon enough.
Instead of parking on the street and taking me in through the front door, my dad parked around back. Our building was one of the wider ones on the block, about double the size of the slimmer storefronts on either side. There were two doors here: one to the bakery and one that led upstairs.
When we got out of the car, Dad withdrew a keyring from his pocket and moved toward the upstairs door.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“You’ll see,” he said, unlocking and holding it open for me.
The stairwell smelled of fresh paint, the walls coated in a creamy white, the stairs themselves sturdy, sealed oak. At the top was a landing with hooks along one wall and a door on another. Once again, Dad selected another key, unlocked it, and swung it open.
I gasped when I took in what lay beyond.
I’d known there was an apartment up here—or at least, the infrastructure for one—but with all the excitement of getting the renovations done, I hadn’t really given it a second thought.
To the left sat a kitchen with white tile floors and a small island lined with two stools. The spaces for a refrigerator and stove were empty, but the hookups for the appliances were there. To the right was a living room, the entire back wall consisting of windows that looked out over Main Street. Down a short hall was a bathroom, in-unit washer and dryer, and a bedroom.
After taking a minute to scope the place out, I returned to the center of the living room, hand to my mouth in awe as I stared at my father.
Who held the keys out to me.
“It’s yours if you want it.”
“I…what?”
“Look… You’re an adult. While your mother and I would love to have you living with us again, we understand that you need your own space. So while we spruced up downstairs, your sisters and mom combined efforts to renovate this space for you as well. This way, you’re close to work too.”
Once again, I spun in a circle, taking in the light grey walls and digging my feet into the thick carpet. The apartment was a blank slate I could put my own mark on. I could easily imagine a plush sofa in the center of the living room, my entertainment center and TV setup along the right wall, flanked by my modest but prized collection of books. In the kitchen, they’d been wise not to purchase any appliances for me, knowing I’d want a say in that selection. The spaces were big enough so I could easily fit a French door fridge with the freezer on the bottom and a five-burner gas range with the included oven.
The bedroom wasn’t all that large, but seeing as it was just me, I could still fit a full-sized mattress in there, and the bathroom had a tub that would be perfect for soaking with a glass of wine at the end of long days.
“So what do you say?” my dad asked carefully.
For the second time that day, I threw myself into his arms. “It’s perfect,” I said, tears springing to my eyes as I squeezed him tightly. “Thank you.”
Despite coming back to Apple Blossom Bay and immediately becoming a building owner—with a “rent” that was disgustingly low—I didn’t have time to focus on getting myself settled in my new apartment when all my energy needed to go into getting the bakery ready for my opening the first week of August .
Two weeks. That was all I had.
I was starting to regret pushing so hard to open so quickly.
Especially when I’d been so busy finishing my apprenticeship that I hadn’t had time to iron out my recipes.
I’d attempted nearly every recipe Granny Smith had left behind in her cookbook. Some I’d mastered easily, while others had taken a bit longer to perfect—and some, I still hadn’t quite figured out.
All I knew was I wanted Granny and her creations to serve as the centerpiece of my menu. So, between running around like a chicken with its head cut off at the bakery, hanging decor, unpacking and organizing supplies, and familiarizing myself and my lone employee with the point-of-sale system, I spent every waking second in the kitchen at Mom and Dad’s.
“I don’t understand why you’ve taken over my kitchen for this little project,” Mom said one night about a week before I opened. “You have a brand new, state-of-the-art kitchen in town.”
“Because I need a taste-tester,” I explained, brushing the back of my hand over my forehead to push a wisp of hair that had escaped my braid out of my eyes. “And Dad graciously volunteered.”
Mom snorted. “ Graciously . He’s got the biggest sweet tooth out of anyone we know. Plus, you’re making his mom’s recipes. It makes him…nostalgic.”
I looked up at my mom and grinned. As the owner of a sweet tooth myself, I loved that this was something Dad and I could share, this bond with his late mother for just the two of us.
“If it bothers you that much, I’ll head into town,” I said, though I couldn’t just walk away with the lemon poppy seed muffins I had in the oven.
“It doesn’t bother me, sweetheart,” she said, moving to my side and wrapping an arm around my shoulders to pull me into a hug. “I just thought you might like to get the lay of the land before you open.”
I could admit when she was right, and this was one of those instances. I’d been so focused on keeping everything perfect before I opened the doors, I hadn’t considered that, one day, I would have to mess things up a little bit. The kitchen needed to be broken in.
“I’ll head down there tomorrow,” I said.
“Wonderful!” She clapped, pulling away from me. “And when are you planning on moving into your apartment? Not that we don’t love having you here, but your sisters and I didn’t slave over remodeling that space for nothing.”
“Moooooom,” I groaned.
“Just wondering,” she said, shrugging in forced nonchalance.
“I need furniture. I’m too old to be sleeping on the floor.”
“So let’s run into Traverse City on Saturday and get everything you need.”
I perked up at the idea of making a girls’ day of it, of getting away from the stress of getting the bakery open to focus on getting settled in my apartment.
“Can we invite my sisters too?”
“Duh,” Mom said, sounding more like one of them than my parent. “You think they’d let us go without them?”
I laughed. “No, they definitely wouldn’t.”
By the following Monday, four days before my grand opening, I was sleeping in my apartment. I had the essentials: bed, sofa, television. My books were unpacked, and the storage closet was stocked with towels, toiletries, and cleaning products. The only appliance I had was a coffee pot. While we waited for my new fridge and stove to arrive next week, I’d be eating out at Granny’s or Sydney’s Diner—a reality I wasn’t complaining about. After spending all day baking, the last thing I felt like doing was cooking for myself.
And baking was exactly where I found myself on Tuesday evening. The giant workspace in my kitchen was laden with sweet and savory scones, croissants, turnovers, danishes, and muffins. I thought I’d finally nailed down the menu, but I couldn’t help feeling like I needed one final second opinion.
I’d studiously avoided thinking about Ezra since I’d returned home—truthfully, I hadn’t had time—but now that I was staring down opening my doors, I wanted him here, wanted his culinary expertise assessing my menu offerings and giving me the green light.
“Hey, honey,” he said when he picked up.
“Hi, Ez,” I replied, unable to hide the grin in my voice. “You busy right now?”
“Surprisingly no. I have the day off, so Hansen and I are just chilling at home.”
“How about spending some time with me instead?” I said suggestively .
“What kind of time?”
“I want you to taste my—”
“Yes,” he said hurriedly, not letting me finish.
I barked out a laugh. “Ezra! Get your mind out of the gutter. I want you to come sample my bakery menu.”
He scoffed. “I’ve already sampled your…other goods anyway.”
I rolled my eyes with a grin. “Get your fine ass down here.”
“Give me a bit to figure out a playdate for Hansen…unless you want him to come?”
I should’ve said yes, should’ve agreed to using Hansen as a buffer between us. Unfortunately for the little guy, I wanted his dad all to myself.
“Just you,” I whispered. “Please.”
“I’ll text you when I’m on my way.”
God, inviting him here was dangerous; I knew that. But I trusted his opinion more than just about anyone else in the world, and I knew he wouldn’t hold back his feelings on my baking. I wanted honesty, not my family blowing smoke to make me feel good about myself.
I had no delusions about what would happen when he got here. We’d agreed to be friends and nothing more. I wasn’t expecting him to rush in and sweep me off my feet, consuming me in a kiss worthy of the silver screen.
This was simply a man and a woman who had once been intimate and now weren’t. We were adults. We could get through this without things being weird…or so I thought.