Chapter 1
Mallory
When my bestfriends gifted me a trip for two weeks of rest and relaxation, I didn’t expect the destination to be in the middle of nowhere Montana. Since we live in Québec City, I thought for sure that they’d send me somewhere warm and full of sunshine. A place with a beach and a chance to get a tan. But, much like my home in Canada, this place is coated with a fresh layer of powdery snow with temperatures near freezing. And for some reason spending Valentine’s Day weekend single and alone in a place named Valentine, Montana doesn’t warm my heart.
I checked into the cute boutique hotel and spa yesterday. After a restful night of sleep, I venture out to find a good cup of coffee. I pull my scarf around my neck and loop it so it stays put. Nothing says “sexy single” like three layers of winter clothes, thick wool socks, and snow boots. The bikini in my suitcase will be reserved for the spa days I have booked in between festival events.
I walk down Main Street and take in the outdoor festivities for the Heart-to-Heart Festival. The whole reason my friends, Lucy and Selena, booked this trip for me is so that I attend all these events organized for people to fall in love. They say I’m outof practice and should get time in, dating people I’ll never run into back home, just in case things go wrong.
You spill wine on a guy once and then his whole office knows. Kind of limits the so-called fish in the sea after dates like that.
People from around the world come for the festival, despite the cold and remoteness. How many things have to go wrong in your life for your best friends to buy you plane tickets to a singles festival?
Failed my driver’s test for the second time.
Given notice about my lease not getting renewed due to new management.
And the nail in the coffin – fired from my dream job.
Apparently three major things.
I take a deep inhale and, on the exhale, I try to imagine myself sitting on a sandy beach with a margarita in hand and a sexy, shirtless guy asking if I need more sunscreen on my back. Even with my imagination, it doesn’t change that I’m still freezing and in Montana. I trudge down the street and pass several brick buildings with signs about the festival in their windows. None are coffee shops though.
Then I come across a bakery. The outside is a rich, cinnamon, brown brick with a cream-colored border around the windows. Above the front door is a large sign that says Spice Spice Baby Bakery. The large inviting windows and glass door are slightly fogged up. From what I can see, there appears to be a cozy ambience inside. It’s barely ten in the morning and there are at least a dozen customers milling about. I peek at the glass cases right behind the window and the moment I see a mille-feuille with a marbled chocolate design on top I head inside. I doubt it’ll be as tasty as one from home with the maple syrup added, but it’s one of my all-time favorite sweet treats.
There is soft jazz music under all the chatter of the patrons. It looks like there is a collection of industrial-style, metal, chairspaired with wooden tables throughout the bakery with a handful of velvet, plush looking armchairs mixed in. The exposed brick walls on the inside are decorated with quotes about baking and love as well as funky illustrations of different spices. I can’t stop looking around. There is a warm glow from the Edison bulbs dotting the ceiling and I see the ducts and metal work above. The air smells of pastry dough and fresh coffee. It feels like the perfect place to sit with a hot drink and relax.
I take my hat off and fluff my hair. The heat from the bakery is warming my nose and my hands. I remove my gloves and stuff them in my pockets as I reach the counter. There are several men behind the counter folding dough, making coffee, and decorating cakes. They move at various paces, each one fully immersed in their task. I don’t know if I’ve been to a bakery with an open-kitchen concept. It’s unique and a lot of fun to watch the guys as they work.
“I’d love a chai latte and a piece of the mille-feuille you had in the display up front” I point to the front of the bakery.
“Name?” A guy with a flour splattered apron and a name tag that reads ‘Mark’ takes my order.
“Mallory” I reply and he smiles. I’m sure my French-Canadian accent is unusual for this area.
“Coming right up, we’ll call your name when it’s ready.” I pay and he gestures for me to find a seat.
I scan the open seats and opt for a cozy emerald armchair near the corner. While most of the tables seem perfect for communal seating and chatting with strangers, I’m not quite ready to be social. I need my caffeine fix first. I remove my thick wool peacoat and drape it across the back of the chair. My orange knit sweater, with a basic white tee underneath, is plenty warm now that I’m cozied up inside. I plop down and am grateful for the chair’s large cushion. My hips have plenty ofroom for me to sit comfortably. Unlike the plane seats. I felt like I was trapped by the armrests the entire time we were in the air.
My name is called and I grab my pastry and drink. Back at the chair I sink in, relax, and sip on the chai latte. The warm spiced drink is perfect. I snack on the slice of pastry as I scroll through my emails and texts. I was laid off at the beginning of the year and while it took me a few days to pull myself out of a pit of despair. I picked myself up and got to work. I revamped my portfolio, updated my website, and reached out to friends in the industry for openings and recommendations. Then, I applied to anything and everything even remotely close to my fashion design experience. I’ve already done a little bit of everything from sketching and sewing accessible, fashionable clothing to crafting Shakespearean costumes for local theater companies. But my recent job at the designer studio was a dream of mine.
I got to create mood boards for future lines, work on sketches and patterns, even assist with samples and runway tweaks. It let me grow into the designer I knew I wanted to be. Then I was fired due to budget reasons. I’ve done nothing but focus on my career for the past ten years. I want to start my own business but I’ve been too scared. And with this loss, I still feel like I’m not good enough to be on my own.
What am I going to do now?
I groan and finish my pastry. Sugar is supposed to cure all sadness, but maybe not today. I’m lost in my thoughts as I click one email rejection after another. Then someone taps my knee and I snap my attention from my screen. A little girl, maybe four or five, with bright green eyes and vibrant red hair stares at me. She’s wearing jeans and a knit sweater, much like me. Her hair is in a neat French braid with a bright green scrunchie. The scrunchie matches her Mary-Jane shoes.
“Hi there,” I hesitantly say as I look past her to see if she’s with someone. Everyone in the bakery is where they were when I sat down. No new strangers, no one looking for this kid.
“Do you know where my dad is?” she asks.
“Who’s your dad? What’s his name?” I tuck my phone in my pocket and lean forward so I can be more on her eye level.
She shrugs her shoulders up and down. “His name is Dad.”
“Okay sweetie,” I don’t know what response I was expecting but I stifle the laughter that bubbles up. “What’s your name?”
“Charlotte, I’m four.” She sticks up four fingers and grins at me.
