Epilogue
Ava
Three weeks later, Jake Dalton is still the first customer through the door of Sweet Treats. He is also still incapable of entering without bringing part of a construction site with him. I look from the muddy print on my clean floor to the large black mat beneath his boots.
Jake follows my gaze. “I wiped them.”
“Then the mud has developed independent mobility.”
He lifts one boot and examines the sole. “Road’s wet.”
“That is usually how mud happens.”
“Good morning to you, too.”
He steps back onto the mat and wipes both boots again. Thoroughly. I could point out the faint mark that remains near the door. Instead, I look at the man standing inside my bakery before sunrise and decide it can wait.
What is a little mud to clean up?
Jake crosses to the counter and leans over it far enough to kiss me. The kiss is warm, familiar, and completely inappropriate for a business owner who opens in four minutes.
I kiss him back anyway. When he pulls away, his eyes move immediately toward the pastry display.
“Where is it?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Ava.”
“Jake.”
“The new cinnamon roll.”
I wipe an invisible crumb from the counter. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
“The bourbon maple bacon cinnamon roll you have been refusing to let me taste for two weeks.”
“That sounds like confidential product-development information.”
“I supplied the original research.”
“You put bacon on one of my cinnamon rolls.”
“Exactly.”
“That was an act of pastry vandalism.”
“It was inspiration.”
He is not entirely wrong, but there is no reason to tell him that while I still have the advantage.
I point toward the coffee menu. “Today’s flavor is chocolate-hazelnut.”
“I want maple cinnamon.”
“I know.”
“And the roll.”
“You haven’t placed an order.”
Jake rests both forearms on the counter. “One maple-cinnamon coffee, one caramel apple muffin, and two of the new rolls.”
“Two?”
“One is for somebody else.”
I stare at him. His expression remains solemn for almost three seconds. Then he smiles.
He has never successfully delivered a Sweet Treats pastry to another person. His employees now come in and purchase their own because they understand that anything entrusted to Jake will disappear before reaching the job site.
I pour his coffee and set a caramel apple muffin on a plate.
“No roll?”
“Not yet.”
The front bell rings again. Loralee enters carrying a stack of small cards tied with gold ribbon.
She glances at Jake, then at me.
“You told him?”
“Not yet.”
“Told me what?” Jake asks.
I reach beneath the counter and retrieve the chalkboard sign I finished last night. Jake watches while I place it beside the cinnamon rolls arranged across the top tier of the display he built for me.
The new rolls are wider than the classics, with bourbon-maple filling spiraled through the dough and a glossy maple glaze dripping down the sides. Candied bacon is crumbled across the top with a final dusting of cinnamon.
The handwritten sign reads:
TODAY’S FEATURETHE DALTON BOURBON MAPLE BACON CINNAMON ROLL
Jake reads it twice.
“You named a cinnamon roll after me.”
“I named it The Dalton.”
“That is my name.”
“It is also the name of a bakery product.”
Loralee steps beside him. “Food is an expression of devotion in several spiritual traditions.”
“Please don’t help,” I tell her.
Jake continues staring at the sign. “The Dalton.”
“You don’t like it?”
His gaze lifts to mine.
“I love it.”
The quiet sincerity in his voice warms every part of me. I place one of the rolls on a plate and slide it across the counter. Jake takes a bite. I pretend not to hold my breath. His eyes close briefly while he chews. Then he takes another bite, larger than the first.
“Well?” I ask.
He considers his answer with unnecessary seriousness.
“It’s good.”
“Good?”
“Very good.”
I point toward the front door. “You may leave.”
Jake laughs, catches my hand across the counter, and pulls me close enough to kiss my fingers.
“It’s the best thing you’ve made.”
“That is the correct answer.”
The bell rings again as the first group of morning customers enters. Two of Jake’s employees immediately notice the sign.
“You named one after him?” Cole asks.
“It was a temporary lapse in judgment.”
Jake picks up his plate before anyone can get near it. “Order your own.”
Within fifteen minutes, every table is occupied.
The Renewal Celebration changed something for Sweet Treats. People who discovered the bakery that night have continued coming back, bringing friends and placing orders. I now have three catering jobs scheduled for the next month and enough holiday requests to justify another legal pad.
The electrical panel has also been inspected.
I contacted the electrician myself, reviewed the estimate, and hired him to complete the necessary upgrades.
Jake did not make the call, negotiate the price, or stand over the electrician while he worked.
He only asked whether I wanted him present. I said yes.
The front-door hinge has been fully repaired, too. Jake submitted a written request. I approved it. We are both learning.
Between customers, a woman asks whether I have recipes for any of the rotating muffins. She tells me she would love to make the lemon-blueberry ones for her daughter.
“Not yet,” I say, then glance at the stack of cards Loralee brought.
The idea has been growing since the celebration.
Caramel apple. Lemon-blueberry. Strawberry cream cheese. Apple crisp cheesecake. There will be more as the seasons change.
“I’m putting together a Muffin of the Week recipe collection,” I tell her. “You can leave your email at the counter, and I’ll send a notice when it’s ready.”
She writes her address on the signup card. Loralee gives me a pleased look.
“Abundance,” she whispers.
I choose not to argue. By seven, only three Dalton rolls remain.
Jake has finished his breakfast but has not left for work. He stands beside the display in his black company shirt, explaining to a customer that the oak shelves came from the old Mercantile building.
When he notices me watching, he walks back to the counter.
“You’re smiling,” he says.
“I own a successful bakery.”
“Is that the only reason?”
“No.”
I move closer and straighten the collar of his shirt.
Jake’s house has become familiar to me. So has the narrow road climbing above Forge Creek, the valley lights beneath his bedroom windows, and the extra toothbrush now sitting beside his sink.
He still looks for things to repair. I still make lists. Sometimes he offers a solution when I only need him to listen. Sometimes I hear control where none exists. Then we stop, talk, and try again.
There is something perfect about that. Not because either of us gets it right every time. Because neither of us walks away when we do not.
Jake glances toward the remaining rolls. “Can I take one for later?”
“You’ve already eaten one.”
“I’m planning ahead.”
“You may purchase another.”
“I thought there were relationship benefits.”
“There are.”
His eyebrows rise.
I lower my voice. “They are not kept in the pastry case.”
Heat enters his eyes.
“Dinner at my place tonight?”
“Are you cooking?”
“I can grill.”
“And afterward?”
“I’m open to suggestions.”
I smile. “I’ll make a list.”
Jake leans across the counter and kisses me while the bakery is briefly distracted by Loralee explaining the romantic properties of cinnamon.
When he finally leaves for work, he wipes his boots on the way out. Then he turns and looks through the glass at me.
I look around Sweet Treats with the scarred oak display, the uneven brick, the filled tables, and the life I once feared was an expensive mistake.
Jake may never stop seeing the things that need fixing. But when he looks at me, he sees something worth choosing exactly as I am.
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