“Old habits die hard, Sammy?” she said.
“No, Ruby, old reputations.”
“Stick with it. You’ll turn things around.”
Her tone and her confidence reminded him to believe it. She was right. It’d only been three years since he decided he needed a new way of living. He pushed out the kitchen’s back door and paced up and down the alley. One direction led to Blossom Street, the other to Holly. He needed to cool off a moment, get his head back into business mode.
The day he’d decided to change his life remained at the forefront of his mind. He’d gone to a private party at a music mogul’s home in Franklin and hooked up with a tall, lithe brunette. Since he never let women stay over at his place, he walked her to the door after the, well, deed was done. She’d been much sweeter than most girls who flirted with sports figures. It was then he’d realized she wasn’t a groupie or jersey chaser, that she actually liked him and thought he was interesting. And he couldn’t even remember her name.
That’s when he knew he had to turn his life around. Or one day, when he did settle down with a wife and kids, he’d end up doing something like his father. And the last man he ever wanted to emulate was Frank Hardy. He wanted more. To build a life with a woman who made him laugh, who loved his heart but called him on his crap. A woman he could love, respect, raise babies with, and if he were lucky, grow old with. He wanted what his grandparents had, his aunts and uncles, what people referred to as the white picket fence.
He’d started to head back to the office and the interview when a memory surfaced. Chloe making him watch a sappy romance movie one summer. Over and over. He’d teased her for all the corny love but now, he’d give anything for it. What was the movie? The Notebook? Yeah, that was it.
“I think we have our manager.” Rick addressed Sam as he returned to the office. “Chloe LaRue. When can you start?”
“As soon as you want me.” Chloe stood, glancing between Rick and Sam. She was smiling but he saw something in her eyes. A bit of insecurity.
“Chloe, are you sure?” Sam said. “Don’t you have a life in France? What are you doing here?”
“I guess you don’t keep up with Hearts Bend news? My husband was killed ten months ago, and I came home now to help Mom with…” She hesitated. “A few things. We thought that me getting a job would keep us from killing each other.”
“She was a pastry chef at Bistro Gaspard in Paris.” Rick handed Sam Chloe’s résumé. “I’ve hired her already so don’t bother protesting.”
“I’m not protesting.” Sam scanned the details. She’d trained at The Culinary Institute of America. Lived and worked in Paris for ten years. “I’m sorry about your husband.” He returned the résumé to the desk. “I hope Haven’s proves to be a place of healing for you.”
Her eyes glistened as she nodded. “It’s good to see you, Sam.”
She and Rick settled on a start date—Friday next week—and when Sam was alone with Rick, Rick drilled him for details. Who was she? How long had he known her? Was it his imagination or was there a spark between them?
“She’s a friend, was a friend, Rick, all right? Don’t make more out of it than necessary. Besides, she’s a grieving widow.” But she’d been an important friend. One who had gotten him through the toughest season of his life. They’d had a crush on each other but at fifteen, he’d been too shy to do anything about it.
Walking back out to his car to head home, Sam wondered at Chloe’s return to Hearts Bend. Would she, once again, be in his orbit? He was, perhaps, on the verge of another tough season in his life and could use an important friend once again.
The next week passed with a few appointments for Mom, more unpacking, and a visit to Sophie at the Book Nook. Finally, Friday morning, Chloe stood in the bakery office and smoothed the hem of her white chef’s jacket. It felt good to be back at work, running a kitchen.
She’d set her alarm for two a.m., tiptoed down the stairs so she didn’t disturb Mom, and slipped out the front door. At three a.m., she inserted her first loaves of bread into the oven and blessed Ruby for starting the dough the night before. Soon the kitchen was filled with the greatest aroma on earth. When Laura Kate, the white-blonde cake decorator with the disastrous workstation, arrived at four, she began the process of making the donuts. By six a.m., when Haven’s opened, the cases were lined with fresh baked goods, the coffees were brewing, and Ruby had boxed up all the standing orders for cinnamon rolls, crullers, donuts, breads, cakes, and assortments of cookies and other bakery items.
Chloe was in the flow. Every doubt she’d harbored during a restless night of sleep—battling a crack in her confidence—had vanished. The first hours after opening had gone smoothly, better than Chloe had expected. Laura Kate proved to be more competent than her messy workstation indicated, and she followed Chloe’s directions with ease and knowledge. Ruby handled the front of the shop with her gregarious hospitality.
Chloe had yet to meet the third employee, a young woman named Robin, who was part-time and also attended the local community college.
Just after lunch, when things slowed down, Chloe called for a brief staff meeting. She was about to clap her hands for attention, just like at Bistro Gaspard, but the only two she needed were standing right in front of her.
“Well, we’ve had a good day so far. Thank you all so much for welcoming me. I just wanted to talk about the menu briefly. Do you?—”
“Darling, here’s our menu.” Ruby jutted a printed paper menu at Chloe. “Been the same one for fifty years so best go slow with any new ideas. We’re small-town Southerners. We like our traditions and our ways.”
“Yes, well, thank you, Ruby, good to know. I do have a lot of experience with various pastries and?—”
“Why did you leave Paris?” Laura Kate said. Apparently not letting a girl finish her thoughts was a new Southern tradition.
“To help my mom. She’s having some medical treatments?—”
“As any good daughter would. Family comes first.” Ruby folded her arms and nodded her approval.
“I trained as a pastry chef in New York and Paris, where I lived with my husband until he died last year. I look forward to getting to know you both better and—” The back door flew open, and a young woman dashed in.
“Sorry I’m late.” She shed a backpack, hung it on a hook near the door, and slipped an apron over her head as she turned toward them. “Oh. Hi.”
