I stopped at the door. “Matter of fact, I could use a painter. I’d love to have the front painted a pretty, sunny yellow. If he’s available and not too expensive.” He gave me a quote, and it seemed reasonable. And suddenly, I’d hired the man’s son and apparently had a new friend to boot.
When I got back to the store, I heard water running in the kitchen sink. I’d clearly left the faucet open, and someone had turned the water on while I was at the hardware store. So, I rolled up my sleeves and got to work. I scrubbed the windows until my knuckles ached, cleared the cobwebs from the corners, and polished the glass case next to the front counter until I could see my own puffy-eyed reflection. Every sweep of the rag peeled away a layer of grime, a decade of lost hope. It wasn’t pretty yet, but it was starting to look alive.
The lemon cleaner made the whole place smell like a Florida orchard, sharp and clean. I set up the tables in the front room, arranging the mismatched chairs so they wouldn’t look so lonely. There were only six tables, enough to seat maybe twenty people if they squeezed. I dusted each one, scoured the salt andpepper shakers, and the sugar caddies to get them ready to be filled with the first grocery delivery that would soon arrive.
Around noon, a battered pickup rolled up in front of the bakery. The driver was a guy in paint-spattered jeans and a camo hat, carrying a five-gallon bucket and a ladder. He knocked once, hard.
“You Aspen?”
“That’s me.”
“Dad said you needed the outside painted.” He didn’t wait for me to answer, just started unloading. The paint cans were sunshine yellow, the kind of color you couldn’t look at straight on without smiling. He covered the front door with plastic, taped off the windows, and set to work like he’d been born with a brush in his hand.
I watched from the inside, every stroke a little brighter than the last. The old mustard color was gone within the hour, replaced by the bold, almost absurd optimism of fresh paint. I couldn’t help but think of Mama, and how she used to paint our rooms every spring, chasing away the gloom of winter with wild shades of turquoise and coral.
The plumber showed up next, a woman in coveralls and a bandana. She took one look at the mess in the kitchen and shook her head.
“You got your work cut out for you, girl,” she said, hands on hips.
“I know,” I replied. “But I have a secret weapon.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
I smiled for real this time. “Stubbornness.”
She laughed and got to work under the sink.
It was so odd that, speaking to strangers around here turned out to be much easier than speaking to the coven members back home.
By the time the sun set, things looked much better. I still had a ways to go, but as I sat down in a chair by the front window, with a real cup of coffee in my hands, for the first time, I felt like maybe I could do this.
I glanced up at the sign, now freshly painted and clean.
Buttercream & Blessings Bakery.
I whispered it to myself, letting the words settle on my tongue. I thought about changing the name, but I kind of loved it as it was. Why fix something that wasn’t broken?
My mattress was delivered, and I’d made a Walmart run, grabbing new sheets, towels, and toiletries. A trip to the laundrette to wash everything, a shower, and a quick meal at a place called Pearl’s (which I think was full of wolves), and I was in bed just after midnight, dead to the world.
I’d tackle more cleaning tomorrow and hopefully get to baking soon.
Cleaning ended up taking me another couple of days. But it was so much easier than getting the appliances working for the official start of baking. On that day, I was up before sunrise, hair twisted in a bun. I’d picked up some new clothes on one of my shopping trips for supplies. No more shapeless dresses for me. I had on some cute yoga pants and a long top that hit right below my rounded ass. I felt cute and ready to make some magic; as much as I could. The kitchen was mine now—every polished handle, every clean bowl, every square inch of the ancient butcher block.
I decided to keep the existing oven. The expense of an industrial bakery oven would have set me back several thousand dollars, and this oven wasn’t actually all that old. It just looked like hell from the abuse it had taken from the previous owner. Ittook a couple of days, but I scrubbed it until it looked so bright and hopeful.
I was willing to do anything to make the old thing work. I’d even sing to it, the way Mama used to when she wanted a loaf to rise just so. I’d made a batch of cinnamon roll dough and left it to proof while I checked the oven to see if it would preheat.
The plumber had signed off; the gas was flowing, and the thermostat blinked in neon orange. But when I pressed the preheat button, nothing happened. The click of the igniter was just air; the burners stayed cold, unblinking. I tried again, slower this time, reciting the steps from memory like a prayer.
Still nothing.
I stared at the empty racks inside, willing them to heat up, and for a minute I wanted to smash the oven windows. Then I remembered how Mama had talked to the kitchen when things went sideways. Not just muttering, but full-out bargaining. I felt stupid, but desperation is stronger than pride.
I set my hands on the oven’s cold steel, closed my eyes, and tried to remember the kinds of things she said. I set my intention and spoke, “Come on, baby,” I murmured, slow and low. “You’re stronger than this. You’re made for helping to create delicious things with your heat. Don’t let me down. It’s your time to shine.”
Nothing at first, just the hum of the cooler and the tick of the wall clock. Then, in the space where my palms met the metal, a warmth buzzed through my skin. It tingled up my arms, a charge that made my hair stand on end. The oven shuddered once, then sparked to life with a roar that was half mechanical, half alive.
I jumped back, nearly tripped over my own feet, and stared at the oven like it was a living thing. The burners glowed. Heat poured out, thick and sweet, and a single tear rolled down my cheek; not from sadness, but relief.
