Chloe woke at two a.m. thinking about Sam, and somewhere between brushing her teeth and pinning her beloved beaded clip into her hair, guilt crept up her chest and filled her throat. She gripped the edge of the bathroom sink and stared at her reflection.
You cannot have feelings for him.
Jean-Marc hadn’t been gone a year yet. Tears filled her eyes and she glared at herself. Jean-Marc loved her. She loved him. Madly. Was she ready to forget him? To forget everything they’d shared, what they’d meant to each other? But as she hurried to Haven’s in that inky blackness that happens right before dawn, she felt his death more than ever. He was gone. Never to return. If he was still alive, they’d be together. It wasn’t forgetting him to think about another man. Right?
With the kitchen lights blazing and the ovens warming up, Chloe started the bread rising, mixing dough for the crullers, and put Sam and their semi-romantic walk around Gardenia Park out of her mind. Mostly. She tried not to think about how their hands kept bumping and how easily the conversation flowed. How her heart felt, fluttering under her ribs, like it couldn’t quite find its rhythm.
In honor of the approaching spring, they’d attempted to walk without being bundled up in scarves and hats and mittens. Not that she needed anything to keep her warm other than Sam’s glances her way as they strolled and chatted.
After Ruby and Laura Kate arrived at five a.m., Ruby gathered them, as promised, for the barnstorming prayer meeting to figure out if God had any ideas about saving the town from Donut Heaven.
When Chloe suggested God might favor the competitor since Heaven was part of their name, Ruby scoffed and pooh-poohed her.
“God’s a whole lot smarter than that, sister.” Ruby prayed loud, rigorous prayers while Laura Kate sat in a solemn pose, her lips moving with whispers only she and God heard. Robin, to the surprise of them all, popped in at five-fifteen and offered a lovely, heartfelt prayer that moved Chloe to tears. So much so that she asked God to forgive her for every time she cursed when Robin was late.
After fifteen minutes, Laura Kate suggested opening Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter accounts. “I’ll manage them,” she said.
“We’ve been slowly introducing new baked items to the menu,” Ruby said. “The fancy cupcakes and custard tarts are a big hit. But weneedthat cookie recipe.”
Chloe nodded. “I’m working on it. Truly, I am.” She snapped her fingers. “I could do Moon Pies. Solidify our Southern heritage.”
“Oh, that’s good. Customers around here love the old-school ways. Take that, Donut Heaven. Folks like ordering treats their grandparents bought for a nickel.”
“What about savory pies and pastries on the menu, more of a diner-type atmosphere for folks who come out at lunch time? Or they can take something home for dinner.” Chloe could do pasties and quiche with meat.
“Let’s see if that’s not smacking Donut Heaven in the teeth,” Ruby said. “I told you God would give us ideas.”
“Don’t get too carried away with the God stuff, Ruby,” Chloe said. “Weareintelligent women.”
“Who got our brains from the Lord, don’t you forget.”
By the time the bakery opened, Chloe had a list of solid ideas to beef up Haven’s reputation and position in the community, and hopefully increase sales. She might be ready to tell Sam what they faced. Then Laura Kate brought a bit of distressing news.
“The baguettes are overdone. The oven is too hot.”
“What?” Chloe checked the gauge inside the oven, which read twenty degrees higher than the dial setting. Thank goodness they’d baked Frank Hardy’s cake layers yesterday. “Ruby, who did Bob call for oven repairs?”
“Himself.”
Chloe made a face. “Think he’d make the trip up from Florida?”
“Doubt it.”
“Okay, I’ll have to call an industrial oven repairman, which means he’ll come from Nashville or Memphis.”
The “fixer-upper” dollars started totaling up in her head. She could live with buckets of water from a leaky roof, but not with a broken oven. Now she was suddenly nervous and checked the cakes in the walk-in. All the layers were there, safe and sound.
“Laura Kate, let’s put these on the worktable and I’ll show you the finishing touches I want you to add.”
The touted Frank Hardy sixtieth birthday bash was finally here. Tonight. She was nervous and excited to show off her and Laura Kate’s creation. And to see Sam. Something she’d confess to only herself.
Chloe had decorated the layers into the golf course she’d designed. She’d assemble it at the Hardy home later. Laura Kate quickly picked up the techniques Chloe showed her, piping a row of shells around the sand traps and long blades of grass by the water hazards.
“You’re a natural, Laura Kate,” Chloe said. “Though you need to unlearn a couple bad habits.” She showed the younger woman how to hold the pastry bag in one hand and guide it with the other to get a smoother piped line.
“Oh, that’s so much easier than my way of double-fisting it.” Laura Kate exhaled, and her white-blonde bangs whiffled up.
“You learn quickly,” Chloe said. “I don’t understand how you can do such beautiful and delicate work when you and your station look like frosting exploded all over.” Chloe didn’t know whether to scold the girl, get an attorney on retainer for the inevitable unsafe workplace lawsuit, or offer her a pay raise.
