Chapter 19 #2
“You can’t hang on just so your son isn’t proved right,” Jacks says gently.
No, but avoiding having to hear him say I told you so in one form or another is highly motivating.
He warned me against this idea multiple times and in different ways.
Something about having my child telling me what to do only made me more stubborn, and I can’t help but wonder if he hadn’t been so dead-set against it if I would have made the same decision.
Not that I made the choice to sell the house and relocate to Sheet Cake only to prove something to John.
But there was something extremely motivating about the idea of proving him wrong.
Only … I guess I’ve proved him right.
Almost. Two months. Can I hang on until Christmas? Do I even want to?
“And anyway,” Emily says, “it’s not like you failed if you decide to change plans.”
“If I don’t have the shop, what would keep me here? My kids are both in Austin. Maybe I should go back and bake there. Maybe I never should have left in the first place. This big dream of mine is starting to feel so foolish. Should I just pull the plug now—call it before I lose any more money?”
The dwindling numbers in my business bank account, which was funded by my personal bank account, is honestly terrifying when I had to face it tonight.
“It’s up to you,” Jacks says. “I think you should see how things go when you get back into the shop. When will the AC be fixed?”
“Two more days.”
“So, that gives you the rest of this week. Take the weekend too. Decide what you’d need to see in order to convince you to keep the doors open,” Emily says.
I’ll also have to look back at my leasing agreement for the bakery space and my apartment.
I think they’re tied together, but I’m sure Tank would be amenable to discussing.
Though I don’t like the idea of leaning on his kindness and our personal relationship when it comes to this.
It feels like taking advantage or cheating the system somehow.
“And even if you decide to close the storefront, that doesn’t mean you need to move back to Austin.” Jacks reaches over and gives my hand a comforting squeeze. “I think you’ve got a very good reason to stay now. Maybe put down some new roots. See what happens.”
Emily yawns and gets to her feet, stretching. “You’ve got time. For now, sleep on it. We’ve got a busy day tomorrow if we’re going to help you.”
“You really don’t need to do that. I had so much help today. You didn’t come here to help me bake and carry cookies back and forth across the street.”
Jacks joins Emily, smiling back at me as they head for the door. “You couldn’t stop us if you tried. Now, go to sleep and have sweet, Tank-filled dreams while sleeping in Tank’s bed.”
I throw a pillow at her, but she’s too quick to close the door.
The alarm comes earlier than I want it to. My exhaustion grips me like a flu, my bones achy and sensitive. But once I’m up with a cup of coffee and my two best friends in a kitchen filled with the scent of sugar, I find new life.
The two of them work more efficiently somehow than the whole group I had yesterday.
Probably because there’s less goofing around, and maybe also there’s something to the whole too many cooks in the kitchen adage.
Honestly, I’m simply grateful not to have to be the one carrying things back and forth across the street.
The Emilys happily take care of that as well as helping wash and dry dishes as we go.
I don’t have it in me to double yesterday’s production, but I do bake significantly more, adding in a few trays of brownies as well.
“These are the best,” Jacks says around a full mouth. “What did you say you did to them?”
“The secret is to make them doubly thick and put whole candy bars in the middle. So, a layer of batter, chocolate bars, more batter, and bake.” I came up with this one especially for John, who loves Symphony bars.
“They are the best in the world,” Jacks says. “I mean it. They’re going to cause a frenzy.”
And, true to her prediction, they do. When I finally stop by the bakery with the Emilys for the final delivery, Kalli sees the tray of brownies and slumps against the counter. “I’m so glad to see you brought more brownies. I’ve got people waiting.”
The coffee shop is even more packed than usual, and half a dozen people start lining up at the counter before we can even put things in the pastry case.
“Set one aside for me,” Kalli says. “Please. I haven’t even gotten to try one.”
Glenn is first in line, though he’s waiting for cookies, not brownies. Before he walks back to his table with the to-go container of white chocolate chip, he clears his throat and looks at Jacks.
“Would you mind answering a question for me?” he asks.
Her surprise quickly gives way to a smile. “Of course. Ask away.”
“Can you tell me about the move you suggested yesterday? The one with the rook.”
“I’m not sure.” Jacks laughs. “Why?”
Glenn shifts on his feet. “I couldn’t figure out why you chose that or what you planned to do next. It was … unsettling.”
“I certainly didn’t mean to unsettle you. I barely know how to play chess. I just saw that move and suggested it.”
“But what were you going to do next?” he asks.
“I have no idea,” Jacks says, laughing again. The more she laughs, the more puzzled Glenn seems. “I can’t think several moves ahead, so if I’m ever playing, I just do one thing at a time. It’s random and spontaneous.”
Glenn looks positively horrified by this idea, but then he nods. “Would you …” He pauses, adjusts his glasses and clears his throat again. “Would you want to play a game with me?”
“You want to play against me? I just said I don’t even think more than a move ahead! You’re probably some kind of grand master champion or whatever it’s called.”
Glenn does not deny this or correct her.
I’m not sure if that’s the right term, but whatever the correct one is, I would bet he is one.
Emily and I are both watching this conversation while we load the pastry case, and when Jacks looks over, clearly about to ask if we need her help, I wave her off.
“We’re fine. There’s no room for you over here anyway. ”
As they walk over to the table, Glenn holds out the chair for Jacks. Emily and I exchange a look. “You don’t think …” I say.
“Don’t jinx it,” Emily answers. “But if you both somehow manage to find love in this little town, I’m quitting Tinder and I’ll move to Sheet Cake myself.”
The three of us eat dinner at the diner, where Emily and I pointedly do not ask Jacks how chess with Glenn was. Maybe it was just a friendly game. A woman can certainly play chess with someone in a coffee shop without it being a thing.
But it definitely seemed like maybe it was something more. And if it is or if it could be, saying anything about it might jinx the whole thing. It takes a lot of restraint.
Thankfully, dinner provides a lot of distraction.
The Emilys are charmed by Nan, Big Mo, and the rest of Sheet Cakes’ residents who, just like the other night, fill the diner almost completely.
Even though I only know a few people by name, I get waves and people calling hello.
Apparently, Tank’s fame and popularity now extends to me.
I can’t say that I mind. And I do think that the Emilys are right.
Next week, I do think the bakery will look different.
Now that I’ve had the thought of closing and just selling out of the coffee shop or other places, I don’t know how I even feel about trying to make the shop itself work.
Returning there, other than the benefit of an industrial mixer and multiple ovens, is a thought that makes a heavy weight sink into my belly.
“You think you’re special being two Emilys?” I ask as we’re sitting down. I point across the diner. “That table of men are known as the Bobs. All three are named Bob. And according to Tank, they sit in here discussing nothing but high school football.”
Emily snorts. “I’ll never understand Texas’s fascination with football.” She grew up in Vermont, and, though she’s lived here for almost thirty years, she still says she feels like a visitor, not a Texas resident.
While we’re finishing up slices of pie, I have an idea. “What if I stop making cakes and pies? I could focus on cookies, brownies, and bread. I’ve had to completely abandon my bread this week. Sourdough is too much work right now. Poor Edna is languishing in the fridge.”
“I wish you’d stop talking about your sourdough starter like it’s a person,” Emily says.
“I wish you’d respect Edna. She’s a living being.”
This earns me an eyeroll, but Emily dives right back into the important details. “So people would have to make two stops if they want cookies and cake—the bakery and then here?” she asks. “That sounds like a pain.”
“I could ask if he wants to sell things out of my bakery,” I say.
“But didn’t you say that you still do a lot of business for private events and parties?” Jacks scrapes the last of her apple pie from the plate, rolling her eyes back in her head as she licks the tines of her fork.
“True.” I sag down in the seat. “I’ll keep thinking about it.”
I’m not ready to close up shop, but I’m also not feeling good about losing two more months’ worth of money.
I’d have to see a drastic change of some kind.
The money I’ve made this week from sales at the coffee shop will help.
Especially since Tank is prorating my rent while I’m not able to use my storefront.
But a week’s worth of good sales are more of a Band-Aid on a wound that’s bleeding out.
Not that I’m being dramatic or anything.
I’m still thinking about it when I get back to the loft and we all head to bed.
Before they leave in the afternoon tomorrow, the Emilys promise to help me do more baking and carting items across the street.
I really hope my AC is done soon. Because now that I’ve gotten used to extra hands helping me, I don’t think I can go back to baking and transporting things back and forth alone.