10. Chapter Nine
Chapter Nine
Eve
"I just wish this snowstorm hadn't kept us apart." Ella's frustration seeps through the line.
"I know, honey. I was looking forward to baking the tarts with you, too."
"Monarch Bakery's grand opening deserves the best strawberry rhubarb tarts ever made."
"Absolutely."
"Oh, Mom, it's going to be amazing! Everyone will love them. And don't forget the fresh vanilla bean and turbinado sugar for the crust. Gramma's secret weapon."
"As if I could forget. Your grandmother would have my hide if I skimped on the good stuff."
"That's the spirit!" Her laugh is so like my mother's it makes my heart squeeze. "This is our family's legacy, Mom. We're bringing it back to life, one tart at a time."
"One tart at a time," I echo, allowing myself to believe in the sweet future Ella's imagining.
I pick up the recipe card, yellowed at the edges, written in Mom's elegant script. Each ingredient is a whispered memory that bridges the years between past and present.
"Mama used to say that baking is like a time machine," I trace my finger over the faded words as a lump forms in my throat. "Each tart is a little bit of history; our heritage come to life."
"Gramma Maggie would be so proud of us."
There's a pause. I can imagine Ella biting her lip and I brace myself for the question I know is coming. "And how are you and Dad doing? Are you two... getting along alright?"
"We're getting by," I respond, with practiced ease.
"Okay." Her tone is heavy with unspoken thoughts. I know she's hoping for more, for the spark that once defined Jimmy and me to reignite. "Mom. Just promise me you'll try to talk to him? Really talk."
I sigh softly, gazing out the window where the snowflakes continue their silent dance. "I promise, Ella."
"Good! Oh, I can't wait to taste those tarts!"
"Me neither, sweetheart. I’d better get started."
"Okay, love you, Mom."
"I love you too."
I set the phone down. My mind drifts to yesterday's dance with Jimmy. The warmth of his hand on my waist. The familiar scent of his aftershave. The way our bodies swayed in perfect sync—so achingly familiar, so right. The dance had only intensified my need for answers. Answers he seemed determined not to give.
I slip the phone in my pocket, then head downstairs to confront another awkward day with Jimmy.
The dining room buzzes with the sounds of breakfast. Hunger gnaws at my stomach after another restless night.
Hank sits next to Holly, their heads bent close over steaming mugs of coffee. Hank's weathered hand reaches over to give Holly's a gentle squeeze. She blushes like a schoolgirl, green eyes sparkling beneath her riot of red curls.
"Jimmy, could you lend Eve a hand with the baking?" Holly's voice floats across the room.
"Sure thing, Holly," Jimmy responds.
"Thanks. You two are magic in the kitchen together, and I can keep working on the decorations." Holly's words hang in the air like mistletoe, suggesting more than what's on the surface. "Hank, help me clear the table?"
"I'll take care of it," I interject.
"Aren't you going to have some breakfast, Eve?" Holly asks.
"I'm not very hungry," I reply, not wanting to explain why my appetite is gone. "I'll grab some yogurt later while the tarts in the oven."
"Okay, hon. Thanks." She bustles away, humming a holiday tune under her breath, with Hank right behind her.
I'm left with a fluttering in my chest and a growing sense of irritation. Everyone's well-meaning attempts to push Jimmy and me together are becoming more obvious by the day. While I appreciate their concern, I feel like a puppet in some elaborate matchmaking scheme. Don't they understand how complicated this is?
Jimmy helps me clear the table. My gaze catches on his strong, calloused hands that once cradled mine.
"Wipe the table?" I hand him a damp washcloth as I rinse the dishes and load them into the dishwasher.
"Flour, sugar, butter..." I mutter, listing off the ingredients like a mantra, trying to anchor myself.
"What can I do to help?" he asks as he returns to the kitchen and ties on an apron.
"Uh, Mom’s strawberry rhubarb tarts. Would you get the frozen strawberries and rhubarb? They're in the freezer out back."
Our eyes lock—a silent conversation in a glance before he turns to retrieve the fruit.
I’m not sure I can do this again. The air between us thick with all the words left unsaid, and the hurt that's buried.
Focus, Eve, focus! This is for Ella and Monarch Bakery.
We fall into the familiar rhythm of baking—measuring, mixing, rolling. Once the crusts are in the oven, we turn to the filling.
"Hey. How are we going to handle the frozen fruit?" Jimmy asks. "it's not quite like the fresh ones Maggie used."
"We could try macerating them," I suggest, finding solace in the familiar terrain of baking talk. "A little sugar, maybe some lemon juice. It'll bring out the flavor more."
"Sounds good." He nods thoughtfully.
"Let's give it a shot." We work on the filling, the methodical stirring, and tasting, a dance we've performed countless times before. For a moment, it's like nothing has changed.
"Better, right?" I ask after we taste the enhanced filling, the tang of lemon mingling with the sweetness on my tongue.
"Much better. Always did have an amazing touch with pastries, Eve." His words brush against the raw edges of my heart, and I'm transported back to a time when praise from him was my sweetest reward.
Suddenly, it's hard to breathe. I blink rapidly, willing away the tears that threaten to spill over.
"Hey..." Jimmy's voice is gentle, a whisper against the chaos storming within me. He reaches out, his hand resting lightly on my arm. "Are you okay?"
His touch feels like fire, and I jerk my hand away, knocking the bowl to the floor.
The filling spreads across the tiles like spilled blood, and something inside me snaps. All the hurt, frustration, and anger I've been holding back comes rushing to the surface.
"That's it," I say, my voice trembling. "I can't do this anymore, Jimmy."
Jimmy looks at me, startled. "Eve, it's okay. We can clean this up—"
"No!" I shout, surprising even myself with its force. "It's not okay. None of this is okay!
Jimmy takes a step back, his eyes wide. I can see the guilt there, the same look he's had since we arrived at Evergreen Inn, and it only fuels my anger.
"Do you have any idea what it's been like?" I demand, tears stinging my eyes. "You left us, Jimmy. With no explanation, you left Ella and me when we needed you most. The bakery was gone, my parents were gone, and then you were gone, too."
Jimmy opens his mouth to speak, but I hold up my hand. I'm not finished, not by a long shot.
"And now you're here, acting like nothing happened. You help hang Christmas lights, bake cookies, dance with me... but you still won't tell me why. Why did you leave, Jimmy? What are you hiding?"
The hurt in Jimmy's eyes is palpable, but I can't stop now. Pent-up emotions are pouring out of me like the filling on the floor.
"I've spent months wondering what I did wrong, what I could have done differently. And you have the audacity to come back here and act like we can just pick up where we left off?"
I look down at the mess—the shattered bowl that somehow seems to represent everything broken between us.
"Just... just leave, Jimmy," I suddenly feel drained. "Leave me alone. It's what I'm used to, after all. Cleaning up the mess you left behind when you walked out on us after the fire."
Jimmy stands there, frozen, his face a mask of pain and regret. I think he might argue, his shoulders sag in defeat.
"I'm sorry, Eve," he whispers. "I never meant to hurt you."
As he turns to leave, I catch a glimpse of tears in his eyes. It should provide me with a sense of validation, but instead, it just intensifies the pain in my chest.
The door closes behind him. The silence is deafening. I sink to my knees beside the spilled filling, my tears mixing with the sticky mess on the floor.
I don't know how long I sit on the kitchen floor, crying as I mechanically wipe up the spilled filling. The tarts remain unfinished, and I'm more alone than ever.
I take a deep, shaky breath. Tomorrow, I'll have to face Jimmy again as we put on happy faces for Holly and Hank and pretend everything's fine.
But now, in this quiet moment, I mourn for the bakery, my parents, the love Jimmy and I had, and the fading hope of reconciliation.