“Yes. And it says...”
Dear friend,
Can I call you that? I’m pretty sure I can. Because that’s what you were to me today. A friend when I needed it most. I walked into the firehouse, nervous and excited and stoic, determined not to show my nerves. A woman in a man’s workplace. I expected cold shoulders and stony faces.
There were fewer than I’d anticipated.
And then there was…you.
You walked straight up to me, shook my hand, and said, “It’s nice to meet you. I’ll show you around.”
For that, I thank you. You did show me around. You did make me feel comfortable. You did make me feel like this could be my place too.
I’m really looking forward to working with you.
Thank you for being a friend.
My best,
Your new friend,
Harriet
My heart slams uncomfortably hard against my chest. Thisisa window into another time. A movie where the heroine wanders up the creaky steps to the attic and discovers a long-lost photograph.
“This is the start of a love story,” I say, then catch myself. I don’t want him to think I mean anything but what’s on this ink and paper. “I mean, historically speaking. For them. Seventy years ago.”
Corbin’s brow furrows. “How do you know? It saysfriend.”
“Harriet’s my great-grandmother. She worked here. She met her husband here. But that’s all I ever knew about them.”
“Wow,” he says, drawing a big breath as if he’s taking this all in, trying to figure out what to do with this information. “She was brave. A woman firefighter back then? That took guts.”
“It did. And he was so kind to her. He made the new person feel welcome,” I say, proud of the man I didn’t even know.
“That’s what you have to do when you get a new teammate,” he says, then holds up a hand, like he’s making a correction. “But we don’t send letters to the new guy in the locker room. Or discover love letters at rinks.”
A laugh bursts from me. “I don’t write letters to other bakers. Well, I usually work alone.” Except, I don’t any longer. “Until now.”
He looks around at the bakery we’re building with something like pride in his eyes. Maybe wonder too. This is a man who can fly down the ice, shoot a black disc past fearsome goalies, get slammed against the boards, and do it better than most other elite athletes. But he seems proud of this little bakery, which we haven’t even finished yet. “Pretty wild that we’re building a business in the same spot where your great-grandparents met in another century.”
But I’m also painfully, awkwardly aware that we’re sitting in a space where someone in my family fell in love. That isn’t happening here. One leg hump does not a romance make. “At least we know this place has a history of people getting along,” I say, making light of it. Otherwise, he might think I want more, and that’s too risky.
“Good thing for business partners,” he says with a tight nod.
It says we’re resetting again. It’s a relief that he feels the same way. I barely know how to manage my own desire for him, let alone his for me.
“I told you it had good bones. I guess it has good vibes too.” Even if I like magic, I won’t let myself get carried away in magical thoughts. This is just family history I’m reading. It doesn’t mean anything about this place, or Corbin and me. Besides, it’s not like my grandmother’s playing matchmaker from the great beyond.
But when it comes to these letters, I’m not sure I want to go it alone. I want to talk about them with someone. To figure them out. To enjoy them. And that’s when I can see the recipe come together.
Take one letter for each milestone. Make a cup of tea. Have a treat. And read them as a team.
“Corbin, what if we take our time with these? Treat them like rewards? For each thing we accomplish at the bakery—getting through opening day, landing our first wedding cake order, getting a great review—we get to read one. What do you think? Do you want to? Read these all with me?”
“As if I’d let you read them alone,” he says with a smirk.
“Really? I don’t want to pressure you,” I say. “I mean, they’re love letters. Or they will be.”
