30. Kiara
thirty
Kiara
I ’m still on a high from my visit with Annabel. She was the epitome of generous, and fun, and knowledgeable. I want to be her when I grow up.
How do I do that?
I already applied to the training in France, and I don’t know of any other opportunities that would offer me this level of education without having to pay a cent; I only need to sit tight and wait on their answer. “The only reason they might not accept you is if they have a lot of stellar applications this time around, and it turns into eeny meeny miny moe,” Annabel had said during our time together. “They’re going to love everything you have to offer. Especially once I tell them all about you!”
I protested about her putting in a good word for me, but honestly? I was thrilled, and so was Colton. He winked at me when she said that, and I could have kissed him right then and there for being so happy for me. This date turned into way more than I ever thought any date could ever be.
Despite Annabel’s apparent sense of certainty over my prospects, the visit with her triggered something else. Something more primal, more essential, something I’ve been trying to have but never achieved. Maybe I didn’t try hard enough. Maybe I didn’t believe in it hard enough to have it: my own space.
I would make it as welcoming as Annabel’s. Not as big and luxurious, of course—I couldn’t afford it and wouldn’t need or know what to do with it. But something mine . With my personality. Where people would want to come and taste confections and discuss something truly unique that I would make for them.
At the incubator I attended with Colton and others from Emerald Creek, they asked us our why . I don’t remember what I said, but I do remember the question. It’s been quietly growing around me, taunting me: Why? Sometimes: Why bother ? Sometimes: Why not ?
I’m sure what Colton remembers from my answer ( and by the way, he remembers?! ) is an accurate representation of my thoughts, then and now: Creating sweetness in the world. But that’s not specific enough.
Since I came back from Annabel’s, these thoughts are becoming less abstract. Less of a pun and more of a reality that’s almost tangible. If I could stay in Emerald Creek, I would give my community nourishment that is sweet and beautiful. I would continue partnerships with restaurants and the bakery, but the heart of my contribution would be a space that would feel precious and beautiful, a delicate cocoon in the hills of Vermont.
Numbers collide in my brain, as my thoughts stray from big-picture vision to granular implementation. I’m suddenly excited by the possibilities, surprising myself as I open a realtor app and scroll through listings.
It’s as if taking the risk of dating Colton has given me the energy and faith I needed to go after my dreams and take ownership of my future.
As I make a mental note of the different options I’m seeing and the rents posted, I decide to also book an appointment with Emma. Willow is right, I need her help to figure things out.
A listing catches my eye. The barn at Dewey’s Hollow, that was supposed to be sold to Californians who wanted to move it piece by piece to the West Coast.
I know where it’s located. Off a dirt road, but close enough to the village, it’s in an idyllic, bucolic setting. There’s even a small brook nearby, but with the barn uphill from it, the risk of flooding in case of heavy rain seems remote.
I click on the listing, and immediately fall in love with the interior, which I’d never seen. It seems renovated with what looks like a commercial kitchen, and exposed post and beam in the main room. The price is too low to be true. I go to close the app and make a note of it in my notebook when a chat box opens, asking me if I want to book a visit with Maddie Parker—the listing agent.
I’m not ready to buy anything, but what’s the harm in looking around, being informed, and knowing the market for when I’m ready?
I click yes and add a note. Can we talk first?
Minutes later, I’m on the phone with Maddie.
I open my conversation with her by telling her I’m not ready to buy yet.
“Look, you’re doing the smart thing. And no, don’t worry about wasting my time,” she says, answering my apology. “It’s super slow right now, and I’m going stir crazy. I’d love to show you the barn. Are you free around lunchtime?”
The barn is even cuter than I remember. In traditional red, it stands out against the snow. Fairy lights are strung around the windows, giving it a festive air. The walkway from the parking lot has been cleared of snow, and large flagstones curve elegantly to the entrance.
The inside is smaller than the pictures led me to believe—which is perfect. I don’t need a huge space. Don’t want to have to pay for it and heat it.
Maddie greets me in a whiff of apples and cinnamon—a trick from any realtor’s book, I’m sure, but still, it works. I immediately feel at home here. And when I start baking, the smells will be even more enticing.
Dammit. I’m already thinking as if I had the place.
“So—what do you think?” Maddie asks me ten minutes later, as I run my hand on the prep table.
I take a deep breath. “It’s so nice. It would be perfect for me, but as I told you on the phone, it’s too early for me to buy anything. But I appreciate you giving me a tour.”
She sits on one of the two barstools at the kitchen counter. “Well, let’s look at some numbers. The owners are open to considering a lease. They really want someone to breathe life back into the barn.”
A lease? That could work. If they’re motivated, their price might be workable. I might even be able to change the overhead lighting for lantern-style pendants, or even something dreamy like Chloe did at her restaurant. I could paint one of the walls in chalkboard paint and write quotes from famous bakers. And on the large window ledge facing south, I’d add an herb garden for mood and scent and atmosphere. None of this needs to be expensive. This is totally doable. Still, something nags at me. Why isn’t this place occupied?
“What was it until now?” I don’t remember Dewey’s barn ever being a restaurant, but then again, I don’t go out much. I could have missed it. What I can tell though, is that it’s set up to be one.
“The owners first renovated it as a place to sell the produce from their farm. Over time they added refrigerators, and a little space for tasting. It grew into a sort of country café showcasing all their farm’s products. For whatever reason, they stopped doing that, and someone leased it to turn it into a full-on restaurant, but it never panned out. That’s why it’s in such pristine condition. They never opened it.”
I perch on the barstool next to hers and narrow my eyes, trying to understand. “Why would someone throw all this money in and never operate it? It sounds crazy.” I think back at how pissed I was over my wasted elbow grease and the money spent on one antique mirror for the space I lost last summer. I can’t imagine pouring tens of thousands of dollars, all for nothing.
Who would do that?
Maddie lifts her shoulders. “One person’s loss is another’s gain.”
But all this spend? “I’m assuming it wouldn’t come equipped, would it?” Surely whoever leased it is going to move their equipment out before long.
“It comes as is.” She smiles at me. “Look, I know it sounds too good to be true, and you’re probably wondering what’s the catch. The reality is, the dining space is on the small side. Probably not large enough to turn enough of a profit on a restaurant. Now, if you’re looking to use it as a catering space up to regulations, and make extra money from on-site tastings, this could be perfect for you.”
“But what about the previous… well, the people who set it up as a restaurant?”
“It’s my understanding they left the appliances as payment for past due rent. I didn’t get into the specifics, but you would have a precise description of the equipment it will come with when signing the lease. No surprises. Actually, here’s a provisional list. You can take a look,” she says, sliding a printed page my way.
I’m so excited I can hardly think straight. I already noticed the type of ovens they have—a Moffat and a Revent, both with steam injection. More than I ever dreamed of having this early on.
I glance outside at the sun setting over the hill. The snow glitters, traces of a deer the only disturbance, like ellipses on a white sheet of paper—an invitation to follow into the unknown. Then my gaze turns back inside, and I can picture it in even more detail, my mind completing the decor, narrowing on the experience itself. Vintage pastry cases. An interactive tasting station. A coffee nook.
“And it’s zoned commercial, right?” It’s close enough to the village to assume that it is, but the absence of any other building in the immediate surrounding begs the question.
“You would run this as an Agricultural Accessory Use,” Maddie answers, making it sound like it’s a given. “People do it all the time. Especially as a tenant, you can benefit from their farm use. You’d just need to file a special permit with the town. I can help you with that.”
I nod, not sure what she means by all that.
“That’s what the restaurant people were going to do. Shame that they weren’t as savvy as you are. You know, I tasted your blueberry buckle at Emerald Lake resort over the summer, and it was absolutely superb.”
I blush slightly. The resort never gives me feedback on my creations, so it’s good to know some people notice. “Oh, thank you.” I hope I can trust her about the special permit. I don’t want her taking me for a ride. People tend to do that when they see you at a disadvantage. This woman is local, and friendly. I have no reason not to trust her. But her primary goal is to get her commission. Maybe I’ll ask Colton for advice, although Justin’s words about people being bound to ask him for favors are etched in my memory.
“Do you also make the gingerbread house they have over the holidays?” Maddie asks me.
“I do.” How do I ask her about the special permit without looking totally clueless?
She swats my arm playfully. “Stop! I was kidding. I thought for sure they ordered it from… I don’t know where.”
“Yeah, those things don’t travel too well.”
“It must have taken you ages!”
I nod. “You could say that.” The gingerbread house is a statement piece they place in their grand dining room. It’s great for their social media, but for me, it isn’t exactly creative from a culinary perspective. But it’s good money that comes when my other gigs die down for a couple of weeks while restaurants take a break early November, after foliage craziness.
“You would do so well with your own shop!” Maddie exclaims. “Imagine all the second-home owners. I mean, I heard people asking to order the desserts as takeout at the resort.”
I’m stunned. That’s the first I’ve heard of that. “Really?” I ask.
She continues with her train of thought. “At the price they’re selling them on the menu, you would make a killing!”
I’d never thought of it that way. I’d never realized people who lived here dined at the resort. But with the quantities they’re having me make, that makes sense now.
“How much do they pay you per dessert—don’t tell me. Just think about it. And then there’s your costs, of course, but… girl, you could really be successful. You know who you should talk to? Emma. You know her, right?”
Yeah, and I’m texting her right after this . “Yes, I use her services.” Her talk about Emma gets drowned in what she said first. How much are they paying me per dessert? They’re paying me by the hour. And sure, they provide the equipment and the ingredients, but…
Excitement zings through my veins as I take a last look around, projecting myself thriving here.
“So what do you think?” Maddie asks.
Do one thing that scares you every day. Can I trust myself to succeed here? Or do I still believe I need the stamp of approval of a French pastry school?
“I think this is very tempting.
Yo Ems, how much of your time will a dozen chocolate eclairs buy me?
Emma
Ten minutes
Holy mother. She’s expensive.
Bringing six dozen. You’re at the office or WFH today?
Please don’t
…
Berry tartlets?
What do you need?
Help figuring out my numbers.
So I can rock it like the rest of you.
Caroline wants a birthday cake with a clown jumping out of it. Can you do that?
When’s her birthday?
May.
How many hours does that get me?
Emma:For real, you can do that?
Who do you think you’re talking to?
Get over here.
How many hours does that get me?
Unlimited, until the next birthday. Then we can renegotiate
Did you mean a real clown or a toy clown?
Very funny
Ok, real, I thought so.
None of my business, but you’re spoiling her.
It’s not like you
Do you want your business plan or what? And yes, a toy clown!
Good, cos I draw a line at human trafficking.
?
Just sayin’.
When she turns thirteen she’ll want a real human boy band jumping out of her cake
…
When I get to Emma’s office, on the second floor of a brick building in town dating back over a century, I bump into Noah coming out of her suite, carrying a heavy file under his arm. “Hey, how’s it going?” I ask him, catching the door he is definitely not holding for me.
His head down, he darts to the staircase. I wonder what’s wrong with him.
“Are you going to need chocolates for the holidays?” Although pastries are my forte, I’ve enjoyed making chocolates out of my kitchen to sell through the general store. I still haven’t gotten their order, and the longer they wait, the harder it will be for me to fulfill it. But Noah is already at the end of the hallway. “Hey, boss!” I call out.
“Hey!” He turns around, seeming to only see me now. “Gimme a couple days.”
“What’s up with him?” I ask Emma as I make my way through her small wait room and into her office.
Emma is stacking papers together and slides them in a drawer as I come in. “Who?”
“Noah.”
She shifts in her chair. “How are you doing?” she asks as she stands. “Coffee? Water?” She looks out the window and stretches her neck.
“Hey, sorry.” I know better than to ask questions about her clients. “I’m good, thanks. And forget my question.” She looks tense, though. “Everything okay… with you?”
She turns around, her features composed. “Better now that you’re here.”
“Aww, thanks.” I drop a pink box with a green-gold bow on a side table.
She eyes it and her smile deepens. “You didn’t have to do this, but thanks.” She crosses her feet at the ankle, calling my attention to her legs, her pumps, her pencil skirt. She’s so put together. Most women around here wear outdoor gear even for work. “Do you know why you’re my favorite client?” she asks.
“Cos I pay you in sweets?”
She chuckles. “Apart from that.” She narrows her eyes on me. “Because you’re a diamond in the rough. The perfect project. The seed in the ground. I can’t wait to see you blossom. It’s going to be so fun.” She pushes herself from the window, sits behind her desk, and rests her chin on her hands. “So. Tell me everything.”
I tell her about my visit to the barn, and everything Maddie disclosed. About the fact that I don’t think in terms of profit, when my discussion with Maddie made it clear I should. “I have major impostor syndrome. I know I’m good, but I can hardly apply for a loan and bring my cakes as proof of concept.”
“But with some recommendations, it could be a different conversation. Let’s start working on that.”
“You can’t tell anyone I’m actually considering the barn, Ems. It’s too early. I just came from visiting it.”
“I won’t say anything. But it wouldn’t hurt if you talked about it to a few friends. At least test the waters with how likely it is you’ll get the variance.”
By friends, she means Colton, who will be voting on it now that he’s on the Select Board. But I heard Justin loud and clear the night that Colton was appointed: people are going to start annoying him with their requests. I don’t want to be these people. “I’m not too worried about that. Maddie said it’s a formality.”
Emma simply nods.
“But thanks,” I add quickly. “If I decide to go for it, I’ll ask around.”
I torture my fingernails, then add, “I applied for a scholarship to attend this school in Paris. They have three-month intensive training. I feel that if I get accepted, I’d have something that proves my worth when I return.”
Emma smiles and swivels the screen of her computer. “Show me the school,” she says.
I pull up the Institut Culinaire Pierre de Varanges. The first page is an impressive array of where their graduates have gone on to work. It might as well be a jetsetter’s ritzy catalog of destinations.
Emma clicks through a few tabs. Her smile is dreamy, stars in her eyes. I can see why my friends who are business owners say she has their best interests at heart.
“So, tell me something,” she says as she shuts down the browser and turns her attention back to me. “Where do you see yourself in five years? Because you’re after two very different things. On the one hand, you’re asking me to help you work on a business plan that would be for you to establish your business here—at least, that’s what I can help you with. On the other, you’re applying to a school that’s a springboard for an international career—as an employee, if I understand this right.”
I shut my eyes tight. “I’d come back,” I say.
“Would you, though? What’s here for you, that you wouldn’t have elsewhere?”
“I have you guys.” Colton.
She nods. “But with your talent, you know you could do better than Emerald Creek? Hence the school in Paris.” She states this as a question, one I can’t answer. When the silence between us stretches, she tilts her head and asks, “And… how does Colton figure into all that?”
“He’s on board, totally.”
She nods softly. “I just thought, maybe…”
“What?”
“It’s not my place,” she says.
Emma might not be my number one choice to discuss Colton, but she’s definitely a model in terms of being professionally successful. “I’m giving you permission. Tell me.”
“I was wondering if… and I mean, power to you. It’s hard enough being a woman, and a businesswoman, without having to deal with all this relationship crap.”
“You were wondering what?”
“If it was a way for you to… to soften the blow of a breakup.”
What the fuck is she talking about?
She must be reading my face like an open book, because she adds, “You know, let him down softly. Tell him you can’t do long-distance, you want to keep your options open in terms of your career. And I totally applaud you for that. I just want to say, you can also walk up to the guy and tell him it was fun but it’s over.”
I blink at her. I’m out of words.
“Clearly, that is not the case, and I apologize,” she says. She does look mortified. “I thought maybe you wanted to go to Paris to flee something or someone. But I get it now. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. It has nothing to do with tall, dark, and handsome. And thank god for that. I’m so sorry I even suggested that. I won’t bring it up anymore.” She pulls herself together—big breath, shoulders back. “Look, whatever you do professionally, you’ll be successful. You need to believe a little more in yourself. And know that I’m here to support you and advise you on all things business since clearly, I’m totally unqualified for the personal stuff. And my life is proof of that.”
“You’ll find your person, Ems,” I say, suddenly realizing my own issues are highlighting the fact that she’s a single mom. A gorgeous, available woman still going home alone with her six-year-old.
“Oh—I made my peace with that. I don’t need a person. I have myself. I have Caroline. I kind of like it like that. Let’s face it: I’m boring. I’m a CPA. I have a kid. I’m not a good deal. At all.”
My heart clenches at the way my friend sees herself. “Relationships shouldn’t be evaluated like a business transaction. You’re gorgeous, and—”
“I appreciate you, Kiara, but really, I’m good.” She turns her attention to the computer, typing at high speed, hits a button, then hands me a printout. “Here’s your homework, my friend. I’ll need some numbers from you, but mainly, some thinking.”
I look over her sheet and thank her as I fold it.
But as I leave her office, the thing that bears most on my mind is this lingering question: Is hoping for Paris a cop-out from my found family here, a way to avoid the uncertainty of this relationship I’m building with Colton? If I could have the barn, or something like it, am I ready to take the chance?