Chapter 14
Doughnuts.
A memory starts swirling as we step through the door.
I’m eight years old, standing at the counter of Pop’s favorite doughnut shop, trying to decide between cherry and blueberry
while he and the shop’s owner, Francis, argue over the weather.
The doughnut shop was small and quaint, but it always drew in a crowd, especially on Saturday mornings. The doughnuts always
had the slight aroma of cigarette smoke from the women Gram called “the Chimneys.”
In the end, the blueberry versus cherry debate proved to be pointless because Pop always came home with at least a dozen,
which always included two of each of my favorites.
My head starts to swirl with memories of family potlucks and farmhouse picnics. Of Gram spending a whole day baking for the
church bake sale or the cake walk at my school’s annual bazaar. Of long, warm summer nights on the farmhouse front porch with
Libby and her family and a few other families.
Always, after everyone left, Gram and I would stay out on the porch, looking at the stars and talking. She’d knit, and I’d
make friendship bracelets, and once it got too dark, we’d stare up at the night sky, marveling at how bright the stars were
out here.
It’s where she told me about the drug smuggling ring that had landed my mother in prison and that they didn’t know who my father was.
It’s where I told her I had a crush on a boy in the ninth grade and where that boy kissed me good night after taking me to the carnival over the Fourth of July.
It’s where I broke the news that I was pregnant and that John and I were moving to Colorado so he could work for his father.
That front porch was hallowed ground.
It was exactly what I needed it to be when I needed it. It gave me a place to be silly or serious, depending on my mood. And
it always gave me a place to belong.
I think I’ve been searching for a place like that ever since.
“So this used to be a stationery shop,” Lennon says, bringing my thoughts back to the present. “I guess nobody writes letters
anymore.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Everything is digital. It’s less . . .”
“. . . personal,” Lennon says, finishing my sentence.
I nod. It makes me think of my grandmother and the handwritten letters she sent when I was away at college. I’d gone to a
small, private university almost three hours away, but it might as well have been the other side of the world. I was instantly
homesick and stayed that way for the better part of my freshman year.
I eventually made friends and found my groove, but I never stopped missing my grandparents or the farm.
I still miss them.
My thoughts are interrupted when the door opens and a heavyset man walks in.
On cue, Lennon walks over and introduces herself, extending a hand in his direction. The man shakes her hand, and his eyes
move from her face down to her pointy heels and back up again. “You’re not Martin.”
Lennon smiles warmly. “No, Martin’s wife went into labor, and he asked me to open the space for you.”
He looks annoyed for some reason.
Lennon waves a hand around the space. “What do you think?”
The man hikes up his pants and starts to look around. “Location’s good.”
“It’s right in the heart of the Lincoln Park neighborhood,” Lennon says. “Lots of foot traffic and—”
He shoots her a look. “Martin gave me the details already. You don’t need to try to sell it to me.”
At that, Lennon’s expression changes, and I feel the need to duck and run for cover. After seeing her unload on the woman
at the mall, I expect her to go off on this man too.
Instead of putting him in his place, she simply smiles and says, “Of course.”
“It’s small,” the man says. “Smaller than I want.” He walks past me like I’m not there and pushes open a door, disappearing
behind it. “I don’t really need a kitchen either,” he calls from the other room.
Lennon looks at me and rolls her eyes. “This is why I only list residential properties,” she whispers.
The man reappears. “Rip out the kitchen, put in an office. It might work.”
“The last owner rented the kitchen out to make some extra income,” Lennon says. “She didn’t need a kitchen either.” She smiles.
“Yeah, well, her business didn’t last, did it?” he says, not looking at her.
“What are you going to do with the space?” I ask, mostly because I’m curious, but also because I feel like I’ve already written
the story of this storefront, and he is not in it.
“Medical practice,” he says. “Chiropractic. I’m looking to open a second location on this side of town.”
“A chiropractor?” I blurt. “Wouldn’t you rather be somewhere . . . else?” This space is oozing potential, and he wants to
suck all the charm right out of it?
The man frowns, then looks at Lennon. “Is this some sort of reverse psychology or something?”
“Uh, no,” Lennon says. She shoots me a look, and I widen my eyes in a silent apology. I walk to the back of the space and push the door open, stepping into the kitchen this guy wants to turn into an office.
Which is a terrible idea, by the way.
I look around the space, mind swirling again, and I overhear him tell Lennon he’s got two other places to see, and he’ll let
her know.
Ideas start to form, coming at me at light speed, the kind I couldn’t stop if I tried. I can practically hear the conversation,
the laughter, the seating. I can even see the paint color.
And a whole world of possibility.
I haven’t dreamt in such a long time.
Lennon appears in the doorway. “You would make a terrible Realtor.”
I fold my arms. “You’re telling me when you look around this amazing space you think, You know who should move in here? A chiropractor!”
She shrugs. “No. I don’t. It would be a shame not to make it something amazing. The stationery shop was adorable; they just
couldn’t make it work. Even with the extra income from a catering company.” She takes a few steps into the kitchen and the
door swings behind her. “So what would you put in here?”
“A bakery.” I say this almost without thinking, like the answer to that question was ready and waiting. “With a small-town
theme. I’d call it The Porch. Or The Front Porch. Something . . .”
Lennon’s eyebrows shoot up. “Go on.”
“It would be like . . . a pause in the middle of all the busyness of the city, you know? A place to encourage real-life interactions.
Maybe we wouldn’t even have Wi-Fi.”
“That’s bold,” Lennon says.
“The whole idea would be to . . .” I search the air for the right words and find them instantly. “Sit, sip, and stay awhile.”
Lennon leans against the metal counter. “Did you just come up with that off the top of your head?”
I shrug. “I’m just making stuff up.” I was always good at daydreaming. Or at least I used to be. I’m so out of practice.
“But it’s good. No wonder your ex-husband can’t do his job without you.” She laughs. “And what would you serve at The Porch?”
“Homemade signature desserts.” I turn a circle in the kitchen. It’s not a large space, but it’s big enough. “The kind you’d
find at your favorite farmhouse picnic or church potluck. And there would be sun tea and a fresh-squeezed lemonade stand—oh
my gosh, my gram made the best lemonade. She always said it was more sugar than lemon, but that’s what made it so delicious.”
I smile at the memory.
I walk back out into the main area, and the pieces of the daydream start to shift, coming together so clearly that I can’t
believe it’s not real. “I’d paint everything white and hang white twinkle lights around the whole space. Maybe install a few
porch swings for seating, but I’d make it so everyone felt like they were here with friends. Even if they showed up alone.
“Oh! And I could handwrite little conversation starters right on the sleeves of the drinks or the dessert napkins. The menu
would change depending on the season, and I’d really focus on elevated versions of the desserts my gram made. She never wrote
down her recipes, but I have them all memorized.” I pause, then say quietly to myself, “Sit, sip, and stay awhile.”
“The Porch,” Lennon says.
“The Porch,” I repeat.
There’s a moment, a nostalgic, exciting, unsure moment that hangs in the air. The kind of moment where you stay still—or you
leap. I inadvertently go up on my toes.
“Interesting,” Lennon says, the word drawn out.
Her voice pulls me out of my haze and I smile at her, shrugging softly. “I guess I like empty spaces too. They make me daydream.”
“Are you sure that’s all that was?” Lennon asks. “Because it felt like something . . . more. Less like a dream and more like
a plan.”
I look around. The moment is still there, but now it’s just out of reach.
The space would be perfect for an adorable little bakery. I’d change the awnings on the two tall windows flanking the front
door, and I’d add exterior seating for beautiful days like today. I’d hand out samples, and every Friday, I’d bake a box of
goodies and deliver it to someone my customers nominate, someone who deserves to be recognized for being kind or doing good
in the city.
Just because.
I’d focus on bringing small-town charm—all the things I miss about home—to this big, beautiful city.
I’d have to spend every bit of my savings to make a go of something like this, and what do I really know about running a business?
It would be a terrible idea.
Right?
I look at Lennon, and the moment wisps away. “Just daydreams.”
She opens the door, and I follow her out onto the sidewalk, taking one last, lingering look inside the empty shop.
“Okay,” Lennon says, a disbelieving tone in her voice. “If you decide you want to go for it, you let me know.”
I made a friend.
I also had an idea.
Something I thought I’d shake but haven’t. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.
A bakery.
It’s a pipe dream, really. Obviously not something I’m serious about. It would’ve been fun to kick around the idea with Gram,
though. I wonder what she would’ve put on the menu.
The Porch Menu
Farmhouse Lemon Bars
Pucker up for tart-but-sweet perfection
Porch Pecan Bars
Topped with brown butter and a sprinkle of flaky sea salt
Strawberry Rhubarb Crumble Muffins
Bursting with fruit and sweetened to perfection
Ooey-Gooey Fudge Brownies
A chocolate explosion
The Scotcheroo
Peanut butter, chocolate, butterscotch, and crisped rice—a Midwest delicacy
Snickerdoodle Scones
With a light drizzle
Gram’s Potluck Sheet Cake
Light chocolate cake with a thick layer of frosting
I know it’s crazy.
I know I wouldn’t have the first clue about running a business.
I mean, I’ve had ideas over the years—business ventures that would’ve given me something to do other than drum up ideas for John’s campaigns or work with one of his mother’s charities.
But none of those ever got beyond the what-if phase.
Something always stopped me—that little voice in the back of my mind saying, “Who do you think you are?”
The voice that always reminded me I don’t know a thing about running a business. It would never work.
But WHAT IF IT DOES?
Even if I never act on it, it feels really good to dream again.
Claire: I went on date #2.
Minnie: Scott! Architectural boat tour!
Tell me everything!
Claire: . . .
Minnie: Uh-oh.
Claire: It started off fine.
I’ve been wanting to do this boat tour for years—but Scott had done it so many times, he practically had the spiel memorized.
He even corrected the guide when he got a fact wrong about the glass buildings in Chicago.
Minnie: He did not.
Claire: He did.
Minnie: Out loud?
Claire: Yep.
Minnie: Ope
Claire: I think correcting people is his personality.
He corrected me when I apparently ordered the wrong wine with my chicken.
Minnie: Shut up.
Claire: And also when I told him I loved how charming my neighborhood is.
Minnie: He corrected your opinion?
Claire: He corrected Google Maps.
Minnie: Oof
Claire: He also showed up with a small Bluetooth speaker with a “first date playlist” and HE PLAYED IT ON THE BOAT.
Minnie: Welp.
Claire: Where are you finding these guys?
Minnie: Hey, Scott was Miles’s pick, not mine.
Claire: Miles and I are going to have words.
Minnie: He seemed so great on the app.
Claire: He’s had thirty-two first dates, Minnie. And zero second dates.
Minnie: 32?!!
Claire: He bragged about it like he was proud.
Minnie: You should start a TikTok account to talk about these dates. ??
Claire: Oh, I’m not done.
It started raining. And I was wearing a white dress.
A white dress, Amelia.
Minnie: ??????
Claire: No, not ??????
Minnie: So . . . are you going to see him again?
Claire: ???