Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
NICK
I scrub a hand over my face, the familiar bone-deep weariness running through me after a twenty-four-hour shift.
I was able to sleep a few hours last night until a call for a carbon monoxide alarm came through, and though I should go home to nap, there’s something else I’d rather do first.
I got an answer from Chief yesterday about the fundraiser ideas, and to no one’s surprise, he loved them all. Seems I’m finally out of the doghouse for my fuckup at the bakery the other week. I can’t tell Rachel enough how grateful I am for her help.
Sure, I could call or text her with the news that we’re good to go to plan more, but it’s just after seven in the morning. If she has the day off, it’d be too early to call. And if she’s at the bakery, she’d already be there.
At least, that’s the reasoning I use as I walk the two blocks there. I’m definitely not using it as an excuse to see her in person again.
I’m still half-afraid she’ll bolt, something skittish lurking beneath the surface. I have to take every opportunity I can for fear it’ll be the last.
This hold she has on me… I can’t explain it. Back as a teenager, it was her quiet beauty and intelligence. A solemness surrounding her that felt weighty. Meaningful. Something to break through, if only you could get close enough.
And maybe something I recognized in myself at the time, too.
That was a lifetime ago, though. I know I’m a different person than I was back then. How much has she changed, too?
She’s still beautiful. Her long, dark hair. The green and gold-flecked eyes. Her full lips…
I clear my throat, looking around the sidewalk, but no one’s paying attention to me.
There are the things I’ve discovered in the past couple of weeks, too. The way she helps others without expecting the same in return. Her work ethic. Her smiles that feel hard-earned.
That solemness has grown into a protective wall, with only a few let inside. Her sisters. Her best friend.
And one day, I could slip behind that wall, too, if she keeps letting me hang around.
But maybe that’s wishful thinking.
I continue the rest of the way, past the diner where the daily special of meatloaf and mashed potatoes is written in chalk on the sandwich board out front, and the hardware store with its cluttered window display of garden gnomes and lawn flamingos.
Mrs. Montour exits right as I pass the hardware store and she cheerfully waves me down, clutching a new bird feeder in her hand. I’m half-surprised her dog isn’t with her. They’re usually attached at the hip—or rather, the leash.
“Oh, Nick, I hate to be a bother, but my lawn mower has been acting up. Do you think you could take a look at it?”
I give her an indulgent smile, knowing I’ll probably end up mowing her lawn for her. “Sure. I should have some time this afternoon.”
When my roommate and best friend, Tanner, and I had moved into the house across the street from Mrs. Montour, we had no idea what would be in store for us.
She pats my arm. “You’re a dear. Thank you. Now I have to get home to Dolly. She must be worried sick.”
Pretty sure her dog is glad for the moment’s respite, but what do I know? Maybe Dolly enjoys the codependent relationship, too.
When I walk in the front door of the bakery a minute later, I’m startled for a moment by the sight of an unfamiliar high-school aged girl. I don’t think there’s a secret fourth Blackwell sister I’m not aware of.
“Hi,” the girl says. “Did you want to buy something?”
Oh, right. I’m standing here like a bump on a log.
“I actually need to talk to Rachel.”
The girl’s gaze flicks over me. “Who are you?”
I’m thrown off by her once-over, especially since I don’t know how I measure up. “Nick.”
I’m about to say I’ll text Rachel when the girl says, “I’ll go get her,” and abandons the cash register.
Sticking my hands in my pockets, I stare longingly at the raspberry danishes in the glass case. I said I’d be back to get one, and I still haven’t. And some sugary goodness would definitely help keep me awake after a mostly sleepless night…
The double doors to the back open and the girl hitches a thumb behind her. “She said you can go back there.”
Oh. I wasn’t expecting that. Then again, every time I’m here, I end up visiting the back for one reason or another.
As I push open the doors, a buzzing, almost frantic energy overtakes me. Every available surface is laden with ingredients, trays, tools, and baked goods.
“Where are Mrs. Johnson’s cupcakes?” Rachel calls out, standing at a whiteboard filled top to bottom with what looks like orders. “The ones that look like pink and yellow flowers.”
“Here,” Hailey says, frosting a cupcake. Her movements are hurried, yet still precise as she swirls the frosting around to create petals. “I ran out of clean piping tips, so I’m a little behind.”
“That’s fine,” Rachel assures her. “She’s not coming until nine, so we have some wiggle room.”
“Who took my rolling pin?” Sydney shouts from the far end of the kitchen. “I swear to—Oh, there it is.”
Rachel rolls her eyes, then spots me, hovering awkwardly near the doors. What did I walk into?
“What’s up?” she asks as she moves to a workstation and stacks discarded pans into a pile.
“Um…” I make my way over to her and nearly slip on a glob of frosting on the floor. “What’s going on?”
“Tomorrow’s Mother’s Day. Super busy.”
Right. Not a holiday I’ve celebrated in a long time.
“I talked to Chief about our ideas.”
“Hey, Nick,” Sydney interrupts. “How’d you like to be conscripted again?”
With the way she’s waving her rolling pin in the air, it seems more a threat than a suggestion.
“Ignore her,” Rachel says, carrying the stack of pans over to a sink area with an excessive amount of batter-laden mixing bowls and dirty utensils. “What’d he say?”
“I’m being serious,” Sydney continues. “We’re getting our asses kicked. Every goddamn person in this town had the bright idea of getting something for their mom tomorrow. This is double our orders from last year. And we had Mom and Dad’s help then.”
Rachel plugs the sink and turns on the water to let it fill, squirting in a generous amount of dish soap. “That’s because I advertised.”
Sydney sets down her rolling pin. Good. She was giving me anxiety with that thing. “What?”
“I put an ad in the paper. It ran earlier this week.”
My head’s on a swivel looking between the two of them, but Hailey’s unbothered, still focused on her cupcakes.
Sydney stares at Rachel with a confused expression. “Oh. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Rachel dumps cookie cutters and spatulas and spoons into the hot water and bubbles. “You said business stuff is boring and that you don’t care.”
Sydney turns to her other sister. “Hailey, did you know?”
Hailey doesn’t take her eyes off her work as she responds, “Who do you think has been taking all the orders?”
Rachel faces me. “Chief Adkins?” she asks, trying to redirect the conversation.
Right. I open my mouth to answer, but Sydney cuts me off again.
“This is an important business thing, though. Shouldn’t you have consulted me? Or Mom or Dad? They’ve never advertised.”
“Don’t remind me,” Rachel mutters under her breath. She says more loudly, “You literally said not to bother you with details. I can’t read your mind if you change it.”
“I meant payroll or accounting stuff you do. Or ordering inventory. You know, lame stuff.”
She handles all that for the bakery in addition to baking? I didn’t know that.
Rachel sighs, scrubbing a whisk to get all the batter off. “Fine. I’ll include you from now on when it comes to non-lame things.”
Sydney seems satisfied with that compromise, and I look between the two women to make sure the conversation’s actually finished.
“I can come back when you’re not busy,” I murmur.
“No, I’m sorry—” A beeping timer interrupts her, and she drops the sudsy spoon she’s holding into the water to go turn it off. “That’s the, um… What was this timer for?”
“The Garcia’s cake,” Hailey says. “The red velvet one.”
“Right. I knew that.”
She brushes away wisps of hair escaping her ponytail and wipes her forehead with the back of her hand before slipping on oven mitts to retrieve the cake from the oven.
Before she can bring it to the closest workstation, though, she shouts, dropping the pan on the floor, and grabs at her inner arm. When she pulls her hand away, a blossoming red mark is visible underneath.
“Are you okay?” Hailey asks, stopping her work to look over. From the other side of the room, Sydney’s watching her with similar concern.
“I…” Rachel looks around the room wildly, gaze unfocused. “I need a minute.”
She shakes off the oven mitts and exits through the back door leading outside to the alley.
“What happened?” Sydney asks.
“She burned herself,” I say, my feet already walking after her. “Do you have a first aid kit?”
Sydney points toward the corner. “In the office on the top shelf.”
I nod and find the white box with a red cross on it right where she said it’d be, then quietly leave through the back door to find Rachel.
She’s leaning against the side of the building, staring up at the sky, her hand squeezing her inner arm. She doesn’t look at me as I approach, or when I rifle through the kit searching for the burn cream.
“You keep seeing me at my worst.”
I look over at her, unsure what she’s talking about. “What?”
“All these situations where everything’s going wrong. The fire and the five hundred cookies and the unprepared pancake breakfast. And me freaking coughing up a lung in front of you at my house.” She chuckles, but there’s not much humor in it.
It’s true that every time we’ve been around each other lately, something has been going on. She’s always had everything in hand, though. Today is the first time I’ve seen her control slip.
I don’t know what to say. That I’m just glad for the chances I’ve been given to see her again. To have a reason to talk to her.
“That’s life,” I finally tell her. “Nothing’s perfect all the time. But if this is your worst… then your best must be pretty amazing.”
She looks back at me, but I can’t read her expression.
I hold up the burn cream. “Can I put this on you?”
“It’s fine,” she says, even as she checks her arm again, the skin redder now.
“Rachel.”
I meant for it to sound like a warning, but it’s more like a plea. Even so, she holds out her arm to me.
“This has antiseptic and pain relief in it,” I tell her, ripping open the small package.
“I know. I stocked the kit.”
I dab the ointment on her arm, something about this feeling… intimate. The softness of her skin. The quiet of the alley. The way our heads are bent close together, watching what I’m doing.
This close, she smells sweet, like the bakery. Sugar and vanilla and—I swear cinnamon, too. Maybe I’m only imagining it because of the snickerdoodles we made, or how she added it to the pancake batter at the fire house, but I’m starting to associate it with her.
Cinnamon is the kind of spice that wraps its warmth around you, comforting and familiar, but can also transform the simplest of things into something unforgettable.
In the past couple of weeks, Rachel has become that touch of spice in my otherwise predictable world. She’s the extra bit of heat in my chest when she smiles, a slight bite of sweetness that keeps me craving more.
I can guarantee she’s not thinking the same about me, though. All these thoughts… they’re one-sided.
Even so, a life without cinnamon… It’s unthinkable.