PROLOGUE
Harper
“What’s it called again, the pumpkin-plosion?” Steven asks on the other end of the phone. “No, that’s not it, pumpaloosa? Wait, why does that sound sexual? Pumptastic? Ha! That one too…” he goes on for a while, loving to hear himself talk. I’m just barely managing to keep the phone wedged in between my ear and shoulder while I take a pan of quiches out of the oven, but I let him ramble until he’s ready for an actual response.
“Pumpapocalypse,” I say when I can get a word in.
“Yes, that! I need twenty-five of those.”
I almost drop the phone and the pan.
“Twenty-five?” I repeat quietly while screaming internally.
“Yes, honey, can you do it? I need one for each of the realtors that’ll be at this thing over in Cedar Point in an hour. Good exposure for you, right? I can be there in ten!”
“Uh huh…” Heisright. Cedar Point is Juniper Falls’ bigger, better sister city to the north. “Okay, we can swing at it.”
“Justswing it,Harp.”
“Right, yeah,” I mumble. My brain has moved on from the conversation. Steven and I hang up and I take a deep breath. It’s not like the bakery is slammed, which is why it’s sweet of my old high school friend to call in and order it. But it’s only me and DJ here today, which is why this is going to be difficult.
I walk out from the back kitchen to the storefront and glance around.
My dad’s dream, The Roasted Chestnut, has seen better days. If a patron looks closely, they’ll see the Christmas stripe wallpaper is stained in some spots, peeling in others. The fixtures and furniture are outdated. The display cases are ancient and some of the lights go on flickering sprees that Carl, the town electrician, cannot figure out.
But the confections in said cases, Dad’s food, now my food, are still delicious.
Plus, I’ve gotten good at the adorable little flower arrangements on the table that add some cheer. I reworked the merch section with more mugs and t-shirts, either Christmas themed or with inspirational quotes my father loved.
And the sun streams in and catches sugar dust like happy fireflies. Mr. and Mrs. Newman are in the corner having their usual and being generally adorable. It’s happy, homey and…quiet in here today. Like every day.
Way too quiet, my dad would say.
I wipe my hands on my apron and force a smile.
Okay, not your dream, but it’s someone’s! You get to run your own business, Harp! You have a cute little bakery!
“Deej, we’ve got a big order, I’m going to need your help, okay?” I say tentatively to my sweet, scrawny, wanna-be-emo sidekick. When his mom asked if he could work part time at adiscounted hourly pay rate in order to work on his interpersonal skills, I couldn’t say no.
His eyes go wide.
Yeah, you and me too, buddy.
I’m about to talk him down, calm us both, when my cell phone buzzes in my back pocket.
Janie: Down bad. Flu. Need some stuff from the pharmacy ASAP.
Another message comes through with a list of items, likely written by her new husband, billionaire Englishman Benedict Clark. The “post haste” gives him away. I write out the list on a scrap of receipt paper and stick it in my apron pocket.
“H-help with w-w-what?” DJ asks, cheeks almost as red as my unruly curls. He reminds me so much of me, and Janie too, now that I think of it. She and I became fast friends in second grade. She had a stutter and I was totally non-speaking back then. We huddled in the corner of the lunch room, silent, together and blissfully unbothered by the other kids.
DJ’s mom didn’t go into specifics but she didn’t need too. He’s shy. I’m shy. He needs to be able to go to college next fall and speak up for himself. Or at least speak out loud. Not mutter his thoughts under his breath, or snap and yell at everyone, his two extremes. He needs to learn to just speak. Easier said than done, I know this full well.
I used to be mute. I now run a bakery. For DJ’s mom, the math was computing.
“Ugh.Mathing,” I whisper out loud, correcting my annoying brain. “It’s ‘the math was mathing.’”
“W-w-what math?”
