If she’d gone through all this trouble, the least I could do was get the place up and running. I had money, or at least more than I’d ever seen in my life. I could call the plumbers, fix the cooler, order flour and sugar and eggs by the ton. I could buy every self-help book in the world and line the windows with them, if I wanted.
But first, I needed water. And a working oven. And maybe a new chair that didn’t threaten to collapse under my ass.
I made a list on the back of an old invoice; the pen shaking in my fingers:
- Call utilities (water/gas/electric)
- Find plumber
- Fix oven
- Clean EVERYTHING
- Inventory supplies
- Sleep (ha)
- Open for business
I stared at the list for a long time, waiting for the panic to come back. But it didn’t. The fear had burned itself out, replaced with a hollow, reckless hope.
I pressed my palms flat to the table, felt the stickiness of spilled syrup, and swore an oath right then and there:
No matter what, I would make this bakery work. For Mama. For me. For the dumb little town that was now home.
The apartment above the bakery was tiny, but it had a couple of windows to let in some natural light, and the heat worked when I twisted the dial on the thermostat. That alone made it better than sleeping in my car. The bedroom had a full-size bed complete with an old, lumpy mattress, but it wasn’t the floor. The kitchen was a galley with a tiny sink, a fridge that moaned like it was trying to simply live another day, and a stove so ancient the brand name had worn away. I opened a few cabinets and found exactly what I expected: mismatched cups, plates, a coffee pot with a cracked handle. Mama had to buy the place sight unseen, and I know she trusted the universe to give me just enough. This was certainly exactlyjustenough.
I spent twenty minutes making mental notes. There were sheets on the bed, a towel hung over the bathroom door, and a bar of soap that smelled like hotel shampoo. No food in the fridge except for a single bottle of mustard and two cans of Diet Coke. I made a list: groceries, new pillows, towels, toiletries, and so many other things. But that was a start.
First priority, though: a new mattress. If I were going to survive this, I needed sleep that didn’t come with springs poking at my kidneys. I checked Google Maps—turns out, Dairyville had exactly one furniture store, on the square, just two doors down from my own building. I called; the woman on the other end sounded so chipper I wanted to hang up. Yes, they delivered.Yes, today. I ordered a queen-size mattress and frame, nothing fancy, and paid with some of that newfound money.
Next, I dialed the water company, putting them on speaker so I could start unloading cleaning supplies downstairs. The hold music was a nightmare loop of eighties country, and I had to repeat my name four times before the woman believed I was real. When I told her the address, there was a long pause.
“You said Buttercream & Blessings Bakery?” she asked, her voice suddenly wary.
“That’s right.”
“Place has been empty a while,” she said, as if I didn’t already know. “Last owner packed up in the middle of the night; rumor is she owed half the county money.”
I tried to sound cheerful. “Well, I paid the bill. Or, my mother did. I’m starting fresh. Can you send someone out to turn the water on?”
She promised a technician within the hour. For the gas, I needed a plumber to sign off, and for the oven I’d need to wait until everything was up and running. I thanked her, told her to have a lovely day, and hung up.
Without water, I decided to start removing trash and sweeping.
I started at the top and worked my way down, as Mama always said. Dust before you sweep, sweep before you mop, then wipe every surface twice. I found the cleaning supplies in a plastic bucket under the sink—mostly vinegar and bleach, plus a terrifying pink sponge that looked older than me. I threw the sponge away and raided the hardware store for fresh supplies.
The man behind the counter was about sixty, with a face like beef jerky and hands that could crush walnuts. He watched me the whole time I shopped, his eyes following me down every aisle. I bought gloves, rags, a broom, and a gallon of lemon-scented cleaner. At the checkout, he rang everything up in silence.
“Y’all are new to Dairyville, aren’t you?” he said finally.
I nodded, offering a half-smile. “Moved in this morning. I’m opening the bakery back up.”
He grunted, not quite friendly, not quite unfriendly. “People here like things the way they are. Don’t much care for change.”
“I’m not here to change anything,” I said carefully. “Just bake some pastries, maybe a few cakes. Hopefully, I’ll make a few friends.”
He slid the bags across the counter. “You let me know if you need a contractor. My son does odd jobs—painting, repairs, whatever.” His gaze softened, just a hair. “Good luck.”
