Mrs. Rice comes in for her usual order and looks at me with concern in her eyes. “Oh, honey,” she says, patting my handacross the counter. “You look like you need more than caffeine. Everything okay with that handsome husband of yours?”
“It’s—” I let out a breath, not even able to tell her that it’scomplicated, my standard response to everything lately. Because is it really?
“You know what I’ve learned in almost forty years of marriage? Sometimes you have to stop thinking and start trusting your heart. Let it be fun. Light. Easy.”
Just for that, she gets a Nina dozen of Linzer cookies to take home to that husband of hers. I truly have the sweetest customers and they deserve a little something extra now and then. But giving away baked goods isn’t going to pay my lease.
While I struggle with a stubborn batch of dough that won’t proof, my thoughts drift to Mrs. Rice’s three simple words.
Fun. Light. Easy.
The last time I felt that way was on New Year’s Eve, when I danced with Lane in an entirely unexpected and carefree moment I’d cast all my inhibitions and worries away. Too bad I didn’t leave them in “last year.”
Later that afternoon, alone in my empty bakery and I start to close for the day, I look up at the framed photo of Bibi. I wonder what she’d say to me about this situation. The fact that I don’t know makes salty liquid brim in my eyes.
Staring at the relative mess I made of the kitchen earlier, actually, I do know exactly what she’d tell me. She’d say,Clean up, dust off, and get out there.
But out where?
Now, happy tears bring a smile to my face. Even after the injury that took me off the ice, she was always encouraging me to get back out there, to push past my fears. She told me that it’s as difficult and straightforward as putting one foot in front of the other. To take a step boldly toward the next right thing.
Difficult for sure. But straightforward too, and certainly not impossible.
I may have struck out with playing hockey for the women’s league and never made it to space as an astronaut, but that doesn’t mean I can’t have new goals and dreams. Exactly what those are, play peekaboo at the edge of my awareness.
However, right now I need perspective, fresh air, and maybe a minor miracle. The bell above the door chimes again. I assume it’s a last-minute customer, but when I look up from wiping down the counter, my heart stops.
It’s my father.
Viggo Bruun stands in the doorway of the Busy Bee, looking exactly like he does in our video calls—silver hair, broad shoulders, a familiar intensity in his eyes that once made opposing teams nervous. Except now he’s here, in person, in Cobbiton.
“Papa?” My voice comes out as barely a whisper.
“Nina.” He steps inside, and suddenly the bakery feels too small—I still haven’t told him about Lane. It’s mostly because I’m afraid of what he’ll think of me for breaking the promise.
I blink a few times, half-expecting him to disappear like a mirage. “What are you?—?”
But before the question is out of my mouth, I rush into his arms for a long-overdue hug. We missed Christmas this year, since I was so busy with the bakery, and feeling his enormous arms around me is better than any gift I could’ve received.
When we part, his mouth twitches with what might be amusement. “I saw a video. A viral one, I believe they call it. My daughter, married to a hockey player. On a stage. Under hypnosis.” His accent is as thick as ever.
My stomach drops. “Papa, I can explain?—”
He holds up a hand. “You promised me you would never date a hockey player.”
Here it comes. The disappointment. The lecture about broken promises. I’m one big knot inside.
“And you didn’t,” he continues, and now there’s definitely a smile playing at his lips. “You married one instead. Skipped dating entirely. Very efficient.”
I stare at him. “Are you ... are you joking right now?” The man is very stoic and it’s hard to gauge his sense of humor, especially with the big, bushy beard.
“I’m a father who made his daughter promise something out of fear and bitterness.” His expression grows serious. “That was wrong of me. What happened with your mother and me was our failure, not yours to carry.”
“But the promise—?” I start.
He shakes his head. “Was me being a fool.” He looks up at Bibi’s photo on the wall, and his voice softens. “Your grandmother told me as much before she died. Said I was letting my past influence your future.” He looks back at me. “She was right, as always.”
Salty liquid brims in my eyes. “Bibi said that?”
