Chapter 21
SHOWSTOPPER
Audrey
By nine o’clock the next day, I’m officially losing it.
The ovens have been running since dawn. The counters are lined with neat rows of fresh whoopies, buttercream fluff piped with ridiculous precision, boxes stacked and waiting by the register. Business as usual—except it isn’t.
Because not a single customer has walked through my door.
Not Mrs. Wexler with her cranberry scone order. Not the electrician who usually grabs a gingerbread whoopie on his way to the office. Not even Skippy, who tends to wander in to nap across my stoop like an unpaid security guard with selective hearing. The bell hasn’t jingled once.
I wipe the case glass anyway—slow circles that squeak like I’m trying to buff out a bad mood—then straighten the stacks of napkins that are already straight.
My reflection in the metal trim looks like I lost a fight with sleep and then decided to double down.
I glance outside to appraise the weather (no storm), flip through my copy of The Almanac to check for today’s town events (nothing listed), and check my pulse (present, erratic).
“Okay.” I slouch over my prep table, head in hands, and talk to the various-sized whisks all neatly hung on hooks on the wall. “If you know something, now would be the time.”
The bell jingles.
I straighten. But before I even take two steps toward the counter, it jingles again. And again. Until I’m standing there, watching my door become a turnstile that spits out bodies like confetti.
A veritable flood of coats, boots, and laughter. The sound ricochets off stainless steel and tile like a marching band discovered sugar.
Mia is one of the first to reach the counter, camera already up, ponytail swinging. “Look alive, whoopie girl.” The camera clicks and flashes before she slides sideways to make room for the tide of customers—neighbors, friends—all leaning over the display case and calling out orders.
“What is happening?” I manage even as I pop the register and grab a stack of boxes by instinct. Because if there’s one thing the holidays have taught me, it’s to keep moving when the universe tries to bowl you over.
Mia snaps the crowd, checks her screen, then points her lens at me again. “Community event.” Her mouth curves, and I pray she doesn’t use whatever picture she just took of me. “Trust me, you’re going to love this.”
One by one, people I know step forward, bearing offerings like it’s some kind of whoopie coronation.
The owner of The Perfect Package glides up first, a discreet little display cradled in her arms like a newborn. She sets it on my counter with reverence. “Our newest: whoopie pie–flavored lube.” A wink. “Two for one if you promise not to ask me how we nailed the flavor profile.”
“Uh, thank you.” But she’s already gone before I can finish, Portia sliding in with her own contribution.
“Whoopie pie taffy.” She sets her tray next to the lube. “Swirled chocolate and vanilla cream.” She assesses her goods like the candy pro she is. “Chewy but soft enough not to pull a filling.”
“Thank—”
“Make way!”
The crowd parts to reveal the crew from Chowder House Rules muscling a tray that takes three people to carry. “Cornbread bundt cakes, sliced, slathered with honey butter, stacked into whoopie pies.”
Whoopie pies the size of hubcaps.
Collectively, the town inhales. The smell alone could start a religion.
And from next door, Eileen bustles in, fireman Hudson hot on her heels with a large coffee urn he plants beside the lube display.
“Limited-run whoopie pie coffee,” Eileen announces, addressing the crowd like a mistress of ceremonies. “And there’s more where that came from.”
“This’ll be my workout for the day,” Hudson mutters, shaking out his arms.
I blink, brain still struggling to catch up. “Thank you?”
Amanda, somehow beside me now, leans in. “What do you think?”
“It’s amazing.” And it is. It so is. Emotions I’ve been wrestling for days surge up for an entirely different reason. “But, uh… what is it?”
“Whoopie Pie Appreciation Day!” Eileen and Amanda shout, complete with jazz hands as if they rehearsed ahead of time.
And knowing the two of them, they probably did.
“Whoopie pie what?”
“Appreciation Day,” Eileen repeats, already steering the crowd into an orderly line.
Portia materializes again, snapping like a paparazzo on a sugar bender. “Chin down, eyes up—yes, sell me the frosting.”
Amanda obliges, tray of Fa-La-La-La-Filled balanced like a couture clutch.
“When did this happen?” I ask Mia as she hovers at the front of the line. “It wasn’t in The Almanac.”
“It wouldn’t have been a surprise if it was.” She grins, pointing at a stack of Naughty List Nibbles. “A dozen for the newsroom, please.”
Hands on autopilot, I pack her order.
Amanda pauses her photo shoot just long enough to chime in. “And Jack said if you knew, you’d spend so much time prepping you wouldn’t enjoy it.”
“Jack?” His name slips out of me, sharp and startled.
“This was his idea.” Eileen smiles, steadying the urn as she fills paper cups.
A warm weight presses at my elbow. Lucy slides in, cheeks pink, hair in a businesslike knot, planting a to-go cup in my hand. “Chai latte. Extra dirty.” Her grin is so wide her eyes nearly disappear. “Can’t believe we kept this under wraps for almost a week.”
“A week?” My heart stutters.
“Carb reinforcement!” Eli Bennett pushes through, tall and unbothered by the storm of people.
He sets a paper bag that smells like bagels on the counter and surveys the chaos like he’s seen stranger.
“Wasn’t sure what the Vet Clinic could contribute to Whoopie Pie Appreciation Day, so I figured breakfast.”
“Oh.” My voice snags. “Thanks.”
He waves it off. “No—thank you. Those dog-safe cookies and cake crumbs you send over?” He gives the counter a happy knock. “My patients barely notice the shots. Or the thermometers up the rear.”
“Glad to be of service,” I murmur, stunned.
Eli leans closer. “By the way, where’s your guy? There’s a bagel for him too. Wanted to thank him for the help with my lease contract and the clinic relocation advice.”
“Oh, um.” I glance toward the empty corner where Jack usually parked himself. “He left.”
“Left?”
“For the airport. Yesterday morning.” My throat tightens.
Eli frowns. “Well, he better get back quick. The realtor he put me in touch with said those houses he was looking at already have offers. Fenced-in yards don’t stay on the market long in Hideaway.”
The room tilts. It doesn’t fall—I’ve glued this place together with willpower and powdered sugar too many times for that—but it tilts. “Houses?”
But Eli’s already waylaid by a pet owner with questions.
The line trundles on, people laughing and buying more than I’m sure they meant to because this is Hideaway and restraint is for January. I run out of Jingle My Berries and Sleigh Me Softly and nobody complains; they simply pivot, as if joy were a menu with options.
“Uh, you okay?” Portia asks, apparently having taken enough pictures for Amanda’s social media accounts. “You haven’t moved for over a minute.”
I manage to nod. “Uh huh.” But the room is buzzing, not only around me, but inside my head.
People keep stepping forward—customers who became regulars who somehow became friends—dropping dollar bills in the tip jar like they’re investing in stock that always pays dividends.
Neighbors salute me with their purchased whoopie pies and say the things you don’t expect to hear in public: Your whoopies got me through chemo.
Your cookies are what my kids think Christmas tastes like.
Your Maple Me Moans saved my marriage—don’t ask.
I don’t. I never do. Never found the time to.
But Hideaway Harbor has made time for me.
Before me is everything I thought I wanted: a bakery alive with joy, a town that loves me, proof I belong.
And yet it isn’t enough.
Because a dream isn’t just ovens and sugar and steady business. It isn’t even a Christmas tree farmer.
Not anymore.
Where I once imagined flannel shirts and a man who could build me a bookshelf without a level, I see cashmere and loafers. A man not deft with a saw but with legal jargon sharp enough to carve out security and space for me—and for us.
I see Jack.
All of this—the love, the laughter, the community—means nothing without him beside me.
“Um, just so you know.” Amanda slides up to the counter, Sharpie poised to sign a customer’s Making Whoopie bag like she’s an A-lister at Comic-Con—which, honestly, she kind of is. “Jack’s still here.”
I whip my head toward her so fast my neck twinges. “I’m sorry—what?” Slightly whiplashed, I steady my hands on the display case. “But you said he left.”
“He did.” She scribbles her name with a flourish.
“But the LA flight was canceled because of weather. He’s been stuck at the airport ever since, waiting for them to reschedule.
” She grabs the customer’s phone, holds it high, and takes a practiced selfie.
“Which they did. For noon.” Her head bows just enough for her eyes to angle up, sly and unblinking. “Today.”
My eyes shoot to the clock. My pulse barrels in triple time.
I swivel to Eileen still handing out coffee by the register. “Eileen!”
She startles, sending a few drops of coffee splattering on my clean floor. “Yes?”
“I need your help.” I dig into the pocket of my apron.
Her brows lift. “Of course.”
Yanking the key to the shop out of my apron pocket, I toss it to her. “Close the store.”
Eileen fumbles the catch, staring at the key like I just handed her a live grenade. “Now? You want to close now?” She sweeps her eyes over the line snaking to the door and down the street, customers chattering and laughing, fully expecting their sweet tooth to be soothed.
“Yes!” I whip off my apron, toss it over a bowl of icing, and jog toward the back door. “Thank you!”