Excerpt
Chapter One
August
T he thing about macarons—those light-as-air pieces of pillowy pastel perfection that looked so cute and inviting tucked in colorful rows in the bakery’s display case—was that they were finicky. Temperamental. Unpredictable.
Everything from the humidity in the air to the freshness of the eggs and the fine grind of the almond flour could make the difference between a perfect batch and one that was destined to be swept from the baking sheet into the trash, so any time Maya Monroe pulled a successful tray from the convection oven in her bakery, she couldn’t help but feel like an alchemist.
And today, Lady Luck was on her side.
“Praise Pillsbury,” Maya murmured, satisfied at the smooth surfaces of the twenty-four little desserts that she’d painstakingly piped the perfect distance apart only an hour earlier.
Now, they just had to sit for forty minutes until they developed a nice skin that would prevent cracking, and then she’d place them in the display case at Flour Child Bakery for the residents of Sunset County to enjoy.
She set one of her many small digital timers, then moved on to her next task, a batch of snickerdoodle cookies which were decidedly harder to screw up.
It was coming on five o’clock in the morning, almost two hours until opening time.
As Maya labored in the back of her bakery, she let her mind wander to the plot of her current work in progress, a classic fake-relationship romance novel that was the second in a series she was working on.
At this point, baking was second nature to her, and she could allow her mind to wander while she kneaded and shaped dough, sifted flour, measured sugar and piped icing.
Time to brainstorm during these moments of quiet and solitude was really the only perk to operating Flour Child on her own.
If she could swing it, she would hire an assistant in a second, but although she had a steady stream of customers in the peak tourist times of her small cottage country town, she had to spread her revenues out over the course of the year, which included a slower winter season.
One of her timers dinged. Maya opened the other oven a crack and peered in at the pain au chocolat, perfect golden flaked tops shining in the light of the oven.
If only the main characters in her stories were as predictable as most of her recipes.
For the next two hours, Maya filled up her case with baked goods, placed paper-wrapped baguettes in the basket beside the cash register (she’d moved it there one day and was pleased to see how many people picked one up as an add-on to their orders; they were like the bakery version of the chewing gum and battery display at the grocery store) and cleaned and swept the back area.
Right before she flipped the sign at the door of the bakery to Open, she took a moment in front of the mirror in the bathroom to apply a swipe of lipstick. She let her long wavy red hair free from her hairnet and straightened her apron over her sunflower-print dress.
There were already three customers out front when she unlocked the door, so when her phone rang from the counter behind the till, she ignored it.
“Morning,” she said, grinning at the first person in line, an elderly man wearing a faded blue Sunset County Sailing Club ball cap, shopping bag clutched in his hand. “What can I get for you?”
“My wife sent me for a loaf of sourdough,” he said, scanning the display case. “So I’ll take one, sliced regular, and I’ll take a couple of those lemon tarts, too.”
“One sourdough and two lemon tarts,” Maya said. “Anything else?”
“That’s it.”
Next in line was Noah Crawford, co-owner of the Briarwood Inn on Shaughnessy Lake.
Up until recently, his wife, Grace, had done all of the baking for the continental breakfast they offered their guests.
But they’d had a baby, and it was easier for Noah to drive the five minutes into town and pick up an assorted pastry order than for Grace to juggle an infant and an early morning in the kitchen.
“Here you go,” Maya said, passing Noah the box of treats. “I tried a new recipe for cheddar and jalapeno scones. I threw some in, free of charge. Let me know what you think.”
“Appreciate it,” said Noah.
Maya smiled to herself as she turned to grab the box from behind the counter. Noah had the tired eyes of a new father who’d likely not slept a full night in a good long while.
The third customer was Cassie Foreman, a new regular who’d recently moved to town with her teenage son.
Cassie’s job as a web developer allowed her to work remotely.
She’d once confided in Maya that the reason for her move had to do with the trouble her son was getting up to in the city, where he’d fallen in with the wrong crowd.
“How’re things?” said Maya.
Cassie shook her head. “Honestly, no one prepares you for parenting a teenager. I used to think I was lucky to have a boy. Like I’d skip the raging hormones and everything.
And I thought a change of scenery and a new school would be good for Lucas.
But last week I got a call from his principal requesting a meeting on Monday morning.
I haven’t slept since. So now I’m here to eat my feelings. Any recommendations?”
Maya smiled sympathetically. “The blueberry muffins have been known to be a great distraction. Or you can’t go wrong with the eclair.”
“One of each please,” said Cassie. “I mean, I hated high school. Who doesn’t? But I kept my head down and did what I was told. It’s like Lucas is intent on sabotaging his future. And my sanity!”
Maya felt for Cassie. And for Lucas, for that matter. Her high school experience had been a great one. She’d been a decent student, student council secretary and the lead in the musicals. She’d had lots of friends and was always on the invite to parties on the weekends.
That, and she’d spent most of her high school career head over heels in love with her boyfriend, Will Hastings.
Dates at the ice cream truck down at the docks.
Cruising around the Sunset County lakes in Will’s dad’s old speedboat or in Will’s pickup truck.
Late nights lying in the hammock in her backyard, making out under the stars after her parents had gone to bed.
It was a perfectly idyllic time in her life, right up until Will abruptly ended the relationship.
He’d gotten a scholarship to Chapman University in California and all but left her in his sparkly Hollywood dust. Now, as Sunset County’s most famous former resident, it was hard to forget he ever existed.
Where did Will Hastings live? visitors to the area would ask when stopping in at the bakery.
The library kept all of his movie posters on display in their media section, and the local theater made a big deal every time one of his films was released, as though he was about to show up in town to walk the red carpets with his costars.
Maya made a point to avoid anywhere in the vicinity of the Main Street theater on those nights.
But aside from the unhappy ending, high school had been a dream for her. It was too bad Lucas wasn’t having the same experience.
“He’ll come around,” said Maya. Although Cassie was right to be concerned, from what Maya had heard around town about Lucas—a class-skipping, fake-ID-toting, back-talking kid with model-esque looks that landed him his choice of girlfriends, of which, apparently there were many.
“Why don’t you stop by on Monday after your meeting with the principal?” Maya said.
“Better yet, maybe I’ll come before and bring the poor woman something as a peace offering.” Cassie rolled her eyes and held up her pastry bag. “In the meantime, I’ll be enjoying these. Thanks, Maya!”
The bells above the shop door jingled as Cassie let herself out, and Maya picked up her phone from the counter to see who’d just called.
Valerie Easton’s name popped up on screen.
Valerie was Maya’s literary agent, whom Maya had only signed with several months earlier after the moderate success of her first independently published series.
Valerie lived in London, so her calls often came through early in the morning, since she knew Maya would be up.
Maya dialed her number, and Valerie answered on the first ring. “Hello, darling,” Valerie’s singsong voice sounded. “How are you getting on this morning?”
“Can’t complain,” Maya said. “I’m almost finished with the edits you suggested. It’s taken a little longer than—”
“That’s not why I’m calling,” said Valerie, and Maya detected a hint of excitement in Valerie’s voice beyond her usual cheery nature.
Maya took in a sharp breath and reached out to grab the wooden counter.
Could it be? No. No way. In the split second before Valerie started speaking again, Maya’s mind flashed through all the many inane reasons why her agent might be calling.
A new headshot was needed. A podcaster had reached out for an interview.
Some kind of tax form for international filing purposes was in her inbox and Valerie needed her to sign it.
There was no way, no how that Valerie was about to deliver any news related to the dream that Maya had done her best to keep at bay, since their conversation a month earlier about a project of Maya’s that Valerie was shopping around to film producers.
“We’ve sold Love on the Slopes !” Valerie declared, just as the shop door opened again. Edith Campbell let herself in, trailing her shopping cart behind her. “Your book is going to be made into a movie!”