Chapter 31
PERSONAL DELIVERY
MABEL
The words from the last love letter still echo in my mind.
Thank you for encouraging me when I needed it, and I sure needed it.
They’ve played on repeat for more than a week. Along with Corbin’s words to me the day I unveiled the name for the bakery, when I was feeling like the town thought I was a joke.
I believe in you.
Those four words burrowed into my heart, taking a spot right next to Grandma’s lifetime of encouragement.
It’s time to act on them, starting with the grumpy guys at the chess tables. They’re more loyal to their grocery store pastries than a toddler is to the toy truck he doesn’t want to share.
But the next morning, before Afternoon Delight opens, I head toward the town square, a pink box in one hand, and a thermos from Rise and Grind in the other.
I pass Whiskers and Kisses, decked out for Christmas with a red-and-green drawing of cats and dogs on the window and say hello to the woman who runs the sandwich shop, then to Mariah at Havenly as she’s adjusting the wreath on the door.
Soon, the town square comes into view. I draw a steadying breath as I spot the pack of retired men—a Black man, a brown man, a white man—all hunched over their concrete table with the painted-on chess board.
There’s no coffee yet. No Danishes. Like I suspected, since I have spies on the inside. Clementine at the bookstore told me they play an early morning game, then stop to grab coffee from the gas station and pastries from the grocery store before returning for another round.
Annabelle tipped me off about the flavors of Danishes they like.
And Abe—Abe, of all people, who also gets a caffeine fix from the gas station—told me how they like their coffee.
Here goes nothing.
They blew me off last time I showed up. But maybe the second time will be the charm. I cross the street, then march into the square, the Christmas tree looming in the center, with lights that’ll flicker after dark.
As the man with the short Afro plunks down a rook on the board, I arrive.
They all turn to me with suspicion in their eyes.
I plow forward. “Hi, gentlemen,” I say, then waggle the thermos with F*ck Mornings written on the side.
“I brought you all coffee, fresh-brewed and strong, and black from Rise and Grind.” I take the liberty of setting the thermos down, then don’t waste another second.
I flip open the bakery box, letting them sniff the freshly baked goodies.
Noses lift, inhaling the scent of blueberry Danish, raspberry Danish, and peach Danish. “I heard you guys like these flavors, so I made them for you this morning so you don’t have to go to the grocery store.”
The man with the pale weathered face and a few stray nose hairs arches a dubious and bushy brow. “You’re trying to trick us into coming to your hipster bakery every day.”
He sounds just like Dottie at the yarn shop.
The man with the Afro scoffs at his friend. “Just eat it, you old fool. Of course she’s trying to convince us,” he says, then takes a bite of the peach one, and his eyes pop. After he chews, he turns to me. “Do you deliver to the town square?”
I laugh. “Maybe I can. Except on Tuesdays. My oven takes that day off.”
“Perhaps we’ll put in a standing order. Name’s Jackson.”
“I’ll be on the lookout, Jackson.”
The nose-hair guy harrumphs, but then takes a bite of the raspberry Danish.
He doesn’t say a word when he finishes chewing.
The third man adjusts his San Francisco Cougars baseball cap, pours coffee into his own to-go cup, and drinks some.
“Not bad,” he says, then gives me a once-over.
“You’re the kid who ran over the mailbox, let the llamas run free, and then ran out of town, right? ”
I wince as my past bites me again. But I own it. “Yes, that’s me.”
He nods. “Good on you for doing the hard thing. We’ll place an order for Wednesday morning. Not sure about Arnie,” he says, turning to the raspberry Danish guy, arching a brow in question.
“Fine,” Arnie grumbles.
“But this time I’ll pay,” the Cougars fan adds, then tells me his name’s Lorenzo.
I didn’t come here thinking I’d gain them as customers, but I’ll happily take it. I say goodbye, then head to Annabelle’s shop to grab some flowers for my next mission.
This is long overdue. It’s been weighing on me since I ran into Joni at the coffee shop when we first started working on the bakery.
That encounter this morning with the chess guys only reinforced it.
My palms feel clammy as I park my car, and grab a sampler box of brownies, cookies, and bars, along with a bouquet of orange marigolds, since I checked that Mrs. Henderson had that color and type of flower painted on her current mailbox, and open the car door.
I head up the cobblestoned path to her front porch. It’s one of those cutesy homes with ladybug pots for plants, and sunflower wind chimes. When I reach the porch and lift my hand to knock, I freeze, hand mid-air.
Who answers the door anymore? This is dumb. I hate the doorbell. I avoid it. Most people look in the security camera and hide out of sight till whoever knocked goes away.
But I have to do it anyway, rapping on the wooden door.
I’m greeted by a yap.
Then another one.
A few seconds later, two aggrieved black-and-tan Chiweenies pop up on the couch in the window and give me hell through the windowpane.
“Sorry, cuties. Just wondering if your mom is here,” I say to the pups.
Seconds later, the sound of boots squishing in the front lawn draws my attention. Then there’s a voice. “Quiet there, you little monsters,” a woman says.
But it’s said with affection.
She turns to me, tilting her head, forehead wrinkled, mouth unsure. She’s got a tall shovel in her hand, and she plants a booted foot on it. That shovel could bludgeon me. She’s giving badass grandma vibes. “What can I do for you?”
“I was…” I trot down the steps. “I’m Mabel. I ran over your mailbox ten years ago, and I never said I was sorry. I know my parents replaced it but I didn’t know what to say so I avoided it. And I just wanted to apologize in person.”
She chuckles warmly. “Oh honey, that was years ago. Water under the bridge. But what made you think of it now?”
That’s a reasonable question, and it has an easy answer. “I guess it just seemed overdue. And like something I could do.”
She nods thoughtfully. “I get that. It’s just a mailbox, but it takes character to face something that’s been nagging at you, even something small.”
My gaze drifts to the painted mailbox, and sure, it’s no big deal. But I want to be part of this town, baking for these people, asking for their support day in and day out. It seemed the least I could do.
My throat tightens, but I thrust the flowers I’ve been holding at her, along with the treats. “For you. Thank you.”
She takes both. “You didn’t have to. You could have just called, but I appreciate the flowers and treats very much.”
“Thank you. Also your dogs are adorable. I can bring them dog cookies if you’d like.”
“They’re fosters. Through Little Friends. They’re a bonded pair, so they’ll only be with me till they find a forever home.”
Well, isn’t this kismet. “You know, I have a friend who’s going to do that too. Foster.”
“You don’t say. I need a temp foster for them for a couple days next week,” she says, eyes twinkling. “And I bet they’d love dog cookies.”
“Sold.”
Thirty minutes later, I’m back at the bakery, setting up to open in an hour when I spot a familiar face at the door, waving to get my attention.
I scurry over to answer it. It’s Clementine and she strides in, the picture of preppy in her argyle sweater vest over a white top and trendy jeans, with cute white sneakers. Her blonde hair cascades in waves. She holds up a small canvas bag. “Who’s a goddess?”
“You are. And I am not worthy.” I pretend to genuflect.
“Please, your adoration is not necessary, though it is much appreciated,” she says, faux regally.
“It is necessary, since I’m seriously impressed you found it.”
“I’m a knitter. And a finder. It’s what I do.”
I peek inside the bag and shimmy my shoulders at the skein of magenta chenille inside. “You’re the best. Do you play pickleball?” I ask, hoping to enlist her in our friend group game.
She shudders. “I’m not a sports fan. But I love a game of poker if you ever want a round.”
“I bet I’d like poker. Can we start with penny bets?”
She crinkles her nose, doubtful. “Maybe a dollar?”
“I’m in.”
She leaves and soon after I leave too, repeating the words from Russ to Harriet when she was struggling to fit in—Don’t let them get you down.
With that sentiment propelling me, I leave the bakery with cookies and something else. Something Dottie wanted badly—the specialty yarn Clementine tracked down.
I pull open the door to A Good Yarn, steeling myself. This might flop, but I have to try. I can’t let the knitting club get me down.
They aren’t here, but I didn’t expect them to be. The owner is, with her head bent over a book, and her short, gray-streaked bob hitting her chin.
“Hello,” I say.
Setting her book down, she gives me a friendly but quizzical look. “What can I help you with?”
“When I was here the other week, Dottie said she was looking for a type of yarn, and I think you said you didn’t have it. Magenta chenille. But a friend of mine who’s a knitter tracked some down. And I thought I would bring it to you in case you want to…”
She makes grabby hands. “Sell it to her?”
“Yes.”
“Damn right I do,” she says, “but what do I owe you?”
“Nothing. Just maybe tell Dottie I found it for her?”
Her smile is a deal signed. “Done,” she says, eyeing the yarn again, then me. “You’re industrious.”
“I am.”
I also want to prove the ladies at the knitting club wrong. They’ll take more time than the guys in the town square, but I can show them I listened. “And here are some cookies for you.”
The store owner tugs the box to her in a sort of mine gesture, then thanks me.
I leave, and I don’t feel like such an outsider anymore.
Especially the next day when I head to the pickleball court for my lesson. After all, I have a fake date coming up soon. And I plan to win.