Fourteen #2
London had already ripped off the end of the pastry and was enjoying the incomparable goodness of butter and flour.
The layers shattered between her fingers, flakes falling on the counter like confetti.
Exactly like the French intended. Not spongy or dense, which she abhorred.
“Mm,” she said. “This is the best thing that’s happened to me today. ”
“Good. My goal is to be the best thing that happens to people, every day,” Joel said.
His dark apron was covered in white powder, especially right at the hips, where he must’ve wiped his hands a dozen times already that day.
His office was small, but tidy. Framed awards hung behind a metal desk: Best Bakery Central Washington, a half dozen times.
Best Customer Service, Leavenworth, for the last twenty years.
Not a computer to be found. Joel had an adding machine and a spiral bound notebook, pushed to the side.
The top of the desk was covered with delights on a long platter: gingerbread cookies in the shape of little men, thick slices of sourdough bread, tiny jars of jam and mustard, dried fruit scattered like jewels between them.
“So,” he said, sitting in a banker’s chair, “what do you want the guests to feel when they open the basket?”
London sat opposite the desk and took in the spread. She’d always had a sweet tooth, especially when stressed. The rhythmic thud of the mixer bled through the wall, perhaps the next batch of pretzels underway.
“I want them to feel like they’ve come home,” she said, popping the last bit of croissant into her mouth and brushing her hands to loosen the last of the flakes. If she didn’t know she was in fake Bavaria, she’d think she was in fake France by the quality of that pastry.
“Okay, so, comforted? Taken care of?” Joel nodded, moving items on the tray.
“Exactly.”
“Then I would go with a little bit of everything. Move them from savory to sweet. A small sourdough, with some brie. I make these little breadstick rounds that are crunchy and go well with Dusseldorf-style mustard. And then finish with cookies. Gingerbread are always a hit, but we could also do something with a fig paste, or even apple. I still have so many apples from this year’s harvest.”
“Why are you so good?” London shifted in the chair, her back calming from the morning’s labor. “I think that sounds amazing, and I never properly thanked you for hanging the Christmas lights. I know you did that.”
“Nah, I didn’t do anything,” Joel took a bite of a gingerbread cookie. “Miracles happen for those who need them most.” He wiped his hands on his apron and smiled like someone who had absolutely committed the miracle in question.
“Well, thank you, for the miracle. And for this—” she gestured to the platter. “I have been so distracted trying to put the inn back together, I completely forgot welcome baskets. You’re a life saver.”
“It’s nothing. It’s what I do. How’s your renovation?”
How could she begin to answer that question?
“It’s—almost done.”
“Great!” Joel clapped. “See, that’s what happens when the town comes together, and your wife is a talented builder.”
“Yeah.” London couldn’t argue his point. Her wife was a talented builder. How much longer Harper would choose to keep the wife title was unclear.
“I’m glad she put Sleeping Lady on pause to fix The Colchuck. That place has time, and they’ve been running her in circles, anyway.”
“Really?”
Joel nodded. “Jen told me they’ve had her start and stop the renovation on their breakfast room so many times, it’s amazing Harper has stuck around for it.”
Jen. London completely forgot Joel’s wife was the general manager of the resort. And—it was amazing that Harper stuck around, as he put it.
Joel grabbed a jar of jam and twisted the lid off, spreading some on a piece of bread and handing it over the table.
“She said one week they have her starting on the custom tables with specifics, and then they stop her—someone higher up has to weigh in. Sounds like too many bakers in the kitchen, if you know what I mean.”
“Harper’s patient,” London said, covering her mouth while she chewed. That jam was delicious.
“You know her better than me,” he shrugged. “But Jen said she’d threatened to quit several times, when they couldn’t figure it out. Told them they had a month to make final decisions, while she helped you at the inn, and that was it.”
Harper hadn’t said a thing about any of that. All London knew was she was in town for a job, and it was temporary.
London brushed a crumb from the desk. “How long has she been back in Leavenworth?”
“Don’t you know?”
“Actually, I don’t. We’re just starting to repair—ourselves.”
“Ah.” Joel broke a piece of a breadstick. “I didn’t realize. The way you two have been running around town together, it seemed like you’d patched things up.”
“Truthfully, I don’t know what we’re doing. I was surprised she was in town.” London gave him the short version—booked contractors, locals’ night at Birch, the unexpected nature of everything that had happened in her life in the last month.
“Well, I don’t like to talk out of school, you know, but Harper’s been in Leavenworth at least since summer. Comes in every few days for bread. We played eighteen in the fall, right before the first snow.”
London really needed to get better about asking hard questions. It was on her Fifty in Fifty list for a reason that was becoming more apparent daily.
Harper had been in town since summer.
Six months.
For six months, she was in London’s hometown—the place where they’d built a life together—and hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t even mentioned it while they’d been working together daily on the inn.
All that time, while London was in Seattle avoiding her life—trying her damndest not to have a small-town breakup—Harper had been here.
London sat with the news and dipped a broken end of breadstick into a tiny jar of spicy mustard. The sting in the back of her nose hit with gusto. “Woo. That one’s intense.”
“Jalapeno,” he dipped after her. “Not for the faint of heart.”
Nothing about the past few weeks had been for the faint of heart.
“Very true,” she said, grabbing her jacket from the back of the chair. “I’ll let you get back to it, and thanks again for everything. Can I swing by on Thursday to pick up the baskets? And you’ll send me an invoice?”
“You bet and I will.” Joel stood to walk her out. The bakery was small and she could find her own way, but he insisted.
While they walked through the crowd of tourists enjoying their snacks, London couldn’t shake the biggest news from the morning.
Harper had been there all along.
Close enough that she could have found her, if she’d only looked.