9. Marianne
Marianne
Marianne stepped down from the idling coach bus onto the pavement of the Maplewood transit stop.
The coastal wind whipped across the street, carrying the sting of ocean brine mixed with diesel exhaust. She pulled the lapels of her winter coat together, crossing her arms over her swollen stomach to trap the meager warmth.
The driver rounded the back of the vehicle and hauled her weekender from the lower storage bay.
He set the luggage onto the concrete, the worn material slumping against the telescoping handle.
“End of the line, miss,” the driver said, pushing the metal compartment lid upward. “Double-check your seat before I shut the bay and head back up the interstate.”
“I have everything right here.” Marianne reached out and gripped the plastic handle of her bag. “I appreciate the help with the luggage, so have a safe trip back.”
“Watch your footing on the sidewalks.” He climbed back up the steps toward the driver’s seat, zipping his uniform jacket to his chin. “That wind coming off the harbor is brutal today.”
The pneumatic doors hissed shut. The bus pulled away from the curb, merging into the morning traffic and taking the last of its lingering warmth with it.
Marianne stood alone on the corner. She ground the soles of her flat boots against the salted concrete to steady herself.
The icy gusts bit into her exposed cheeks.
Tristan’s private security detail patrolled exclusive city high-rises and luxury resorts, not working-class fishing towns.
The towering Hawthorne estate was hours behind her, separated by miles of highway and an untraceable transit route.
She was a ghost here. They will never scan a zip code like this.
She leaned her weight against the bitter headwind.
She gripped the handle and pulled. The seized wheels dragged across the pavement, catching on the uneven cracks. Each step required deliberate effort. The chill seeped through the thin leather, numbing her toes. A dull ache bloomed at the base of her spine.
The lawyer’s retainer and the bus ticket had taken a massive bite out of the cash she got from the pawnbroker.
Her purse held barely enough paper bills to secure a cheap room and cover a few days of food.
The sudden reality of her dwindling cash meant she had to find a paycheck today.
The bone-deep fatigue of the pregnancy made her desperate for a bed, but rest cost money.
She would scrub baseboards, wash dishes, or sweep floors just to secure a safe corner for the night.
“We just need to find a place,” she whispered to the baby, her voice lost to the gale. “Just one open door.”
She dragged the bag down the weathered commercial block.
Her shoulder burned with the constant, jerking resistance of the luggage sliding over the ice.
The coastal wind lashed against the brick facades lining the avenue, rattling the metal signs hanging above the closed shops.
She ducked her head against the gale, using her coat collar to shield her face from the biting sleet.
A block away, a bright yellow awning stood out against the gray morning.
The warm glow of pendant lights spilled through a large glass storefront.
Gold lettering arched across the windowpane read “The Sweetbriar”.
Marianne stopped outside the window. The rich, decadent scent of caramelized sugar and roasting almonds leaked through the doorframe, fighting the ocean brine.
Inside, a long display case sat completely empty.
The promise of radiant heat beckoned from the illuminated room.
Marianne stared at the glowing space, her fingers aching around the handle of her luggage.
She hauled the bag up the single concrete step.
She pressed her shoulder against the wood, using her body weight to overcome the stiff hinges.
She dragged her suitcase across the threshold and let the door swing shut behind her, sealing out the winter wind.
Marianne let go of the handle. The bag settled against the floorboards as a wave of heat washed over her shivering shoulders. She unwrapped her knit scarf, preparing to approach the counter to beg for a dishwashing shift.
The bell above the door chimed. The door swung open again, letting a freezing draft rush into the shop. A local tradesman in a Carhartt jacket pushed past her, stomping rock salt off his boots.
“I can’t feel my hands,” the man muttered, rubbing his rough palms together. He marched directly to the unstaffed register. “Hello? Anybody running this till? I’m due on site in fifteen minutes and I can’t stand around all morning.”
Before Marianne could respond, a set of swinging kitchen doors behind the counter flew open.
A woman wearing faded denim overalls stumbled backward out of the kitchen.
Her arms shook as she balanced a blistering aluminum baking sheet.
White flour coated her forearms, and a smudge of chocolate streaked across her cheek.
“Watch your backs, it’s scorching,” she warned the empty room. “The heat is chewing right through these canvas mitts!”
The baker twisted her shoulders, trying to turn toward the storefront.
The baking sheet tilted dangerously. The glass surface of the display case was cluttered with mugs and a tall, tiered pastry stand stacked with scones.
The tradesman took a slow step backward away from the counter, holding his hands up to avoid the impending spill.
If that pan hit the display case, Hazel would spend the next hour cleaning up scalding sugar and shattered glass. There would be no time to ask for a shift. The freezing streets waiting outside offered zero alternatives. She needed a paycheck today.
She left her bag by the door. She crossed the floorboards in a rush, stepping around the hesitant tradesman.
She reached over the edge of the glass counter and gripped the base of the tiered pastry stand.
She slid the structure aside, clearing a wide, empty space directly in the center of the glass display.
“Set it right here,” Marianne said.
The baker didn’t hesitate. She blindly followed the sound of Marianne’s voice and brought the pan down.
The metal hit the glass with a harsh, grating scrape.
A cloud of steam rose from the pan, releasing a dense, sweet aroma of toasted almonds and burnt butter into the air.
The baker leaned over the counter, gasping for breath as she yanked the smoking canvas mitts off her hands.
Marianne turned away from the steaming metal and faced the impatient tradesman. Months of managing aggressive Hawthorne executives kicked in. She kept her voice perfectly calm and addressed the man directly, smoothing out the interaction to give the frantic owner room to breathe.
“She has her hands full with the morning bake, sir,” Marianne said, holding his stare. “Tell me exactly what you need, and I’ll have it organized for her to ring up the second she sets those mitts down.”
The tradesman blinked, caught off guard by the sharp, commanding tone coming from a woman shivering in a snow-dampened coat. The aggression drained out of his stance, and he shoved his cold hands into the pockets of his jacket.
“Alright, fair enough,” the tradesman said. “Two large drip coffees, splash of skim, and three of those almond pastries. And push the lids on hard, they spilled in my truck yesterday.”
“Two large drips with skim, three almond pastries, and secure lids,” Marianne confirmed. She rested her hands on the edge of the glass counter, meeting the tradesman’s eyes without flinching as the steaming aluminum pan radiated heat between them.
The front door finally swung shut, sealing the freezing wind back out on the street.
Marianne kept her palms planted against the glass, letting its low, steady hum vibrate up through her wrists.
She bowed her head, letting the steady mechanical rhythm anchor her focus while she caught her breath.
The dull ache of the pregnancy settled deep into her lower back.
Behind the glass, the baker wiped a thick smear of flour off her cheek.
She tossed her baking mitts beside the cash register.
She crossed her arms over her chest, stepping out of the narrow aisle to get a clear view of the storefront.
She took in the sight of Marianne’s wet boots, the prominent curve of her coat, and the battered luggage abandoned by the door.
“Who exactly just commandeered my customer line?” the baker asked. “And what is the deal with the luggage leaking rock salt all over my floorboards?”
“I apologize for overstepping,” Marianne replied. She met Hazel’s gaze firmly. “The aluminum pan was slipping, and he was getting impatient.”
“I had the pan handled.” The woman walked around the edge of the glass counter. She swiped a rag across the countertop next to the cash register. “But you took his order before he started shouting, so I’ll let the bossy routine slide.”
The woman dropped the dirty rag on the counter and held out her bare, flour-dusted hand.
“Not bad for a girl dragging a battered suitcase through the salt,” the baker said. “I’m Hazel. I run this kitchen, so tell me what you’re doing behind my counter.”
Marianne reached across the display. She grasped Hazel’s hand. The powdery grit of raw wheat rubbed onto her skin, the calloused friction scraping against her palm. It was an entirely foreign sensation compared to the soft, bloodless handshakes of the Hawthorne executives.
This is the real world. She gripped the calloused fingers tighter, drawing a slow breath of the yeast-filled air. No one cares about Tristan’s bank accounts in here.
“I’m Marianne Callahan.” She dropped her hand, brushing the lingering white dust from her palm. “I desperately need a paycheck, and I promise I can handle the rush. I will wash your dishes, run the till, or scrub the baseboards if you give me a shift.”