Chapter 20
OVERBAKED
Audrey
The bell falls silent after the lunch crowd drifts back to their offices and errands. A lull. Normally, I’d savor this time to catch up on dishes, prep a new batch without tripping over myself.
But today the quiet presses heavier than the rush. My body aches like I’ve worked a double shift, though it’s only midday. Saturday and Sunday I managed alone, steady as ever, but this—this hollow Tuesday—has wrung me out more than both of those days combined.
Behind me, Jack’s corner is empty. No low, masculine rumble of a laugh while he takes orders on the phone. No moments of heated friction when he grazes me as he passes by, even though there’s plenty of space for us both.
Now it’s just me.
Flour. Sugar. Cocoa. Salt.
I measure carefully, like maybe I can keep the rest of my life from spilling.
Whisk, fold, scrape, pour.
Leaning against the counter, I breathe in the whisper of cocoa and cinnamon, waiting for it to soothe me. It doesn’t. The mixer hums like a loyal hound and the ovens tick softly as the cakes cool, but the kitchen feels wrong. Stretched thin. Unfamiliar.
The bell jingles, and I snap upright, a smile plastered on like over-whisked meringue—so stiff I’m shocked it holds.
Lumi Snowe, the postmistress, breezes in on a puff of cold air, her wine-red hair pulled back in a casual ponytail, a paper sack tucked under her arm. “Afternoon, Audrey.” She nods at the display case. “Came for a peppermint whoopie.”
“Of course.” I pull a square of parchment paper from the box. “Your timing’s perfect. They’ve just been filled.” I grab one from the line on the tray and drop it into a light blue paper bag stamped with Making Whoopie’s logo.
I ring her up, and she takes the bag with a nod of thanks, resting the bundle under her arm on the counter. “Thought I’d bring your mail while I was at it.”
“Thanks.” Normally not one for small talk, I find myself willing Lumi to linger. “How’s business at the post office? Holiday rush started yet?”
She huffs, eyes crinkling. “Started? Honey, it never stopped. People think Santa lives at my counter this time of year.”
I grin, a little thinner than usual but real. “Then you’ve definitely earned the sugar hit.”
Her gaze drifts to the corner behind the counter. Jack’s table. “Where’s your lawyer? Haven’t seen him in a bit.”
Smile still in place but tighter, I force a swallow. “He’s gone home.” True enough—Portia heard it straight from Amanda—but it still catches like a crumb in my throat.
“Ah. Too bad. I liked him.” She takes a bite of pie, pushing it to the side of her mouth. “He was a nice guy.”
He was. Is. Will be—for someone else.
That last thought does the opposite of cheer me up.
“When did you meet Jack?” The question is out before I can think better of it.
Lumi tilts her head. “Last week. Came into the post office, had me notarize something.”
My brows shoot up. “He did?”
She swallows, pausing before taking another bite. “For your trademark application.” At my expression, she frowns. “The one for ‘Making Whoopie’? The final step to secure the rights statewide by filing them nationally?”
“Oh.” I stare at the empty space in the display case where Lumi’s pie used to be.
“Did someone try to take your name?” she asks, voice curious, not nosy.
“Yeah. I…”—my throat tightens—“…hired Jack to figure it out.”
“Well then.” Lumi beams, easy as you please, and takes another large bite of dark chocolate cake and pink and white striped peppermint cream. “Looks like he did his job.” It comes out muffled but understandable.
With a wave, she’s gone, the bell chiming cheerfully in her wake.
Yeah, he did his job.
He handled the cease-and-desist. He filed the paperwork. He protected me the way he knew how. Exactly as promised. And then some.
I smooth an errant piece of parchment flat against the counter, hands steady though my chest is not.
Shouldn’t I feel relieved?
The threat to my business was supposed to be the thing keeping me up at night. Step one of attaining my dream. So knowing Jack went above and beyond to protect it for any future threats should make me relieved. Happy.
I’m not.
Standing in my too-quiet kitchen, the truth presses down on me like snow on a sagging roof. I don’t miss Jack’s legal skills. I just miss him.
I miss the way he leaned against the counter like he belonged here. The way his grin made the room feel less small-town and more like possibility. The way he made me feel seen.
The bell jingles again, bright and merry. I keep my eyes fixed on the counter, refusing to glance at Jack’s corner.
But the emptiness settles in anyway.
And it clings to me the rest of the day.
Jack
Since yesterday, I’ve watched flights out of Maine die slow deaths on the departures board while I outlasted them in a vinyl airport chair.
One point for Los Angeles. At least in the land of palm trees and bikinis I never spent a night at the airport courtesy of cancellations and delays due to “inclement weather.” And yet as the points are stacked pretty high against Hideaway, I still can’t summon up anything close to excitement for my return trip home.
Whenever that will be.
At six a.m., the terminal hums like Audrey’s double refrigerators.
A pair of guys dressed like me—lawyer me—park themselves at the bar.
The bartender slides a rocks glass toward the nearest one.
There’s a healthy splash of orange juice on top, just enough to make drinking before noon look respectable.
The suit laughs too loudly at nothing, and I wonder if that’s me in a few years. I shift in the hard-cushioned seat, my body feeling twenty years older, and wonder if it might be me in a few minutes.
The windows shift from black to pewter, and I try to place Audrey in her morning routine.
She’d be up by now having already pulled her hair into a tight bun that won’t make it to noon, no matter how ruthless she is with those chestnut strands.
Her socked feet are wearing Crocs bedecked with a plethora of ridiculous bakery-holiday-themed charms. She’s probably squeak-squishing down the back stairs, arriving to more than just her usual pristine kitchen.
Will she be relieved when she figures out what I’ve done? Or will it be one more tally mark in the column labeled Reasons Jack’s Not Right for Me?
My phone vibrates in my pocket like it has opinions. I turned it on earlier to keep track of the weather. News flash—no change.
I thumb it awake to check the rebookings I already know don’t exist. FaceTime tries to ambush me with Felix’s face. I sigh and let it.
He’s in a kitchen with marble and morning light. Sofia leans in at his shoulder, robe tied, hair up, no lipstick. For a Portuguese woman of a certain age to be seen without makeup, it usually means Armageddon has arrived.
Surprise wins over manners. “Why the hell are you both awake?”
“Language.” Sofia’s voice is gentle yet brooks no argument.
Felix winces.
“Sorry, Sofia” falls out automatically. “Morning.”
Then, as if she hasn’t just made me feel like the ten-year-old she once took in, she smiles. “Bom dia, meu filho.”
Felix does a very poor job of hiding his amusement at my scolding. “Amanda was my wake-up call. She gave me the rundown on everything you’ve managed to screw up while allegedly on vacation.”
I mentally roll my eyes at my interfering client-slash-friend-slash-sister stand-in. “Of course she did.”
“Come to New York,” Felix orders like it’s the part of this conversation that matters most. “Skip LA. Spend the holidays with us.”
Something sore in my chest feels a tug at his invitation. “Thanks, but I don’t want to intrude on your new family traditions.”
Felix looks confused, while Sofia’s eyes gloss, fast and bright.
“Meu filho.” She presses a hand to her chest. “Did I fail you?”
Instantly, both Felix and I are on high alert.
“No, Sofia.” I lean forward, the words rushing out. “Never.” Our conversation replay in my head. “Why would you say that?”
Just as quickly as the tears came, they disappear, Sofia’s mouth setting in a hard line that says if I was within arm’s range the back of my head might just be smacked into next week. “Then why do you think you are not a part of the family? Why do you keep yourself away?”
“Oh.” I sit back, not prepared for the questions. “I just, uh…”
She shakes her head. “While I never wanted you to think I was replacing your mother when you came to us, it doesn’t mean that I’m not your m?e.” The word lands exactly where it always lands—behind my ribs, where breath gets complicated.
“Yeah, man.” Felix nods, sidling closer to Sofia, a clear two-against-one stance. “You’re my brother and—” He jumps up with a curse, shouting, “Damn it, Mike!”
He moves off screen completely. “Elizabeth! Come get Mike Hunt!”
Sofia rolls her teary eyes. “I have two sons—one stupid about cats and one stupid about love.”
I expel a tired laugh. “Amanda really did tell you everything.”
“Not everything.” Her ramrod posture speaks to the formidable woman Sofia Jones is. “But I am your m?e. I infer.” She makes a come-here gesture, like she’s been waiting years rather than minutes for me to explain. “So tell me, meu filho—what is she like?”
I rub the sleep from my eye. “She owns a bakery in town.”
“That’s what she does.” Sofia tilts her head. “But who is she?”
I laugh, though the sound isn’t cheerful.
“Funny you should say that, because if you asked her that same question, she’d probably give you the same answer.
” My voice softens. “She has trouble separating the job from the person.” I manage a small shrug that I hope distracts from my cracking composure.
Not falling for it, Sofia waits.