Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
Caroline
After lunch, instead of dropping me home, Noah pulled into the lot of a vacant building two blocks from my apartment. The windows were dusty but the bones were good—old brick, faded charm, a crooked sign that still read “Bakery” from whatever business had died there last.
He got out, unlocked the front, and waved me in.
The place was cold and smelled like old flour, but I could see it instantly: glass cases of pastries, sunlight on tile, tables by the window for people who wanted to read the paper and stay awhile.
“What do you think?” he asked, eyes glinting.
I shrugged, afraid to sound too eager. “It’s nice. Needs work, but—”
He cut me off. “No, I mean: what would you do with it?”
I stared at the walls, trying not to imagine too much. “I always pictured a bakery with real bread—crusty, messy, the kind you can tear open with your hands. Maybe a counter for kids to sit and watch the bakers. Coffee, but not the fancy stuff. Just good, strong coffee and homemade cinnamon rolls.”
He nodded, listening. Really listening.
“There’d be flowers in the window,” I said, warming up. “And a rack of dog biscuits for people walking their pets. Maybe, I don’t know—a shelf of free books for anyone who wanted to borrow one.”
He grinned. “You’ve thought about this.”
I blushed, embarrassed. “It’s stupid. I know I could never—”
He stopped me, gently. “Why not?”
I shook my head. “It’s not practical. I can’t even get an office job.”
He looked around, hands in his pockets. “Caroline, you ran a whole family for twenty years. You volunteered, you cooked, you mCarolineged a house. There’s nothing about this you couldn’t do.”
I laughed, but it caught in my throat. “It’s just a dream.”
He leaned in, voice low and certain. “Dreams don’t have expiration dates.”
We stood there in the empty space, dust motes spinning in the light. I wanted to believe him. I really did.
He took my hand, squeezed it. “You could make this happen. I know you could.”
I squeezed back, afraid to let go.
On the way out, he let me linger, let me touch the walls and imagine the shelves lined with fresh bread.
I barely noticed the world outside as we drove home.
That night, I wrote down every idea I’d ever had for a bakery, filling two pages in my journal.
I tried to tell myself it was pointless, but I couldn’t.
For the first time, maybe ever, the dream didn’t feel stupid.
It felt like a beginning.
And the best part was knowing I wouldn’t have to do it alone.