Chapter 2
No Longer Enough
Jenny
My moment came a few short weeks later when Baxter responded to my ultimatum by meeting me down at the docks.
Back then, the docks were my safe place. This was where Baxter and I used to hang out when we were kids, and this was the only place I could imagine telling him what happened, especially after the debacle at The Loose Moose with Deacon.
So, yesterday morning, huddled on the bench in my old, worn out, winter jacket, I waited for Baxter to show up. The wind bit through my thin layers, and I wished for the hundredth time I hadn’t broken the zipper on my good coat, the one that covered me to my knees.
When Baxter stalked toward me and stopped ten feet away, his wary eyes sliced me deeper than I thought possible after all this time. But I told my story, and the rest of his.
Maggie’s suspicions when she confronted me a few hours later burned hotter.
Crying in her arms was the ending I never saw coming, but it gave me hope that I might live in peace in Moose Lake, free for once from the whispers of wagging tongues and the weight of a sin that was never mine.
It was finally over.
Though my eyes were still puffy this morning, I felt lighter than I ever had. And that lightness lasted all through my breakfast, my shower, and the fifteen minutes it took to drive to St. Michael’s.
Spilling the truth of what really happened that awful night to both Baxter and Maggie snapped the final threads holding all of us to the deceits of the past.
Reliving it anew, witnessing the horror in their eyes as I filled in the missing pieces of the puzzle, validated my suffering.
But it also annihilated the walls I’d built to contain my grief and anger.
And I felt both deeply.
This morning, with Baxter’s father dead and the truth set free, I woke to a brand-new reality, one in which I was no longer the villain.
How long would it take the old biddies in town to catch up on the latest?
The bakery was closed tomorrow, but I figured the news would spread by Tuesday when I opened the doors for the week.
Maybe now, when they came to my bakery to pick up the cinnamon buns they couldn’t resist, they wouldn’t tip their noses up quite so high.
Maybe now I could concentrate on experimenting with new recipes instead of peeking around every corner to ensure I avoided Baxter and Maggie.
Especially with Moose Lake’s winter festival coming just around the corner.
Frostival was my least favourite of Moose Lake’s festivals, but it boasted a killer bonfire on the beach on Saturday night, and it was perfect for field-testing new recipes.
The last time I went to the bonfire was with Deacon.
I gave my head a shake at the raw ache in my chest.
Stirring up the past had shaken up old feelings better left buried.
Pulling on my stupidly short coat and my warm winter boots, I grabbed my purse, stepped out onto the landing, and locked my door.
Sunlight bounced off the snow and near blinded me as I carefully made my way down the slippery outside stairs to the ground below.
Before going to my car, I rounded the building to check the door and front window of Buns and Biscuits to ensure they were secure and free of insulting artwork.
A habit I’d yet to break since the one and only time I found them illegally decorated.
Buns and Biscuits, the bakery I worked at part-time when I was a teenager, was now mine thanks to the man I was on my way to see with a box of his favourite chocolate brownies. This recipe never made it into the bakery; they were special for Ansel.
And the ladies.
On the odd occasion, I even made them for Miller and Maxine.
I turned my key into the ignition of Ansel’s old car. For once, it started right away.
“Good boy,” I murmured, patting the dashboard with my mittened hand.
Over the past ten years, I’d been busy. Slowly taking over the bakery as Ansel gradually stepped back, along with holding the frayed edges of myself together, took all my time and energy.
With little of either left over for friends and socializing, I hardly missed it.
My mouth twisted at my lie as I grabbed my sunglasses to fight off the glare of sunlight bouncing off the snow, signaled my way out of the lot, and headed down the main road.
As the world whipped past my window, I began to squirm.
Because that lightness that fairly floated me out of bed this morning? It left me feeling unmoored.
Ungrounded.
Who was I if I wasn’t the villain?
What was I going to do next?
How would I live?
Would anything change?
My mind spun. I didn’t know how to live and breathe and move in a reality where I was free of false rumours, suspicion, and lies.
Thank God I’d planned to visit Ansel and the ladies at St. Michael’s; the assisted living facility Ansel irreverently referred to as the last stop between earth and beyond.
God willing, he’d have quite the layover because I was far from ready to let him go.
In my life, I’d encountered all kinds of men, including those who were truly evil. We hear about these men and their dirty deeds all the time.
Despite my own experiences, most men were simply passive. These men were everywhere. Not evil, but far from good, they were mostly unwilling to step outside of their comfort zones to help anyone else.
Then there were men like Ansel Blum.
I parked the little car he gifted to me and picked my way across the ice-pocked parking lot to the wide ramp leading up to double front doors.
Bookended by tall pots spilling winter greenery and painted a bright, cheery, Kelly green, those doors reflected the nurturing spirit housed within.
Here at St. Michael’s, away from Moose Lake and tucked away in an almost forgotten corner in Peppergrove, I could breathe.
I swung them open and stomped on the front mat until the bits of snow clinging to my boots fell off. The solid thud of my heels announced my arrival to Abby, the middle-aged nurse sitting at the front desk.
She greeted me with a smile, pointed to the phone in her hand, and silently waved me through.
Checking the time, I headed straight for the dining room.
One of the few men living at the home, Ansel sat surrounded by what he affectionately referred to as ‘the bevy of beauties,’ one of whom happened to be Deacon’s grandmother, Darlene.
Ansel had outlived his brothers, his friends, and every single one of his military brothers, some by decades.
But he never failed to offer a smile or a kind word which gained him a seat amongst the ladies.
He was also a terrible flirt.
“Well,” he exclaimed when he saw me. “If it isn’t the prettiest flower in the bouquet just for me.” His shrewd eyes narrowed on my face as I got closer and his tone sharpened. “Is everything okay?”
I rolled my eyes and set the box of brownies on the table. Flipping back the lid, I watched his expression change to one of delight.
My heart lifted, and I laughed. “No need to flatter me, Ansel, I already made your brownies.”
“That’s my girl,” he teased as I bent to kiss his weathered cheek.
I beat back the tears that threatened to spill, grabbed a free chair, and inserted myself in beside him.
After grabbing the biggest brownie for Ansel, I slid the box into the middle of the table, distracting the ladies long enough to give Ansel a brief update.
He nodded as I spoke, his shrewd eyes moving over my face, never missing a thing.
“So, it’s over,” I declared then jerked my chin towards his brownie. “Have a bite.”
He tilted his head to the side. “Perhaps it’s the beginning of a new story,” he mused, lifting the brownie to his mouth.
“No, thank you,” I clipped. “I quite like the story I’m living right now. Just without all the past drama hanging over my head.”
“Life offers no guarantees. You take the good when it comes.”
“I’ve got plenty good,” I quipped. “Take a bite.”
He hummed around the brownie in his mouth and swallowed. “You have a gift, child.”
I preened, ready to snag him another when Darlene piped up. “You need a romance,” she declared, popping the last bite of her brownie into her mouth.
Eating lunch with Ansel every Sunday had introduced me to the one person I never thought to befriend, Deacon’s grandmother.
Darlene proved herself to be cut from an entirely different cloth than her son. In the time I’d known her, I’d grown to feel sorry for her, realizing she deserved far better than Deacon’s father.
Thank God, his and my paths rarely crossed when visiting Ansel, but on those rare occasions they did, he regarded me as suspiciously as always, and I kept a wide berth.
“No, thank you,” I clipped then winked to soften my message. “I’m an independent woman.”
“Oh, what I wouldn’t give for a good romance,” came from the other end of the table.
At that, they were off and running, making me blush as they delivered a steady stream of their more colourful adventures.
Old people. You never had to guess where you stood with them, but Lord have mercy if you were shy or squeamish because they had no filters.
Or boundaries.
A steady diet of rich stories from the past seasoned our lunch until, one after another, they drifted away from the table for their afternoon siestas, and only Ansel, Darlene, and I remained.
Glancing at my watch, I noted, “It’s almost time for me to go. I’ve got a few new recipes I want to try before I hit the grocery stores tomorrow.”
Darlene slanted a sly glance in my direction. “Deacon’s due to come home in January.”
The mention of his name, so soon after the raw revelations of the day before, sent a blast of frigid air to hollow out my chest.
I resisted the urge to rub it.
The rain beating against the windows didn’t help.
Rain, the force that held us hostage to its whim. It didn’t come when we needed it, and near drowned us when we didn’t.
I rose from my seat and began tidying the lunch trays on our table.
“That’ll be so nice for you,” I replied lightly.
“I was wrong, child,” she admitted.
I stilled, my eyes smarting as she confronted head-on that which we’d never discussed.
“We all were,” she continued, her mouth twisting to the side. “Except Deacon. He always knew.”
I snorted. “Until he didn’t.”
“Well, the only one who knew what happened wasn’t talking,” she scolded.
“I talked,” I retorted, my voice shaking as hard as the dishes clamouring on the tray in my shaking hands. “I talked to anyone who would listen,” I snapped, my tone of voice sending a deep flush to my face. “There just weren’t all that many.”
“True,” Ansel interjected easily, coming to my defense.
An honorable man, good to his core, Ansel had never once let me down.
Running to him the night my mother’s boyfriend tried to break into my bedroom was the smartest thing I’d ever done.
Ansel was my boss at the bakery. At that time, having only worked there a handful of months, I barely knew him. But I knew him to be a decent man not unlike Sergeant Elliott who had often checked in on me.
That night, Ansel was the closer of the two.
Ansel patched up the gash I earned on my calf when I pushed through my bedroom window and landed on a broken bottle.
He dried my tears, gave me a pair of his pyjama pants and a soft t-shirt, then made me a cup of tea and toasted me a wide slice of sour dough bread smothered in butter and strawberry jam.
It was still my favourite comfort food.
No matter the blow to his reputation, he took me in and settled me with him in his apartment over the bakery. Moving me into the master bedroom with its ensuite bath, he took the smaller, second bedroom and treated me like a treasured daughter.
We lived over that bakery together until I moved in with Deacon.
And we lived there together once more when my world fell apart.
He knew everything that happened.
Every sordid detail.
I set down the dishes that betrayed my distress and crossed my arms over my chest.
“You can’t talk to a brick wall,” he continued. “A woman needs a safe place to be soft, and you didn’t have that back then.”
I paused and lifted my chin to meet his eyes. “You gave that to me.”
His eyes gleamed. “And it was the greatest privilege of my life to do so.” His lips firmed. “Now, you need to grow. We all need a little rain.”
Rain.
A single word.
A scant handful of letters to mirror my greatest hope and deepest fear.
Deacon was coming home.
I won’t do anything to hurt you, Jenny.
And my battered heart hesitantly whispered her truth.
Softness was no longer enough.