3. Chapter 3
Chapter three
Lina
Every detail here in the shop breathes with purpose, wrapped in the kind of magic you know exists but can’t quite explain.
Nothing happened by accident.
Every bookshelf. Every light fixture. Every splash of purple. Every scent of fresh espresso mingling with warm pastries. It all tells the story of two women who refused to let a dream remain just that.
It’s everything we imagined.
Every risk. Every late night. Every moment we questioned whether we’d ever make it has become real enough to touch.
We did it.
Val—my longtime friend and now business partner—and I started with little more than recipes, determination, and the willingness to outwork everyone around us.
Long before these walls existed, we spent our weekends hauling tents, tables, buffet servers, and boxes of baked goods to farmers’ markets.
We’d wake before dawn, load the truck while everyone else was still asleep, and spend hours on our feet serving customers one cinnamon roll, one cookie, one loaf at a time.
Then we’d do it all over again the next weekend.
The weekdays weren’t much easier. They were spent shopping for ingredients, mixing dough, testing new recipes, baking until our feet ached, packaging orders, cleaning equipment, planning menus, and somehow finding the energy to do it all again.
There weren’t days off. There was only the next market. The next customer. The next chance to prove we could build something bigger.
Brick by brick. Batch by batch. Weekend after weekend, we watched strangers become regulars and regulars become our biggest cheerleaders.
Until one day...we weren’t just dreaming about owning a bookstore bakery anymore.
We were unlocking the front door to one.
We have been part of each other’s lives for over ten years, woven together by shared history and countless memories.
She has stood beside me through so much of my life, the joyful seasons and the unbearable ones alike.
She was there during the moments that shattered me most, including the loss of my baby, offering a steady presence when I could barely stand on my own.
Val was also there when my marriage ended, though that moment was less like devastation and more like release.
Leaving a long, turbulent relationship that had drained me of myself wasn’t a loss; it was liberation. And stepping into that freedom, with Val beside me, remains one of the greatest turning points of my life.
Being trauma-bonded to someone through your teenage years and into young adulthood is a prison that’s difficult to recognize, let alone escape.
I met my husband when I was sixteen through a mutual friend. He was three years older than me. He was my first real relationship, my first everything.
For years, I wore that fact like a badge of honor. I believed there was something noble in having given myself wholly to one person. My heart, my body, my future. I rationalized it meant commitment, loyalty, strength.
What I failed to grasp at that time was the extent to which that pride was being used to my detriment.
I was made to believe that my destiny was small and pre-written, that I was meant to be a wife before I was allowed to be a woman, obedient before I could be whole.
Cole, my now ex-husband, believes the world operates to his advantage—raised to expect it, really.
His family came from old money—oil money, land that stretched farther than you could see, leases that paid out with no one lifting a finger. Generations of men who never worried about hard work because life was handed to them on gold platters.
I will admit they knew how to grow their income.
Though when money arrives that easily, it tends to multiply itself with little effort.
Royalties became investments. Investments became businesses.
Businesses became more land. A million dollars wasn’t life-changing to people like the Allisters.
It was seed money. Something to invest, leverage, and turn into twenty million more.
Wealth built wealth while they slept.
That kind of wealth teaches you things early. That rules are flexible. That power doesn’t need to be questioned—only enforced.
Cole was brilliant when it came to money. He understood investments, risk, and the power of compound growth better than anyone I’d ever met. He could take a dollar and turn it into ten, always thinking three steps ahead.
But the lessons he taught me about relationships were far more damaging.
Cole taught me what passed for love in his world. Quiet. Conditional. Earned.
I learned that my role was to support, to submit, to shape my life around his expectations. Every sacrifice was proof of my devotion. Every compromise was evidence of my love.
Over time, he turned that devotion into a weapon, convincing me that my worth depended on remaining his, no matter the cost.
Eventually, something inside me reached its breaking point. I refused to bend. I chose myself. I escaped. And in doing so, I discovered that life doesn’t end when a chapter closes. Sometimes, that’s where it begins.
My new chapter truly began when I learned to savor life’s simplest freedoms.
Leaving without consent. Moving along at my personal rhythm, unhurried and without apprehension. Watching a show I loved without having to justify why it moved me or brace myself for judgment.
Independence showed up in small ways I didn’t have to justify. Concerts with my sister, laughing and dancing without guilt, without apology, without fear of consequence.
What astonished me most was realizing how much of my time, my joy, and even my emotions had once been controlled by someone else.
Freedom revealed what had always been true. I was allowed to emotions, to choose, to live. The veil had fallen away, revealing a world I never knew existed, and I savor every moment of it.
Val and I have always been drawn to the same small joys in life.
Like baking until the air turns sweet, or losing hours on books, lingering over cups of carefully crafted coffee.
Opening a bakery, bookshop, and cafe together was a natural unfolding.
We are both artists at heart: adventurous, unhurried, and endlessly curious. We are drawn to what is new and unafraid to wander beyond the expected path.
When one of us hesitates, the other offers courage. When doubt tries to settle in, it is quietly pushed aside.
Our partnership is built on trust and creativity, with the unique magic of two people who empower each other.
Choosing to build a locally owned business in a small town turned out to be one of the best decisions we ever made.
Val and I spent countless hours prepping and baking out of our homes, selling cookies, cake loaves, and cinnamon rolls at markets and through online orders.
Every late night and early morning went toward building products and a reputation, earning the trust, loyalty, and enthusiasm of the customers who continue to support us today.
When we announced plans to open a brick-and-mortar bakery that would also serve as a bookshop and cafe, the community’s excitement was immediate and overwhelming. We were bringing something truly unique to the area.
A space that appeared both deliberate and welcoming, a safe place to gather, enjoy great coffee and sweet treats, and lose yourself in a fictional world.
Our calendar of thoughtfully curated events has only strengthened that connection, drawing people back again and again. A growing community that feels at home within our walls.
That sense of community, of shared purpose, is clearest in the quiet moments before the doors open, when the shop is still ours alone.
Val and I built this place out of flour, ink, and stubborn hope.
She’s been my constant friend, sister, and business partner in crime. We’ve weathered loss together: my divorce, a terrible loss, and the quiet collapse of the life I thought I’d have.
But now, this shop buzzes with proof that survival can be beautiful. That something born from pain can smell like vanilla and espresso and resemble home.
Freedom doesn’t arrive all at once. Sometimes it comes disguised as a bakery apron and a business license.
I pause for a moment, and turn on the kitchen lights.
Stainless-steel counters gleam under the glow, the air cool and clean.
There’s a quietness to this time that I’ve grown fond of, when the world hasn’t quite stirred from slumber.
I get to work by washing up, starting the ovens, checking proofed dough, and lose myself in measuring, mixing, and kneading.
The steady thump of dough against stainless steel is almost meditative. I used to hate silence…but here, in this kitchen, silence is perceived differently. Full of life.
The scent of rising cinnamon dough begins to thread through the air, soft and sweet. I cast my eyes upon the sign above the door that Val hung the day we opened:
“You can’t buy happiness, but you can bake it.”
The words make me smile every time.
By 5:30 a.m., I hear the faint purr of Val’s car pulling in the parking lot. Punctual as ever, even when she claims she hates mornings. The door swings open, and her voice follows, singing off-key but bright. “Well, good morning, sunshine,” I call out, already smiling before she appears.
“Screw this, Lina,” Val groans. “I still hate waking up this early.”
She steps into view, dark brown, thick, heavy hair—loose down her back. Pale skin despite her Mexican roots—something she used to joke about endlessly—freckled enough to soften the sour lines of her expression.
“You were singing,” I tease.
“I was wailing,” she corrects, hanging her coat and tying her apron with practiced ease. “There’s a difference.”
I laugh, shaking my head.
“Coffee?” I offer.
She exhales, like she’s been waiting for permission to breathe. “Yes. Before I start resenting this place.”
I exit the kitchen as she follows me to the espresso machine. I begin making her favorite latte, already knowing she’ll be fully locked in five minutes from now.
Val might complain about early mornings, but she always shows up. Once she commits, she gives her full effort.
She groans dramatically. “Please make it the strong one. The kind that makes me forget I only slept four hours.”
“Coming right up,” I say.
While the espresso brews, Val starts the daily checklist—reviewing online orders, inventory, and checking the delivery of butter and flour that arrived before dawn.
She moves slower than I do in the morning, but she’s efficient in her own way. We’ve been doing this long enough that we barely need to speak.
Our movements complement each other, like a choreography we didn’t have to rehearse.
“Did you get any sleep last night?” she asks, stretching.
I hesitate, my hands stilling on the countertop. “Some,” I lie. “I had one of those dreams again.”
Her smile fades into something gentle. “The Cole ones?”
I nod.
She moves closer, briefly touching my arm. “I’m sorry. I know how much those suck.”
“Yeah,” I say, cleaning my hands. “It appears my subconscious hasn’t realized there’s a divorce decree.”
Val chuckles softly, but her eyes stay kind. “Well, tell your subconscious you own a damn bakery. You have to be up before the butt crack of dawn and don’t have time for that bullshit.”
I smile, grateful for her blend of compassion and humor. “Working on it.”
The espresso machine hisses, the smell filling the kitchen like comfort itself. I hand Val her mug, steaming and foamy, then glance towards the front windows where faint sunlight is beginning to filter through the curtains.
“Speaking of, it’s almost dawn,” I say.
Val takes a sip and groans in delight. “You make coffee better than anyone I know. Maybe it’s the dark blend of trauma.”
“Adds depth of flavor,” I deadpan.
She snorts mid-sip, nearly spilling it.
We head back toward the kitchen, ready to begin.
“Do I play our anthem?” I ask.
“Absolutely. I need my morning affirmation.” she replies.
I pull up Spotify, find our morning anthem, and hit play.
LOCK IN BITCH by SassyCarl explodes through the speakers.
That’s our cue.
Without another word, we fall into the rhythm we’ve repeated hundreds of times. Val starts whipping frosting while I shape the morning batch of cinnamon rolls, our hands moving with the confidence of muscle memory before our brains have fully caught up.
The steady churn of the dough hook, the warmth rolling off the ovens, the scent of yeast, butter, cinnamon, and sugar—it all settles around us like a heartbeat.
The kitchen hums with familiar purpose. Trays of cinnamon rolls line the counters, glossy with butter and waiting for cream cheese frosting. Baking sheets of chilled cookie dough stand ready beside ovens that tick softly as they climb to temperature, preparing for the next round of baking.
Val sings along to the music, spectacularly off-key.
Something in my chest loosens.
Maybe this is what peace sounds like. Like a dying cat serenading our enchanted little wonderland.
“Jesus, Val. I’ll pay for singing lessons,” I groan.
She grins and belts the next verse even louder, somehow finding notes that don’t exist. I can’t help but laugh.
My gaze drifts through the kitchen door into the café. The lights are still dim. Chairs sit neatly tucked beneath the tables, every corner waiting for conversation, coffee, and the slow unfolding of another day.
In a couple of hours, the room will buzz with customers, laughter, and the clink of ceramic mugs. But for now, it’s just ours.
I lean back against the counter, lift my coffee, and let its warmth settle deep into my bones.