So I pressed on, into the new day, with the bakery and the Iron Valor Pack waiting somewhere ahead.
I hoped Mama was right—that I’d find something beautiful at the end of this road.
If it wasn’t beautiful when I got there, I’d do my best to make it so.
Chapter 2
Aspen
It was dawn when I rolled into Dairyville. I’d made it through the long dark highway by mainlining black coffee and heartbreak, counting down the mile markers like the beads of a rosary. The sky above the High Plains was a pale, lidless blue, empty of clouds and mercy. I expected Texas to hit me with wildness and gunfire, but Dairyville had the kind of calm you only found in places that had forgotten the world outside.
The town square was best described as charming. It consisted of a couple of streets with pretty little storefronts painted in various colors. There were street lamps and park benches that dotted the square that begged you to sit downand take a load off. The buildings were all stitched together by their old awnings and different lettering and logos on their windows: JONES HARDWARE, SHEAR ECSTASY SALON, and, squeezed between them like an afterthought, BUTTERCREAM & BLESSINGS BAKERY.
I let the Subaru idle at the curb, my hands clenched on the wheel, waiting for the place to wake up. It was still early, too early for much life, but the streetlamps glowed against the dark like they refused to give up the night. At the heart of the square stood a perfect little gazebo, white as a wedding cake with Victorian trim. There was even a plaque on one of the gazebo pillars, though I couldn’t read it from the car.
I spotted a sign taped to the bakery window advertising the “Iron Valor Christmas Toy Run.” The date was December 25, and it was currently the end of January, but nobody’d bothered to take it down. I guess not having an owner, the bakery got lost in the aftermath.
I cut the engine, and for a minute the silence rang in my ears. My brain, wrung out from the last three days, tried to fill the emptiness with Mama’s voice. “You make your own luck, Aspen. Don’t wait for the world to hand it to you.” I wondered if she’d say the same, seeing me now, strung out on exhaustion and clutching the steering wheel like it could save me.
I slid out of the car, concrete solid under my boots. The air was cold but dry, the kind of cold that slid right through your jacket and turned your nose red.
The building itself wasn’t terribly wide. I’d guess 25 feet or so. The front window was smudged, the displayed cake stands were cracked, and it held a faded sign that said, “Happy 4th of July.” The paint on the outside was a dull, washed-out mustard, with streaks of darker yellow running down in sad little tears. I tried to imagine what it looked like when the color was fresh. Maybe like sunshine, if sunshine had a nervous breakdown.
I checked the sidewalk. There was no one. Not a single soul, not even a stray dog. I ran a hand through my hair, which was tangled and greasy and absolutely not ready to meet the public. My coat felt tight over the hoodie I was wearing, and I was past due for a shower. It was just as well there was no one for me to meet at this hour.
I walked up to the bakery door, which had a bell but no lock. The key Mama left worked on the deadbolt, but the handle turned easily, as if the place had been waiting for me all along. I held my breath and went inside.
The real shock wasn’t how bad the place looked, but how bad it felt. Buttercream & Blessings had seen better days—maybe better decades—but now it looked like someone had just up and quit halfway through closing. The air inside was thick with the sweet rot of old sugar and the metallic ghost of burned coffee. I walked the bakery’s length with my arms tucked tight to my ribs, trying not to touch anything I couldn’t wash off.
Flour moved in lazy drifts across the tile. It caked every knob and switch, turned the black-and-white checkered floor into a blurry, ashy painting. There was sugar dried to glass on the stovetop, and in the back kitchen a film of yellowed butter crusted the prep table. I flicked the light switch by the door and nearly wept with relief when the fluorescents flickered to life. I half-expected the lights to catch fire, the way everything else looked ready to combust.
First order of business: see if anything actually worked.
The walk-in cooler, which took up most of the back wall, rattled when I yanked the handle. I stepped inside and felt the temperature drop a grand total of zero degrees. Dead. All the metal racks were empty except for one shriveled orange and a single, bloated tub of what I guessed was margarine. I prodded it with the toe of my boot; it shivered like jelly, refusing to move.
Next up, the sinks. I turned the faucet on full blast and heard nothing but the gurgle of a thousand dead pipes. No water, not even a cough. The steel basin was filled with a brown scum I didn’t want to inspect further.
The oven. My last hope. I flipped the preheat switch and waited, counting the seconds the way Mama had taught me. Ten, twenty, thirty. No click, no glow, nothing but the familiar scent of defeat. I sat down on a flour sack, stuck my head between my knees, and tried not to scream.
Instead, I laughed. It came out broken and high, and sounded exactly like Mama on her worst days. The woman could cuss out a car that wouldn’t start with the creative force of a preacher at a tent revival. But right now, I didn’t even have the energy for profanity.
I dragged myself into the dining area, slumped into one of the mismatched chairs, and stared at the dark street outside. Morning sunlight cut sharp lines across the bakery’s filmy windows. I wondered what the people in this town would see, looking in: a pale, chubby girl in a hand-me-down coat, face blotched from crying, elbows sunk into a dirty bakery table.
I tried to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. I was past crying, past anger, somewhere in the numb void where you either quit or doubled down.
The chair wobbled under me as I fished my phone from my coat pocket. The battery was almost dead, but I still had just enough juice to open the text Mama sent while the phone was still in the box. The last words she ever sent to me.
Check your bank account, honey. You’ll need it. I believe in you.
She’d sent it two days before she died, while I was out buying groceries she’d never eat. I clicked into the banking app, expecting to see the usual: double digits, maybe three if I was lucky.
Instead, the number nearly blinded me. $25,313.16.
For a second, I thought it was a glitch. Or maybe Mama had stolen someone’s identity to give me a head start in life. But there it was, staring back, real as sunlight. This must be what was left of the proceeds from selling her herb store after purchasing this bakery. The little herb store she ran in Verdant Hollow was actually quite successful. I loved the days we spent there and the customers we served. I thought I’d inherit it someday. I guess I did, just not how I’d expected to.
My hands shook. I set the phone down, afraid I’d drop it. The tears came, and I let them. There wasn’t anything pretty about the crying this time—no delicate sniffles, no pretty weeping. I just let it out, ugly and animal, until my throat felt raw and my cheeks burned. The whole bakery echoed with the sound, but no one heard except me and the ghosts.
When I finally got hold of myself, I wiped my face on the hem of my shirt and forced a laugh. “Okay, Mama,” I said to the empty chairs. “I get the point.”
