13. Kurt
— ? —
Kurt
I mishear the order.
That’s the thing I’ll replay in my head for the rest of the day. Mrs. Scott from the Methodist church stands at my counter with her reading glasses pushed up on her forehead and says “three dozen petit fours for the fundraiser,” and what I write down is “three dozen butter tarts.”
Between her thick accent and the loud environment of the shop, I struggle to understand her, especially since I’ve only been working here for three weeks and still fail to recognize half the items in the display case.
None of that matters when she comes back at two o’clock with the entire church fundraiser committee behind her and I hand over six boxes of the wrong pastry.
“These aren’t my orders.”
“They’re butter tarts.” I’m still smiling, still confident, still operating under the delusion that this is a simple mix-up. “Three dozen, like you ordered.”
“I ordered petit fours.” Her voice has gone flat. “For the Bishop’s reception. The Bishop, Mr. Mason. He’s arriving in three hours.”
The committee members exchange looks. The shop has gone quiet. I can feel Ivy watching from the pass, her hands frozen over a tray of croissants.
“I’m sure I wrote down…”
I check the order slip. My own handwriting stares back at me: butter tarts, thirty-six.
The silence stretches.
This is the moment where the old Kurt would have pulled out his wallet. Comped the order, doubled it, thrown money at the problem until it went away. That’s how I’ve solved every mistake for twenty years. Write a check, make it someone else’s problem and I simply move on.
But I’m not in a boardroom. I’m in Ivy’s shop, wearing Ivy’s apron, surrounded by people who matter to Ivy. And the woman in front of me isn’t a client I can buy off. She’s a church lady with a Bishop coming and the wrong pastries in her hands.
“That’s on me.”
The words come out before I can second-guess them.
“Excuse me?”
“The mistake. It’s mine. Not the shop, not Ivy. Me.” I untie my apron and come around the counter. “I misheard your order and I wrote down the wrong thing, and I’m sorry. Give me two hours.”
Mrs. Scott blinks. “Two hours? Are you sure?”
“I’ll make the petit fours myself. Three dozen. You won’t pay for any of it.”
“You don’t know how to make petit fours.”
“Then I’ll learn.” I turn to Ivy, who’s watching me with an expression I can’t read. “Will you teach me?”
The shop is dead silent. I can feel every eye on me, the whole town’s judgment concentrated into this single moment. The city guy, the CEO.
“Please,” I add, because I’m learning that word. “I know I don’t deserve the help. But I’m asking anyway.”
Ivy sets down her tray.
“Amelie, take the register.” She wipes her hands on her apron and jerks her head toward the kitchen. “You. Back here. Now.”
I follow her.
The next two hours are the most brutal of my life.
Petit fours, it turns out, aren’t simple.
They’re layers of sponge cake and jam and marzipan and fondant, each one requiring precision I don’t have and patience I’ve never developed.
Ivy walks me through it step by step while we both make it, her voice clipped, her corrections sharp, her expectations merciless.
“That’s too thick.”
“It looks the same as yours.”
“It’s not. Scrape it off. Start over. We have to make it fast if you want to make it on time.”
I scrape it off. I start over.
“The fondant’s cracking.”
“What do I do?”
“Warm your hands. Work it smoother. Don’t manhandle it like a contract negotiation.”
I warm my hands. I work it smoother.
The kitchen is hot and my back aches and there’s fondant in my hair and under my fingernails.
By four o’clock, three dozen petit fours sit on the cooling rack, each one neat and even and glazed to perfection.
They’re not as beautiful as Ivy’s. The edges are slightly uneven, the colors not quite uniform.
But they’re done, and they’re mine, and when Mrs. Scott comes back to inspect them, she actually smiles.
“Well.” She picks one up and examines it. “The Bishop’s had worse.”
“I’m sorry again. For the mix-up.”
“You fixed it.” She looks at me with new eyes, reassessing. “Most people would have just blamed someone.”
“I’m trying to be a different kind of man.”
She makes a sound that might be approval, tucks the boxes under her arm, and leaves. The committee follows, whispering among themselves.
Ivy appears at my elbow.
“Not bad.”
“High praise from you.”
“Don’t let it go to your head. You still made the wrong fondant twice.”
“I made the right one the third time.”
“Barely.”
But she’s almost smiling, and that’s worth more than any Bishop’s approval.
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of customers and cleanup. The hardware store owner comes in around five.
“Heard about the fundraiser situation.”
“News travels fast.”
“It does.” He orders a coffee and a danish, pays in exact change. “You did good today. Most folks around here, they would’ve just called it a loss and moved on.”
“I made the mistake. I should fix it.”
He nods slowly, like I’ve passed some test I didn’t know I was taking.
“You’re the baker’s fella, right? The one from the city? Saw you on an interview once.”
I’m merely the baker’s fella rather than the CEO, the husband, or even Kurt Mason, defining myself entirely as the guy who belongs to the woman who makes the bread.
“Yeah,” I say. “I guess I am.”
He takes his coffee and his danish and leaves, and I feel something shift in my chest. A door opening, a wall coming down.
At the register, a woman I don’t recognize is chatting with Ivy while Amelie boxes up her order.
“He’s not so bad, your CEO.”
Ivy doesn’t look up from the register. “He’s not mine.”
“Mm-hmm.” The woman’s voice is knowing. “That’s why he’s been here every Saturday for a month, wearing your apron, learning your recipes.”
“He’s helping out. Temporarily.”
“Sure he is, honey.”
Amelie catches my eye across the shop and raises one eyebrow. The look on her face says everything: Well well well. Who would have thought.
I duck back into the kitchen before Ivy can see me grinning.
My phone is on the counter where I left it, and as I’m washing fondant off my hands, it lights up with a number I haven’t seen in months.
Millie.
My stomach drops.
I should let it go to voicemail. I should block the number and pretend I never saw it. Nothing good can come from answering a call from the woman who helped destroy my marriage.
I answer anyway.
“Kurt.” Her voice is bright, polished, the same professional warmth she used to greet clients. “I wasn’t sure you’d pick up.”
“What do you want, Millie?”
“Just calling with some news. I thought you’d want to hear it from me first.”
“I doubt that.”
“I’m engaged.” She lets the words land, waiting for a reaction. “To Richard Ashworth. You’ve heard of him, I’m sure. Ashworth Capital. He’s worth about three times what you are, last I checked.”
“Uhhh… congratulations?”
“Aren’t you going to ask how we met?”
“I don’t care how you met.”
“At a charity gala. The same kind of event you used to drag Ivy to before she ran off to play bakery.” A pause.
“How is the little bakery, by the way? I hear you’ve been spending quite a bit of time there.
The board must love that. Are you aware you fell off the billionaires’ list?
My plan worked. That’s what you get for not appreciating the efforts I made for you to notice me, Kurt. ”
“Get to the point, Millie.”
“The point is, I’m giving an interview. A little human-interest piece about my journey from executive assistant to billionaire’s fiancée.
Very inspiring stuff.” Her voice sharpens.
“And naturally, they’re curious about my time with Mason Industries.
About what it was like working so closely with you.
About the state of your marriage before your wife decided to disappear. ”
The blood drains from my face.
“You wouldn’t.”
“I already have. The interview’s next week. I just wanted to give you a heads up, since we were so close once.” A soft laugh. “I always land somewhere better, Kurt. You should try it.”
She hangs up.
I stand in the kitchen with my phone in my hand and fondant still drying under my fingernails, and I feel the world I’ve been building start to crack.
Through the window, I can see Ivy at the register. She’s laughing at something Maddie did, her whole face lit up, flour dusting her hair. Amelie is beside her, boxing up the last order of the day. The shop is warm and golden in the late afternoon light.
The entire thing I’m trying to rebuild. The life I’m fighting for. The family I don’t deserve but want anyway.
Millie is about to put it all on television.
I could tell Ivy right now. Walk out there and explain the whole thing, let her decide how to handle it. That’s what the new Kurt would do. The Kurt who owns his mistakes and doesn’t hide behind checkbooks.
But the old Kurt is still in here somewhere, whispering that maybe if I handle it quietly, she’ll never have to know. Maybe I can make some calls, pull some strings, kill the story before it airs.
And that’s how I know I’m not done changing yet. Because the temptation to protect her by lying to her is still there, and it’s strong.
I put my phone in my pocket and walk out to the front.
Ivy looks up when she sees me. “You okay? You look pale.”
“Fine. Just tired.”
“The petit fours took it out of you.”
“Something like that.”
She studies my face for a moment, and I can see her deciding whether to push. In the end, she lets it go.
“We’re closing up. You want to stay for dinner? Amelie’s making her famous terrible lasagna.”
“Hey,” Amelie protests. “It’s not terrible. It’s rustic.”
“It’s rubbery cheese on soggy noodles.”
“That’s what rustic means.”
I know I must refuse, go back to the inn, and figure out a way to handle Millie before this entire mess blows up in our faces.
“Sure,” I hear myself say. “I’d love to.”
I intend to hold onto this reality for as long as possible, clinging to the warmth of the shop, the sound of Ivy’s laugh, and the feeling of being the baker’s fella instead of the CEO until I’m forced to leave it behind.