“One more thing, Arbiter,” I say after another bite of the dark chocolate brownie.
She straightens her shoulders. “Yes?”
“I don’t like nuts. So can you vote on the seven-layer bar for me? I’m pretty sure your dad wants to marry it. But what doyouthink?”
With a laugh, she says, “He definitely wants to marry it. But in his defense, it’s really good.”
“Noted. We need to have one on our menu then,” I say.
“Definitely,” Corbin and Charlotte agree in unison.
“Will you put it on your task management list?” I ask.
Her fingers fly across the screen of her phone. “Do you want me to share that with you?”
“I would love that,” I say, and a few seconds later it’s on my phone too.
I think I’m in love. With the colors, the programs, her fantastic little managerial mind, and her affection for poking fun at her dad.
Next stop is a bakery on Fillmore Street. Charlotte’s got the hang of it already, assessing the decor, the display case, the vibes, and then the pastries.
We order a selection—chocolate chip cookies, a snickerdoodle, and a lemon poppyseed cake—then find a small table by the window.
I break a chocolate chip cookie in half and offer her a piece. “When did your dad teach you how to bake?”
“Actually, my grandma did,” she says, taking the piece and chewing. “She was amazing in the kitchen. Baking is like a science, that’s what she always told me. That might be why I like it so much.”
“My mom,” Corbin confirms, but there’s something heavy in his voice.
I file that away as I turn back to Charlotte. “Were you close with her?”
“She lived with us for a while. Well, right next to us. Like in a little house across the yard. It was nice to have her so near. She died a couple years ago.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say to her, then I turn to Corbin, my throat tightening. “I’m so sorry about your mom.”
He gives a solemn but grateful nod. “Thanks,” he says, then takes a beat. “She…left me her recipes.”
“Oh, Corbin,” I say, clasping my hand to my heart. That just does something to me. Tugs on all my heartstrings. “That’s lovely. You’ll be using some of them in our bakery, right?”
“Count on it,” he says with a note of emotion in his voice I haven’t heard before. And a promise too. “She loved baking so much. It was her passion. But it was hard for her in the end.”
I wait for him to supply more info. He doesn’t though. Instead, he takes a bite of another cookie, and maybe that’s all he wants to say now.
I pause for a few seconds, then ask the next thing on my mind. “Is she why you wanted to do this?”
“She is,” he says, full of vulnerability but also restraint. There’s more to the story, but it’s clear he’s not ready to share it, so I focus on our market research, taking notes with his daughter, and then moving along to our final stop—a cupcake shop in the Marina District that’s become all the rage.
While we’re there, we take bites of theirtop picksand then make a list of our favorite flavors.
“My grandma always said cupcakes should focus on flavor, not flash,” Charlotte offers.
I think on that for a minute, then nod. “No candy on the top.”
“No too-tall swirls,” Corbin says.
“No monster-size cupcakes,” Charlotte puts in.
“Just rich, good, real flavors,” I say.
