Chapter 11
Emma
Iswing the bakery door open. I’m out of breath, my cheeks are flushed, and my heart’s pounding in my ears. My nerves are out of whack. It’s bad enough that we were about to be caught in another moment. A moment of feelings that I don’t want to get into with him. Yes, I don’t dislike him as much as I did when I first met him, but I don’t want to have feelings for him. I certainly don’t want to be caught having feelings for him. I know I can’t tell my heart to feel one way or another. I learned that a long time ago when I tried to not be so upset that my best friend, Brandon Carlyle, was leaving town forever. That was when we were in the second grade. It took months for me to get over him. He was my first crush. I tried to pretend I was fine, but my grandmother knew otherwise. I wonder what Brandon’s doing now. I haven’t seen him since we said our goodbyes.
Obviously, I’m still not over someone I knew in my childhood.
And I don’t know why I’m thinking about Brandon.
But could Alex be the next Brandon? I’ve dated here and there, but no one seemed to be “the one” for me. Was it Alex? That’s an absurd thought. I should train my heart into hating Alex, but I really don’t want to. I’ve come to enjoy the way my belly flops when I see him. It’s even flopping right now. Or is my current belly flopping because it knows Mrs. Marlow’s returned early from her world cruise, and I’m screwed? I could tell by the sound of her voice that she isn’t happy.
The front of the bakery is dark and empty, and I can see the glow of light spilling underneath the cracks of Mrs. Marlow’s office off to the side. I run my hand against my hair. It’s pulled back in a ponytail, so I don’t have to do too much, but I can feel the slight dampness from the marathon I just sprinted. My heart is thrashing in my chest. I definitely know it’s not because of my unwanted affection for Alex, or the loss of Brandon. It’s not even from my rush to get to the bakery.
I’m trying to steady my breathing. A part of me wants to hold my head up high and take what Mrs. Marlow wants to give me. But I’ve known the woman for a long time. She never wanted her bakery to change unless she authorized it, and I took advantage of her absence by going against her wishes. If I were Mrs. Marlow, I’d fire me. Granted, no job means I’d be able to focus more on the baking competition, but if I lose, then I’ll have nothing but the shirt on my back.
But I know I can’t stand in the dark bakery forever. I must go see Mrs. Marlow. Maybe it won’t be all bad.
Yeah, right.
Shamelessly fixing my shirt, I walk toward the office, the echo of my shoes muffled in the quiet building. Before I can lift my hand to knock, I hear Mrs. Marlow’s voice.
“Come in, Emma.”
With a swallow to loosen the lump forming in my throat, I open the door and step inside.
I see Mrs. Marlow sitting at her desk, looking at the computer. She’s tanned nicely, but I see the tan line at her hairline when she wore her hat in the sun. For a woman of sixty, she’s aging well, but I can tell that she’s been using Botox, or doing something to make her face puffier than normal.
“Sit down, Emma,” Mrs. Marlow says without looking away from the screen.
Even though no one’s in the bakery, I close the door behind me. It’s something Mrs. Marlow always requested.
I take a seat in the little chair at her desk, forcing a smile, hoping it’s genuine.
“You’re back early, Mrs. Marlow. Did you have a nice time?”
She looks at me with a frown. “Yes, it was fine.” She studies me for several minutes. I hear the ticking of the wall clock. I don’t dare break eye contact. My mind races with what to ask her about her trip, but she speaks first, her tone more disappointed than anything. “Do you have anything to tell me?”
I stare at her, searching her face. There are a lot of things I need to tell her, but I’m afraid to.
Without speaking, she takes a magazine, folds it back to an earmarked page with a sigh.
“I picked this up when I was at the airport in Belize. We were planning on visiting Australia, but obviously, there’s been a change of plans.” She sets the magazine down in front of me. “Read it. Out loud.”
As Mrs. Marlow leans back in her rolling chair, I look down at the magazine.
I clear my throat, my heart climbing up my throat. I read the title of the editorial. “’Elmwood Falls Heritage Bakery: A Place Where Sugar Coats More Than Just the Pastries.’“ This can’t be happening now. Then again, why shouldn’t it? Alex Carter was well-known and respected, even if he is jaded.
“Go on, dear.” Mrs. Marlow says calmly.
My throat’s raw, but I force myself to continue. “‘Venturing into the heart of Elmwood Falls, Maine, I found myself at Elmwood Falls Heritage Bakery, a local establishment that prides itself on its traditional baked goods. The blueberry crumpet, touted as the special of the day at the time of my visit, was my choice for an official first impression.’”
I stop speaking. I really can use a glass of water right about now. But I don’t dare ask her if I can get one. I knew this day was coming, but I didn’t prepare for it. I guess I assumed she was too busy exploring the world with her new husband to read a magazine. I chance a glance at Mrs. Marlow, seeing her eyes closed. She makes no sound, and I know she’s expecting for me to continue. So I do. I made my bed, so now, I need to lie in it, as uncomfortable as it is.
“‘Upon sampling this heralded offering, my expectations were met with a reality that can only be described as underwhelming. The texture, while adequately soft, lacked the complexity and finesse that distinguishes a remarkable bake. The sweetness of the blueberries, though present, was timid and unassertive, a mere shadow of what a blueberry crumpet could potentially offer.
“‘In a culinary landscape where innovation and bold flavors are celebrated, Heritage Bakery’s blueberry crumpet is a stark reminder of the safety found in mediocrity. It caters to an average palate, shying away from any form of culinary risk or creativity. A staple perhaps for those who favor the familiar over the extraordinary, but for a discerning connoisseur, it fails to inspire or excite.’”
I’m about to read what Alex had said for the next item in his article, but Mrs. Marlow interrupts me.
“That’s enough,” she says, squeezing her forefinger and thumb on the bridge of her nose. “I can’t take anymore.” She opens her eyes to look at me. “I realize it’s been a while since I’ve been to my bakery, Emma, but refresh my memory. When did I offer blueberry crumpets on the menu?”
I bite my bottom lip. “We…I mean you didn’t,“ I admit.
“Then why does The Traveling Taste mention blueberry crumpets? Did they get confused?“ Her eyes are narrow, as if trying to figure out where the mix-up started. I know she’s not dumb. She knows The Traveling Taste would never mix up eateries. And if that weren’t enough, she can read well enough to see the menu above the counter offer different pastries than what she originally offered. She’s asking me the question because she wants me to admit I was in the wrong.
“No, ma’am,” I tell her finally. “They’re my grandmother’s recipes.”
“Ah,” Mrs. Marlow tilts forward slightly, her slender eyebrows ascending toward her hairline in a distinct manner. It’s a subtle cue she employs, a silent indication of her simmering displeasure. “Your…grandmother’s recipes. I thought we discussed this, Emma.”
I nod, quickly. “Yes, ma’am. I’m so sorry—“
She cuts me off, slicing her hand in the air. “And you went behind my back?”
“I just thought that I could prove to you that—“
“Do you not realize that The Traveling Taste is one of the United States’ most renowned foodie magazines? Do you not realize that all the best restaurants are featured in this magazine? And now some critic comes into town and judges your ingredients for pastries, knocking them down? People will stop coming to Heritage Bakery! Have you thought about that?”
I consider pointing out that Alex didn’t like the brownies or croissants either, both of which were Mrs. Marlow’s. But I know I shouldn’t stir the pot anymore, so I keep quiet.
“I’m really sorry, Mrs. Marlow,” I croak.
She scoffs. “I’m sorry, Emma, but ‘sorry’ doesn’t cover it. I told you before when you asked that your pastries do not mix well with mine. Case in point.” She jabs a finger at the magazine I’m still holding in my trembling hands. “Yet you go behind my back and take over what I’ve spent years building.”
I hang my head. The office falls into a harsh, tense silence. The relentless ticking of the clock taunts me, each tick-tock chipping away at the dwindling time as I sit in the office, awaiting my fate. I hear Mrs. Marlow let out a sharp sigh.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to let you go, dear.”
My head snaps up. Did I hear right? Is Mrs. Marlow really firing me? Granted, I knew it was a real possibility, but I guess I just didn’t think it’d actually happen.
“If you’ll give me a chance, Mrs. Marlow, I know I can make this right. Alex—I mean Mr. Carter, the food critic’s still in town. Maybe I can convince him to recant the article?” I search Mrs. Marlow’s face.
“I’m sorry, dear, but I can’t let this slide. Please give me back the keys.”
My heart squeezes in my chest. I just lost my job. What will I do now? Slowly, I remove the key from my key ring and set it on the desk.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her.
“So am I, dear. I do wish you well.”
I hesitate for a few seconds before finding the motivation to stand. I leave the office and look around the dim, empty bakery. The early morning light gently seeps through the front windows, illuminating the dust particles dancing in the air. The faint aroma of yesterday’s baking lingers, mingling with the subtle scent of coffee grounds. It’s an aroma that’s always felt like home to me. Right now, it’s making me feel sick to my stomach.
I walk to the door and step outside to leave. Once the door closes behind me, I grab my cell phone and call Rhonda. I’m walking down the road, not really knowing where to go.
“Hey!” Rhonda’s cheerful greeting spills through the phone line. “I’m so glad you called. I’m going shopping for my trip to Paris. I just found this cutest top! I’m going to send you a selfie with me in it.”
“That’s nice,” I say. My mind’s churning in all directions, and I’m finding it difficult to be happy for her.
“What’s wrong?” Rhonda knows me well enough to know when something’s not right.
I sigh. “Mrs. Marlow’s back.”
“Oh, really? I thought she wasn’t—wait a minute. Mrs. Marlow’s back? Does she know…”
I nod, even though I know my friend can’t see me. “She just fired me.”
“She did what?“ Rhonda’s shriek is so loud, I have to take the phone from my ear. “Where are you now?”
I look around the town. I’m not too far from the bakery. I feel numb inside.
“I’m heading home.”
“Okay. Okay. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.” Rhonda puts on her business tone, the way she does when she’s trying to sort out an unsortable problem.
“No, you need to get ready for Paris,” I tell her. “I’ll be okay.”
“I’ll be there in twenty-five minutes,” Rhonda says before she ends the call.
I smile to myself. Of course, I’m not surprised that Rhonda would drop whatever she’s doing to come to my rescue. But I’m not very rescuable right now.
But I start walking again, heading toward my apartment. A second later, I hear a voice call out to me. I turn to see Alex jogging my way.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.” It’s not his fault I’m now jobless, and I have to remind myself not to take out my frustration on him, even though it was his magazine, his editorial, and his words that cost me my job. Then again, Mrs. Marlow is protective of her recipes. I’m willing to stake everything I own that even if Alex gave Heritage Bakery a glowing review, I’d still be without steady income. It’s not Alex Carter’s fault.
He narrows his eyes at me. “Are you okay, Emma?”
I force a smile as I nod. “I will be. I’m sorry Alex, but I need to get going. Rhonda’s on her way to my apartment. I don’t want to keep her waiting.”
I turn to leave when he gently takes my hand.
“Wait. You’re upset about something. Is everything okay with Mrs…what’s her name? Harlow?”
“Mrs. Marlow,” I correct. “And I’ll be fine.”
I can’t tell him I was just fired. How will he react? Do I even care? But looking into his eyes, I see concern in them. He really is a decent man. I can’t deny that, like I can’t deny that my stomach is flopping around. I want to tell him everything. I want him to put his arms around me and tell me I’ll be okay.
“I should go.” My words are quieter than I intend them to be, and I turn quickly from him before he can see the tears forming in my eyes.