11. Chapter 11
Ava
No muddy boots cross my floor. No broad-shouldered man orders maple-cinnamon coffee as though he has not ordered the same thing every morning this week. No one studies the pastry case with excessive seriousness before claiming he is conducting research.
I wanted Jake to leave me alone. I did not expect him to be so good at it.
The bakery is quiet except for the hum of the refrigerators and the soft music playing from the speaker near the sink.
Outside, Forge Creek is beginning to wake.
Even on Saturday, work trucks pass the front windows.
Men in reflective vests head toward nearby job sites carrying travel mugs and hard hats.
None of the trucks belong to Jake.
I turn away from the window and begin arranging the caramel apple muffins scheduled for the first delivery. They sit in neat rows inside white bakery boxes, each one golden, streusel-topped, and drizzled with just enough caramel to catch the light.
Everything is on schedule. I am capable of doing this without him. My phone vibrates beside the register. For one unreasonable second, I hope it is Jake. It is an email.
ELECTRICAL INSPECTION CANCELED
I open it and find a second message beneath the confirmation.
The appointment has been canceled. I’m sorry I arranged it without your permission. I attached the electrician’s information in case you decide to contact him later. No response needed.
Jake
That is all. No explanation. No reminder that he believes the wiring is dangerous. No request to talk. He is giving me exactly what I asked for and … it feels terrible.
I put the phone face down and return to the muffins. Loralee arrives five minutes later wearing a loose purple cardigan and carrying two coffees.
“I brought you pumpkin spice,” she says.
“I have coffee.”
“You made that coffee while emotionally compromised.”
I take the cup she offers. “Coffee does not absorb emotions, but thank you.”
She ties on her apron and looks around the bakery.
“Where’s Jake?”
“Not here.”
“I noticed.”
I begin checking labels on the first group of boxes. Loralee waits. I make it through four boxes before her silence becomes more irritating than her questions.
“He scheduled an electrical inspection without asking me,” I say.
She frowns. “He shouldn’t have done that.”
The immediate agreement catches me off guard.
“No. He shouldn’t have.”
“Did he apologize?”
“He canceled it.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
I glance toward my phone. “Yes.”
Loralee begins loading napkins and flavor cards into a supply tote. She does not defend him or tell me I overreacted. Somehow, that makes it easier to admit the part I do not want to examine.
“I compared him to my ex-husband.”
“Is he like your ex-husband?”
“No.”
The answer comes out of me quickly.
My ex dismissed the bakery before I ever signed a lease.
Jake built a display because he believed my pastries deserved to be noticed.
My ex made decisions because he thought I was incapable of making good ones.
Jake saw a safety concern and convinced himself that protecting me mattered more than listening to me.
The result hurt in a familiar way. The reason behind it was not the same.
Loralee closes the supply tote. “Being wrong once doesn’t make him your ex.”
“I know.”
“Knowing and feeling are different.”
“I also know that.”
She nods. “Good. I’ll stop being wise now. It makes my head hurt.”
For the next several hours, there is no time to think about Jake.
Customers arrive in waves. Muffins leave the display almost as quickly as I can replace them, and several people ask whether I will continue offering the apple crisp cheesecake flavor after the celebration.
I direct Loralee between the register and coffee station while I finish the final strawberry cream cheese batches. I check every box, count every pastry, and review the delivery list twice.
At ten-thirty, Cole enters with two other Dalton employees. My heart jumps before I can stop it. Jake is not with them.
Cole orders three coffees and a box of assorted muffins without mentioning the pink-apron photograph. As I hand him the box, he glances toward the portable display waiting near the front window.
“Jake helping with setup?”
“No.”
Cole looks at me for only a second before nodding. “All right.”
He does not offer to call him. He does not volunteer the crew. He simply takes the order and leaves.
Jake has not sent anyone to interfere. The knowledge settles heavily in my chest.
By eleven, the first delivery is ready. The display separates into three manageable pieces exactly as Jake promised, but manageable does not mean light. Loralee and I move the smallest section toward the front door before admitting the larger two will require help.
“I can ask Kayla to send someone,” Loralee says.
“I’ll call her after we finish the last trays.”
I return to the kitchen and begin washing the mixing bowls and utensils needed for the final cinnamon roll batch. The commercial sink makes a low knocking sound beneath the cabinet.
I stop. The sound comes again. Then the pipe connection gives way.
Water explodes beneath the sink and sprays across the inside of the cabinet.
“Oh, no.”
I drop the bowl, reach beneath the counter, and twist the nearest valve. It does nothing. Water pours onto the floor.
“Loralee!”
She rushes into the kitchen as I open the lower cabinet beside the sink and find the main shutoff Jake pointed out two days ago. I turn it hard. The spray slows, sputters, and stops. For one second, neither of us moves.
Then I look at the growing pool of water spreading across the kitchen floor.
“Move the boxes,” I say.
Loralee grabs the nearest stack while I lift two ingredient containers away from the wet cabinet. We work quickly, carrying everything onto dry counters before throwing towels across the floor. The damage is contained, but the sink is useless.
I still have dirty pans, mixing bowls, utensils, and another round of dough to prepare. Health rules do not become flexible because the plumbing chooses the worst possible morning to fail.
I call the first plumber on my service list. No answer.
The second can come Monday.
The third tells me he might fit me in late this afternoon.
“I have an event today,” I say.
“Sorry. We’re backed up.”
I end the call and stare at the silent sink.
Loralee stands near the doorway holding a wet towel. “The Foundry has a kitchen.”
“Yes.”
“We could move production there.”
“We still need to transport the ingredients, equipment, display, and finished pastries.”
“I can call Kayla.”
“That solves the kitchen. It doesn’t solve the pipe or the loading.”
I look around Sweet Treats. I am not helpless. I shut off the water. I protected the ingredients. I know what needs to happen next. I also know I cannot do all of it alone in the time remaining.
My phone rests beside the register. Jake’s message is still open. Calling him does not hand him control of my bakery. It means I am deciding who I trust inside it.
I press his number. He answers before the second ring.
“Ava?”
His voice is careful.
“A pipe burst beneath the commercial sink.”
“Is the water shut off?”
“Yes.”
“Is anyone hurt?”
“No.”
He pauses. Old Jake would already be telling me he is on his way.
This Jake asks, “What do you need from me?”
I look at the waiting pastry boxes, the flooded kitchen, and the display he built for me. Then I take a breath.
“I need your help.”