Chapter 17
Gabby
I came in at five, like I’ve done every day for the past month, but this morning is different.
This morning the bakery is mine in a way it hasn’t been before.
Legally it’s complicated. But it’s mine in ways that matter.
It’s the space where I make things that people want to buy.
It’s the space where I’m building something permanent while living temporarily.
By eight o’clock, I’ve achieved a secondary victory: the salmon croissants are perfect.
Golden, flaky, with the filling distributed evenly and the texture exactly right.
They’re beautiful. They’re beautiful enough to make me believe something good might actually happen today.
I test one. It’s still warm. It’s perfect.
“These are incredible,” I say to nobody, because nobody’s here yet, which means I’m talking to an empty bakery and feeling much like I’m alone in the best possible way.
Dotty arrives at eight-thirty with a stack of hand-painted mugs.
They’re gorgeous—fired ceramic with little designs of fireweed and mountain scenery, each one slightly different from the others.
She arranges them on a display table without asking where things should go, which is pure Dotty.
She knows. She’s spent years watching how people move through spaces and she understands instinctively where beauty belongs.
“For your opening,” she says. She’s not emotional about it, but there’s something in her voice that sounds like: I believe in what you’re doing.
I pick up one of the mugs. It’s warm from her hands. It’s painted with a small mountain and a recognizable moose. “Dotty, these are—” I can’t actually finish the sentence because the quality of the work is making my throat tight. “You made these?”
“Used to make more of them,” she says. “Before the café became my whole life. Nice to make something again. Nice to make it for something that’s working instead of just barely surviving.”
She says it like it’s a fact, not a compliment. Like she’s assessed the situation and decided it’s going to work. I want to believe her. I need to believe her more than I’ve needed to believe anything in a long time.
By nine, Birdie arrives with arms full of flowers.
She’s got peonies and fireweed and these weird Alaska wildflowers that I don’t have names for but that are stunning in a way that only things that shouldn’t exist in a place like this can be.
She sets them down carefully and when she looks at me, there’s something different in her face.
Something that looks like: I’m sorry I was a bitch about the sourdough.
“I’m sorry,” she says without preamble. “For being a bitch about the competition. For being small about something that was just you existing and baking things that were good. I know what I said to your face at the competition, but I also know what I said behind your back. That was not nice. I’m really sorry. ”
“You don’t have to apologize,” I say, which is true, but also, yes, she does. “But I appreciate it.”
“I wanted to be the only good baker in town,” she continues, and she’s arranging flowers while she talks, putting them into vases that I didn’t have yesterday.
“And you came in and you were good immediately, and instead of being like ‘oh interesting, another baker,’ I got possessive. I got weird about competition. So I’m apologizing. ”
She’s doing the flowers with precision, making sure the height is right and the colors complement each other. She’s good at this. She’s probably good at a lot of things.
“We could collaborate,” I say. “If you wanted. You could teach me about the blueberry side of things and I could help you with pastry. Shared kitchen time. Two bakers instead of competitors.”
She stops mid-flower arrangement and looks at me like I’ve just offered her something she didn’t know she wanted.
“Yeah?” she says. “Just like that?”
“Just like that,” I say. “I don’t need to be the only good thing happening here. There’s room for both of us.”
She smiles. It’s a small smile, but it’s real, and the truth lands: Birdie has been so focused on competition that she’s forgotten community. We’re both learning it separately and we might as well learn it together.
By nine-thirty, Piper has arrived with a camera, and the focused energy of someone serious about documenting this opening.
She’s taking photos—the flowers, the mugs, the display cases full of pastries in their careful arrangements.
She’s narrating it all to her phone and the realization lands: she’s live-streaming, which feels like Piper, and also terrifying, which is also Piper.
“The baker’s bench is stunning,” she’s saying to her phone, filming the custom piece that Jace built and that now sits in my kitchen like it was always supposed to be there.
“Handmade, gorgeous joinery, definitely designed specifically for this space. Very romantic gesture from the furniture maker who is absolutely not just a furniture maker.”
By nine-forty-five, the line outside has wrapped around the block.
The salmon croissants sell out by ten-fifteen.
Again. This is becoming a pattern and I’m still not used to it.
Every single opening, every single event, the salmon croissants are the first thing to go.
It’s ridiculous. It’s also absolutely wonderful and it means I have to make more tomorrow, which is a good problem to have.
My bakery in Austin never had this kind of turnout.
Marnie appears at my elbow holding an empty tray with the solemnity of a woman delivering a state funeral. “Everyone is shocked,” she says flatly. “It’s salmon. It should not work. It is now your thing.”
Birdie, passing behind her with a fresh vase: “Salmon season is now year-round, apparently. I will be processing that for the foreseeable future.”
“Unprecedented demand,” Jax shouts from somewhere in the crowd. He’s been shouting periodically throughout the opening, which is his main contribution. “We’re looking at repeat salmon pastry phenomenon! Market saturation imminent! This is going to change the Alaskan economy!”
By ten-thirty, I’ve sold out of anything with fish in it.
The cases are half-empty. The line outside is still forming, and I’m making decisions about rationing and cutting back on portions to make things last, which Dotty is watching with the wisdom of someone who’s managed these exact decisions for years.
“Give them something else,” she calls from the register. “Point them toward the seasonal items. You’ve got that berry tart that’s really good.”
I do. I start pointing people toward the berry tarts, the cinnamon rolls, the sourdough bread that I tried to make at the summer festival. By eleven, I haven’t sold out entirely, but I’m close. The cases are mostly empty. The energy is still high. People keep arriving.
Old Al comes in. He’s dressed up, which stands out because he’s usually in work clothes, and today he’s wearing actual pants that aren’t covered in motor oil.
He orders a cinnamon roll and sits at one of the small tables.
He eats half of it. Then his head tips back against the wall and he starts snoring softly.
Nobody wakes him up. It’s kind of perfect, actually—he showed up, he’s present, even if he’s also unconscious. That’s community..
Ryder and Piper are working together to manage the line.
Ryder’s got that look he gets when he’s trying to be serious but he’s also enjoying himself.
He’s directing traffic like he’s in charge of a fire scene, which is apparently his skill set regardless of venue.
Piper’s got that look she gets when she’s basically running the world and is perfectly fine with it.
Gage and Tessa arrive with Rocco and Toby, and the dogs find Jasper immediately.
There’s a three-dog pile in the corner of the bakery where Jasper is clearly the king and the other two are thrilled about it.
Rocco is smaller and enthusiastic. Toby is dignified and also thrilled, which should be a contradiction.
Jasper is basking in the attention like he invented dogs.
Tessa’s trying to control the chaos. She’s laughing. She’s given up on control.
Trace and Patrice are here with Brooklyn, who is interested in the pastry cases.
She’s pressing her chubby hands against the glass and making serious noises at the croissants.
Patrice’s watching her like she’s worried Brooklyn is going to press her face directly into the glass and lick the display case.
She doesn’t. Brooklyn is surprisingly dignified for a toddler.
Marvin stops by briefly. He doesn’t stay—he says he’s got another run to make, but he wanted to see the opening.
He brings a bottle of expensive vanilla extract, which is both the most practical gift and the most perfect gift all at once for a baker.
I hug him, which I don’t usually do with people I don’t know well, but he flew in specialty vanilla beans and he came to my opening, so he’s automatically my friend.
The supplies delivery arrives. The flour supplier gets delayed but calls to confirm they’re coming tomorrow. The coffee roaster from two towns over shows up in person to see what I’m doing with his beans. It’s organized chaos and it’s working.
Jax takes it upon himself to give an impromptu toast at eleven-thirty.
He stands up on a chair—because he’s absolutely that kind of person, the kind who doesn’t ask permission to commandeer attention—and starts talking loudly about change and community and salmon croissants that shouldn’t work but do anyway.
“To Sugar and Flour!” he shouts. “To a woman who came to town looking for an escape route and ended up building a destination instead! To the best bakery in Ashwood Falls, which is saying something because we didn’t have any bakeries before and now we have one and it’s incredible!
To Gabby, who makes croissants that change lives! ”