CHAPTER 1
Pastry dough doesn’t careif I’ve been up since four a.m. or if it’s technically New Year’s Eve. It still demands multiple folds and my complete attention, or it will turn into an expensive, buttery blob of disappointment.
I smooth the rolling pin across the sheet one final time. Despite the early hour, the familiar rhythm is soothing. The Busy Bee wraps around me like a warm hug, filled with the scents of cinnamon and vanilla that have basically become my signature perfume. Most people are probably still snug in their beds, preparing for tonight’s parties, but the baking list is not concerned about anyone’s social calendar—least of all mine.
“Morning, Bibi,” I murmur to the framed photo perched on the flour-dusted shelf above my workspace. Her kind eyes twinkle back at me through the glass, her silver hair pinned up in the same neat bun I remember from childhood.
“Another New Year’s Eve, another batch of your famous honey butter Danishes. Some things never change.”
Except other things do, and I’m not talking about how thelight rain that started earlier this morning has gradually shifted into tiny snowflakes like powdered sugar from heaven. The kinds of changes I mean are more like the lease renewal notice I’ve been pretending doesn’t exist, the money I owe my landlord and the bill behind the closed door of my closet-sized office. At least there, it can’t judge me with its bold red lettering and intimidating dollar signs.
I calculate ingredient costs in my head while I work—flour, butter, eggs, honey—each item is more expensive than last month. But worrying about where to allocate my limited funds won’t make the math any different, and the morning rush waits for no one’s financial anxiety.
Not only did I inherit my grandmother’s name, Elizabeth, as my middle name, but I also received her beloved bakery in Cobbiton. Everyone called her Busy—a unique nickname for Elizabeth. It may also have helped that her preferred sweetener was honey, hence the Busy Bee Bakery. However, when I was too little to remember, she became Bibi to me.
Losing her altered the direction of my life, among other things, and I’d do almost anything for things to be the way they were—and by that, I mean having her back.
Since that’s not happening, I do the best with what I have, even though on some days I’m not sure that’s enough.
Several hours and many turns of the rolling pin later, the bell above the door chimes as I slide the last batch of lemon poppyseed muffins into the oven, anticipating a mid-morning run on provisions for tomorrow.
Mrs. Rice, my friend Heidi’s mom, glides in with her usual glittering-just barely dawn energy. “Nina, dear, you’re an angel for opening today. You’re always here, reliable like your grandmother.” She digs in her purse, presumably for her wallet.
The comment puckers up my insides like I just squeezedall the lemon juice from the muffins onto a wound. This place might not be around for long if I can’t cough up the building rental past due amount.
She browses the pastry case. “Ed made me promise to get your Linzer cookies for dessert tonight and you were all out yesterday.”
“They tend to go fast, but tell Mr. Rice that I made extra today.” I lean in and smile. “And I added a little extra jam.” I box up half a dozen of the star-shaped treats, then pop two more in her order for not just a baker’s dozen, but a “Nina dozen.” Like Bibi, I do this just because. Mrs. Rice has been coming here since before I was born, back when my grandmother ran the place. Customers like her are worth getting up before dawn for, then going the extra mile.
She presses a five-dollar tip into the old ceramic honey pot on the counter despite my protests. “You take care of everyone else, sweetie. Someone should take care of you, too.”
If only I had time to date.
“Grady probably has some teammates and friends he and Heidi could introduce you to. Jake Twiles joined the team this year. I hear he’s single. Oh, and they had a midseason trade. But I can’t keep up with all things Nebraska Knights.” She winks.
Grady is Mrs. Rice’s son-in-law and plays defense for the team. I don’t expect her to have received the memo, but my father made me promise never to date a hockey player. In recent years, that’s become increasingly difficult to do in a place dubbed “Hockey Town,” where so many of the men are somehow involved with the NHL, including most of my friends’ boyfriends and husbands.
After Mrs. Rice leaves, the bakery falls quiet again except for the hum of the ovens and the Christmas carols playing from the ancient radio Bibi brought from Denmark. I’m not ready tochange the station, nor am I quick to tear down the tree and other decorations. Eleven months out of the year, I have a minimalist and functional style thanks to my Danish heritage. The trendy term for it is “Scandi style.” I hear the “hygge” aesthetic is quite popular. To me, it’s comfort and ease.
When my father got signed with the NHL, my grandmother followed to the United States and hung up a shingle here in Nebraska, doing what she did best. The rest, as they say, is history.
As I grind enough coffee beans to carry us through the morning rush, I hum along to the instrumental version of “Joy to the World.” I can’t help but feel the essence of the song. ‘Tis that time of year, after all.
It’s seven thirty, and while I often have regular customers already having come and gone. Today is a holiday, so it’s safe to assume people sleep in if they can. My group of girlfriends probably won’t be waking up in their fancy Las Vegas hotel until later, after a long night of hockey game excitement. I imagine they’ll order room service while still in their pajamas, lounge for a while, and then get ready for whatever adventure Leah has planned for their last full day.
According to them and the slew of texts I received last night, I should be there already. Should be painting my nails and gabbing about last night’s game and pretending I don’t have a business to run here in Cobbiton. But someone has to handle the New Year’s Eve orders, and that someone is always me.
As it stands, the girls booked me a flight to join them later, even though that is not my first choice of ways to ring in the new year. I’d rather be home, but they insisted, citing that it was mandatory for my health to have fun.
Pshaw.
I have plenty of fun working on my latest knitting project with a show playing in the background or working on a jigsawpuzzle. Everyone is built a little differently, and I am perfectly content with my brand of “fun,” but I suppose giving in this one time can’t hurt. Also, they said I’m the “secret ingredient,” and it wouldn’t be the same without me, so I relented.
No sooner do I wait on a few early birds does my phone beep with a text. Sure enough, it’s my bestie.
Bree: If you’re not on the plane, so help me!
Me: You’re up early.
