Chapter 7
SEVEN
ZOEY
I’m keeping all my fingers and toes crossed that the health department doesn’t drop by this morning for a surprise inspection.
I wrote an apology note to Esther, the morning baker, and promised to make it up to her.
But I was so tired by the end, and my foot throbbed like I crushed it in a vise trap.
Four hours later, I dragged myself out of bed, got ready, and practically tripped over the bags in my eyes on the way here.
But now that I’m here, I’m nervous. A few minutes ago, my gaze had skittered across the room, trying to find Quinn’s table, yet praying to all the entities that she got some non-life-threatening sickness and couldn’t make it anymore.
Because admitting to Quinn that my employee messed up her order, and apologizing for essentially banning her from the store, feels terrible.
Being raised by two elementary teachers—my mom, kindergarten, my dad, fourth grade—has taught me a lot besides the value of teachers and how deeply underpaid they are.
All morning, I could hear my mom’s voice in my head, speaking to me like a six-year-old in her classroom: “It’s important when we do something wrong to our friends, we say sorry. ”
So, that’s what I did—baked cookies and drove thirty minutes to Duluth to say sorry.
Thankfully, the Christmas angels bestowed some pre-holiday luck onto me, and Quinn is nowhere to be found.
I’m chatting on neutral ground with Morgan, shuffling several bags in my hand, and counting the moments down where I can politely scoot out of here before Quinn returns to the table.
Morgan points to the bags in my hand. “What do you have there?”
I lift the bags of cookies. “Not sure if Quinn mentioned, but we made a mistake on her cookie order and I brought some replacements.” The friendly face of someone who won’t bite my head off—no matter how much I may deserve it—allows me to exhale.
“Oh, that’s really kind of you.” Morgan lifts herself from the table and smooths back her blouse. “I heard there was a little mishap, but I didn’t get all the details.”
Mmm-hmmmm. Sure. Morgan’s a smart, local businesswoman, and absolutely knows how to keep the peace. She lives with Quinn. She’s practically married to Quinn’s sister. No way she doesn’t have the details. But I understand why she’s not tangling herself up in the Great Cookie Debacle.
“Are you so excited to not have crutches anymore?” She grabs the boxes from me and stacks them on the table.
“You have no idea. It feels so good to not have a cast. I went through two razors, though.” I laugh and glance around the space. Still no Quinn. My initial relief now mixes with disappointment, and I don’t know what to do with this conflict inside my body.
Do I actually want to see Quinn? Maybe a little.
But why? I’m probably a glutton for punishment.
Or maybe I need to clear my conscience. Or maybe I’m drawn to that dusting of freckles that peppers her cheeks…
I clear my throat. “Well, I should head back. The staff are managing the shop today, but I still feel squirrelly being far away in case something happens.”
Morgan tucks a blonde lock behind her ear. “I think you should stay and enjoy the fair for a bit. Quinn should be back any second. She’ll definitely want to thank you for the cookies.”
Now I really want to bolt. I brought Quinn an eight-dozen-cookie apology.
I didn’t do it to get a thank-you, which will undoubtedly take away from the mostly altruistic act of making these replacement sweets.
I really did intend to do it as an apologetic peace offering, but now that I dropped these off, I feel better.
“Oh, um, I think it’s best if maybe I just scoot outta here before that happens.
I don’t think she’s really my biggest fan right now. ”
Morgan pulls out a water bottle from a small cooler and offers me one. “I’m sorry about whatever happened yesterday. She felt really icky when she came back from your shop. I think opening a new business and everything just piled on the stress.”
That I can understand. When I started Zoey’s Bakery, I left my job as a manager of the bakery at a local grocery store, and I questioned myself every day if I made the right decision.
Along with the pressure of being a first-time small business owner, my terrible old bosses spread a rumor around town that I stole their recipes—which I absolutely did not do—and I spent my first year wondering if they were going to sue.
Whispers of recipe theft rippled through the town, turning people against me for a while, until the figurative cream rose to the top and people discovered the truth about my old bosses.
“Ah, yep, that first year is so hard,” I say. “I was running around like a chicken with my head… Actually that’s a gross analogy. I’ll say it was totally bananas for sure. Pretty sure I didn’t even sleep that first month.”
“Yeah, and after everything that happened in New York with her job…” Morgan clears her throat and re-straightens a stack of business cards. “Anyway, I just mean she probably wasn’t her best self.”
My ears perk. Everything that happened in New York?
What happened in New York? Great, now I’m curious.
New York has always fascinated me. From the Rockefeller Center, Twin Towers Memorial, Times Square, and Broadway, New York is like a spectacularly different world.
But now Morgan just added a little Quinn cozy mystery to this already existing fascination, and I want to unravel the plot.
This probably isn’t good. I should just slink out of here before Quinn returns, and head back to my controlled life where I stop thinking about customers who I eighty-sixed from my bakery like some drunk-on-power nightclub bouncer.
“So, you’re saying Quinn’s not normally rude and doesn’t drop the f-word like swear bombs making the children weep in the corner and staff members cry into their apple pie à la mode?
” As I finish the last word, I see Morgan’s eyes grow wide.
Cool, cool. “And… she’s right behind me, isn’t she? ”
“Sure am,” a raspy voice says a few inches from my back.
Even though we only met once, I feel like I’d recognize that voice anywhere. It reminds me of a spiced rum velvet cake, and I’d bet good money she can hold a solid tune.
My face is for sure illuminating with about fifty shades of red. How many more cookies do I need to bake to say sorry again? I should take off my walking boot and stick it in my mouth.
Slowly, I turn, and yep, Quinn is right behind me. And not only is she there, she’s in white denim short overalls, her bouncy curls boinging in every direction, amber and bourbon freckles warm and pronounced, and my heart does an unexpected flutter. A very, very unexpected flutter.
“That could not have been worse timing.” I flash a sheepish grin. “I’m sorry, you didn’t actually make any kids cry.”
“That’s too bad. It’s one of my joys in life.” She wrinkles her nose with a sparkle in her green eyes and glances at the pink boxes piled next to Morgan. “What’s that?”
Morgan lifts herself from the seat and taps her fingers across the back. “Zoey, why don’t you take a seat in my spot and take some pressure off your foot? I’m going to go chat with a few people I know.”
And just like that, Morgan rips off whatever Band-Aid she had keeping me protected from Quinn and rushes away without another word. I really want to leave. But I also kind of want to stay, and I’m not loving this push and pull in my brain.
“She’s doing her Mayor Morgan thing,” Quinn says, looping her thumbs in the straps of her overalls and balancing back on her heels.
“What’s Mayor Morgan?”
“She literally knows everyone everywhere. It’s like she’s meeting with her constituents.
Morgan always has her shit together and a smile, so you know, she’ll win all the votes when she runs for mayor.
Which she’ll never actually do.” Quinn sits behind the table and points at the chair Morgan vacated.
“For real, you should sit. Your foot is hurting me, and I’m not the one standing on it. ”
I really shouldn’t. I should spit out my apology and return to the safety of my bakery. But carrying in these boxes and standing on this cement floor is fatiguing my foot in a terrible way.
At least, that’s what I’m telling myself as I slide into the seat next to Quinn.