She might have seen my moment of confrontation as a good thing, but I couldn’t help but worry I’d just created an enemy, and one I’d have to see every day across the street. Granted, he was a winking enemy who always looked at me like I was one big amusement… but an enemy, all the same.
“That’s it,” Ella said, her mouth set in a grim line as she swept the floor. “It’s time we execute the Connor MacDowell Takedown Plan.”
I giggled, reminded of just why it was I adored her. “Do we evenhavea Connor MacDowell Takedown Plan?”
“Not yet,” she huffed, “but it won’t take me long to figure it out.” Ella swished the end of the broom like a weapon aimed at an imaginary foe. “I might not be from here originally, but this is my town now, and I’ll be darned if I’ll let some outsider walk in and talk smack to my friend and boss. Imagine the audacity!” She sniffed, nose in the air, aura of haughtiness making me giggle again. “You’re a Bell, for heaven’s sake. A JingleJunctionBell.” She waggled her eyebrows at me. “I watch a lot of those crime shows on TV.” She flashed me a wicked grin. “I can do this. You’d be shocked by what I know.”
Because I knew she meant well, I let Ella hatch three or four ways we could take down Connor MacDowell, if only because the fantasy caper scenarios helped ease my tension and elevate my mood. Two of them were particularly gruesome, and I worried a little for my best friend, even if she made me laugh. By the time I finished the last of the delicate sugar flowers for the wedding cake, Ella had devolved into the ridiculous and absurd, and I was feeling much better. So much so, I was outright laughing at some of her suggestions.
Feeling better, I made a mental promise to go over and speak to him one last time. After that, I’d wash my hands of Connor MacDowell forever.
At least, that was the intention.
Funny how one day turned into three.
Then four.
Then five.
By the time the weekend rolled around, I’d yet to say anything to the man. He’d gone out of his way to ignore me as well, I’d noticed, and that suited me just fine. But soon the day I’d dreaded had finally arrived and, whether I liked it or not, The Sweet Shoppe was about to open for business.
As I parked near the bakery’s front door early on Saturday morning, I noticed theComing Soonannouncement across the street had been replaced with aGrand Openingsign, written in tall letters and outlined in gold. I retreated to the kitchen and completed my usual routine, trying not to stew about the pending opening. When Ella arrived and demanded I go look out the bakery window, my heart sank.
“Now what?” I asked.
She shook her head, cheeks pink and eyes wide. “Just go look, Ivy.”
Sighing, I washed my hands and made my way out to the storefront. As soon as I looked out of the front window, I nearly passed out where I was standing.
The Sweet Shoppe wouldn’t open for another hour, and there was already a line down the sidewalk that wrapped around the corner. Dozens of people, laughing and waiting and wanting to buy Connor MacDowell’s fabulous creations.
I should have been happy for him. Good business was good for the entire town, right? More business, especially from some guy who was famous, would bring in more tourists, and that would include foodies who traveled to find their favorite eats.
I tried to be cheerful about it. I really did. Gathering my composure, I smiled and forced myself to chat with the few patrons I had, but I couldn’t help but notice that business was way down from where it normally was on a Saturday. I typically had a teenage helper, Gracie, who pitched in for Saturdays only. But we were so slow, I had to send her home early.
It wasn’t long until I realized I was keeping a running mental dialogue, a litany of excuses as to why the bakery wasn’t busy and the lineup continued outside Connor’s place. It went something like this:
Of course it was busy the first weekend of the Sweet Shoppe being open. That would be expected with something new and different in such a small town. Of course people would be curious about what he had to offer. He was some famous guy, and everyone was used to our historic bakery.
We will be fine. Everything is fine.
My mantra kept me going all afternoon and into the evening. It even rang in my head while I tried to sleep that night. And carried me back to my bakery again at 5:00 the next morning, earlier than I normally worked on a Sunday.
But by 8:00, when the morning rush wasn’t a rush at all, I had to admit the truth… everything wasnotfine. I depended on afternoon tourists to buy a lot of my weekend goodies, and when they hadn’t appeared yesterday and, as Sunday wound down, failed to show up like they should, I had a ton of baked goods left over.
And the line across the street was still going strong. I tried not to watch the steady stream of customers going in and coming out with smiles and white waxed paper bags. I caught myself staring out the window at the place across the street with my stomach in knots, my throat tight, and tears choking me to the point where I had to retreat to the kitchen and throw myself into work.
Baking items no one apparently wanted anymore. How sad was that?
By 5:00 that evening, I finally shook myself hard, dashing some wetness from my cheeks before the drips could land in the batter I was mixing so forcefully my hand was cramping around the spoon.
Enough, Ivy. Get it together. This was temporary. Once everyone had their fill of the new place, they’d be back. Everything would return to normal.
Or maybe, my mind whispered, knots inside me tightening further,this is the new normal. My gaze fell to the racks of unpurchased baked goods, and I had a great idea that raised my chin and had my jaw set with determination. Disillusioned despite myself, but unwilling to let it crush me, I loaded my car up with the extra baked goods and headed over to the chapel in town. I knew Pastor Robinson made a twice-weekly trip to the closest food bank, and he was only too happy to add quite a few of my best creations to the boxes in the back of his SUV.
It was heartbreaking to watch him pull away with all of my hard work, but it was the best I could do… and at least something good would come from it.
I drove to Bell House feeling sad and heartsick. The last thing I wanted to do was air my bruised feelings in front of the whole family at Sunday dinner, so I’d do my best to keep my emotions under control and the conversation about Mr. MacDowell to an absolute minimum.
