CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The news did break about Milton and his contest. It was a shock to those in the community. The bakers were sad and disappointed but there was a light that shone from the tragedy.
An anonymous donor had placed more than ten-million dollars into a fund to help struggling bakeries and give scholarships to promising young pastry chefs. No one would have to give their life just to save their business again.
“I don’t think I’ll ever want to do a competition again,” said Janie. “I’m sorry I signed us up for that one.”
“It’s not your fault, honey,” said Sara. “We all wanted it. We wanted to be labeled as the best, and although we are, it feels hollow.”
“Just know that we appreciate everything y’all cook, bake, mix, and serve,” said Tailor. “You know that you’re always the winners to us.”
“Thank you, Tailor but I’m not sure that means a lot coming from a man who is willing to eat anything placed in front of him,” smirked Dylan.
“That’s not true. I hate broccoli. Stuff makes my stomach hurt,” he frowned, rubbing his big barrel belly.
“I can vouch for that,” said Lena holding her nose. Tailor just shrugged with a grin, while the others laughed.
“How is Adrian doing?” asked Wilson.
“He’s slowly getting back to work. He took a few days off, rested like he should, and then felt like work was what he needed. He also contributed to the scholarship fund in Jacques name. He’s terribly lonely.”
“Maybe there’s someone we can introduce him to,” smirked Alec.
“Uncle Alec, are you stepping in as grandma?” grinned Luke.
“Bite your tongue, boy or I’ll tan your hide.” The entire cafeteria laughed, shaking their heads at the two men.
“Well, I know what I’m going to do,” smiled Sara. “I’m going to take a hot bubble bath and sleep for three days straight. I suggest you all do the same.”
“But who will cook?” asked Janie.
“Who do you think?” came the cry from behind them. “Just ‘cause we’re ghosts don’t mean we can’t be useful. Y’all rest. George, Mary, Ruby and me got this. Claudette and the other wives will help. Go. Y’all deserve your sleep.”
They were too tired to argue, leaving the ghostly figures to cook for the team for the next few days.
“Should we trust a bunch of ghosts to cook?” whispered Tailor to Alec.
“You wanna tell my mama that we won’t eat it?” he frowned. Tailor stared at his friend and shook his head.
“Nope. Even if it’s poison, it’ll be good going down.”
EXERPT for TOO OLD FOR LOVE
Everest Winslow Marshall sat on her front porch waving at her neighbors in the early morning light. It was a quiet neighborhood filled with a mix of retirees, young married couples, young families, and a few like her.
Not too old. Not too young. Alone.
She didn’t commiserate about being alone. She rarely wished for others to be in her home, laughter and the sounds of family filling the empty space. She’d been married once before. Nearly thirty years married. And then one day she wasn’t.
There wasn’t any drama, no one cheating on anyone, no bickering. It was simply that they were no longer the same people. They had nothing in common any longer.
She packed up everything she owned, moved to New Orleans for her job, a job that she’d been loyal to for almost two decades, bought a house and a month later her job was ‘eliminated’.
There was a lot of bullshit about down-sizing and the need to take the organization in a different direction. She knew the truth. She was over sixty, female, and her face no longer matched the needs of the organization.
Now, she woke early, sat on the porch with her coffee before the blazing heat sucked the life from her, waved at neighbors and smiled, and then retreated into her small home.
But something this morning felt different. There was an ache in her chest that hadn’t been there before. Not pain. Not anxiety. No heartburn, a frequent problem at her age. No, this was different.
“Holy shit,” she muttered to herself, identifying the pain.
Loneliness.
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