Chapter 12 Sweet Edging
SWEET EDGING
MABEL
I read the note again. It’s one sentence, but the fact that it’s a letter makes my heart beat faster than I want it to.
Dear Mabel,
You seem like a salty and a sweet.
Corbin
I run my finger over the sentence, even though it’s typed out on a sheet of white paper.
But it’s signed by him in ink. I don’t know why this delights me so much.
Maybe because no man has ever sent me gifts of food.
Dax certainly never did. Nor did other guys I dated.
Maybe I got flowers once in a while, and hey, flowers are nice, so I’m not dissing them.
But what’s even nicer than flowers? A personalized, homemade gift.
Not that Corbin and I are dating. Of course we’re not dating. But even so, his words feel true, and I feel understood.
I am both salty and sweet.
I reach into the Tupperware container that a delivery service dropped off five minutes ago, with the note on top.
I take a bite of the bar, and I know two things instantly.
That we must serve it, and how we’ll present it—with a heart-shaped piece of paper that says You’re My Salty and My Sweet.
I open the design software on my phone and whip up a simple graphic, which I send to him.
Mabel: What do you think?
Corbin: And here I was just hoping you’d like the taste.
Mabel: I do. I really do. What do you think of the description? It’s like a story for the item!
Corbin: I didn’t realize baked goods needed a name or a story.
Mabel: Every baked good needs both, but especially a story.
Corbin: Speaking of names, are you ever going to tell me the name of the bakery?
Mabel: Soon.
This is presumptuous. This is so presumptuous. But I’m presuming he’ll like my potential name. Still, I’m having too much fun teasing the reveal. So as I finish getting ready to meet him, twisting my hair into my lucky clip in the bathroom, I dictate another text.
Mabel: I know I left you hanging with the name.
Corbin: Yes. You did. I was…hung.
Mabel: I see what you just did.
Corbin: What did I do, Mabel?
Mabel: You know what you did. And all I’m going to say is you’ll love this name. It suits you.
Corbin: Oh, it’s The Hung Bakery? Cool.
Mabel: I don’t think I would go to The Hung Bakery.
Corbin: You prefer…Rise to the Occasion?
Mabel: You’re getting closer.
Corbin: Creamed and Frosted? The Hot Box? The Nibbler?
Mabel: Confirming you like all these names?
Corbin: I have an open mind, Mabel.
Mabel: I’ll see you in an hour.
Corbin: I’ll be there with a project schedule and a breakdown.
Mabel: A schedule?
Corbin: Yes, it’s that thing where you keep track of your days and activities.
Mabel: You made one?
Corbin: My daughter did. Ergo, it’s mine now. Also, at the risk of being serious, I suppose I just assumed you’d call it by the name you’ve been using: You Deserve a Treat?
Mabel: Maybe that can be its tagline?
Corbin: Bakeries have taglines now? Good to know.
Mabel: Also, I thought about that—using the same name as I do for my catering. But I have a special concept for the bakery, so I think it needs a special name.
Corbin: What even is a bakery without a concept?
Corbin: Also, you really like teasing, don’t you?
As I’m grabbing my bag, my makeshift sign, and my computer—because I have a schedule too, thank you very much, even though it’s in the form of a list, which, of course, is a second cousin to his much fancier schedule—I stop at the door, juggling keys and a phone as well.
I swing my gaze to the text exchange. Does he like teasing me? Seems like it. I’m a little desperate to confirm it.
Don’t do it, Mabel. Really, don’t do it.
I shouldn’t answer the last text. I should leave him hanging like I’ve done before. I should edge him. Truly, I should.
But I don’t like stopping.
Mabel: Do you though?
My pulse skitters. Something bubbles up inside me—the frothy sensation of flirting and all the goodness it brings with it.
Which leads me to the next thing I probably shouldn’t do.
Setting my stuff down, I race to the closet—not far away, since I live in a studio—yank it open and flick through my pickleball outfits.
It’s late October, but since it’s San Francisco, that just means it’s in the high sixties.
I grab the black dress with the polo collar, strip off my jeans and top, and tug on the new outfit with its built-in sports bra.
And…suddenly everything’s better.
After I pop on cute sneakers, I grab the matching jacket I picked up when Skylar and I went on one of our clothing treasure hunts. On my way back to the door, I snag my paddle.
Well, I might feel inspired to play. You never know. Then I tap one of Grandma’s postcards that’s tucked into the corner of the mirror by the door. This one has a line drawing of a sleeping cat and, under it, the caption: I do what I want.
On the back are Grandma’s words. Do what you want! Life is better that way, Mabel. Today, I’m floating down the river on an inner tube! What about you?
I scan my reflection. “Well, Grams, I’m wearing what I want. This counts, right?”
I listen for her voice. Imagine her smile. Pretend I can hear her say, Of course, doll.
Then I add, for me, “Maybe it’ll drive Corbin a little crazy.”
As I hustle to my car, I keep checking the chat. But it’s quiet. Dreadfully quiet. The whole drive up to Cozy Valley, he doesn’t answer me.
I’m a little thrown off that Corbin hasn’t responded to my question, but I tell myself it’s no big deal as I pop into Rise and Grind.
Nothing like a little caffeine to boost my morale.
All things being equal, I probably should have grabbed some morning joe back in San Francisco, but I didn’t have five hands.
I still don’t have five hands, but my bags are in the car now, which I parked at the firehouse, so I head to the counter with my to-go cup and ask the bored-looking barista with a nose ring for a pour-over.
Her expression is blank. “What’s that?”
She works in a coffee shop. Shouldn’t she know?
I’m about to answer her when the owner, a pale blonde with frizzy, eighties style hair, hustles to the counter and says to her employee, “Cassie, that’s a slow-drip coffee method where you pour hot water over the grounds in a circular motion.
I taught you that last week, hun.” The owner—her name is Joni—snaps her gaze to me.
“Well, Mabel! How the hell are you? I haven’t seen you since… ”
Since I made a complete ass of myself. “Yeah, it’s been a while.”
“Just saw your mom the other day. She didn’t mention that you were coming up here.”
I guess that’s because I didn’t mention it to her, even though I was in Cozy Valley yesterday, finally finishing that big wedding cookie order. Right under the wire. So I haven’t had much time to see my parents or talk to them. “Oh well, you know, it’s just been crazy busy.”
“Of course. Animals to corral,” she says with a wink, like it’s an inside joke. “Cookies to make for them. I get it.”
That’s when I realize this is what I’m up against with my business here in Cozy Valley. People know me as the daughter of two prominent university professors. The ditzy daughter who publicly screwed up.
What was I thinking? That I could suddenly change the way they perceive me?
“That was a mistake,” I say. Maybe it’s best to own it.
“Of course, sweetheart,” Joni says. “You were just doing your thing. Like that time you tried to parallel park and ended up on Mrs. Henderson’s lawn.” I wince at the reminder but don’t bother to point out that I was learning to drive then, and who doesn’t knock over a mailbox or two along the way?
Still, best I change the subject before this trip down Memory Lane drags up more of my past. “Anyway, how’s everything going here? Shop looks great.”
“It is great, but you know, I wanted to tell you your ex is a real wiener, and he can just kiss off.”
And if I’d thought I was going to escape the Romance Beach incident, I just learned I was wrong about that too. “Thanks?”
“I mean, really. Some things you should keep to yourself. That man needs to learn to shut his trap. So what if you like to do things how you like to do things? And I swear I’ll never use that meme,” she says, and I wince again, knowing that somewhere out there, I’m a meme.
“Appreciate that,” I say, wishing we could just move along.
“Honestly, I say we should name a sugar cookie after you. We can call it…the Llama Lover.”
Oh shit. She sells cookies here, too, of course.
Is she going to think we’re competing with her?
I’m not serving coffee though. I don’t even want to learn how to make coffee.
I want to send people here. A quick scan of her display case tells me she mostly sells muffins and scones, along with some sugar cookies that look like they’re from a grocery store.
“What do you think about that?” Joni asks with wide eyes.
“That’s something to think about,” I say, avoiding a real answer.
Behind me, someone says, “I don’t think we need to name cookies after Mabel.”
I blink and turn around at the strong, confident voice of the man I’ve gone into business with.
“Hi,” I say, and it’s a little embarrassing that I’m kind of breathless as I roam my gaze up and down Corbin.
He’s wearing jeans and a dark blue shirt.
He seems to like gray and dark blue. That’s all I ever see him wear.
He’s not clean-shaven today. There’s a few days’ worth of stubble lining his jaw, and it’s unfairly hot. Like him.
“But, Joni, if you need a new cookie supplier, I might have someone for you in a few weeks,” he adds, and holy shit, I could kiss him.
Her eyes sparkle. “I’ve been looking for one! I’ve had to get these at the local supermarket,” she whispers, pointing to the cabinet.
Ha. I was right!
“I’ll be back. We’ll talk. For now, I’ll take a drip coffee. And whatever Mabel wants.” He taps his phone at the register and pays for our drinks before I can even grab my device from my back pocket.