Broken Hero

by Olivia Hayle

  "Hey." I grab the grocery bag she's carrying and we head towards the main house. "What's up? How did the meeting with the chef go? Any potential?"

  She sighs. "Not that great. I thought we were on to something."

  "He did claim to be specialized in Peruvian fusion."

  Sarah shoots me an annoyed glance. "But on the phone, he said he could cook Southern food too. Well… he did, but he couldn't resist spicing it up."

  "In a bad way?"

  "He put ceviche on a cheeseburger."

  "Ceviche?"

  "Raw fish." She gives a dramatic shiver. "It was the single most disgusting thing I've ever had."

  I can't help it—I laugh.

  Sarah hits me on the arm. "Don't you dare say I told you so, Ollie."

  "I won't. I'm just happy you're the one interviewing the chefs and not me."

  She holds the door open for me as I carry the grocery bags inside. We both nod at Mandy, the receptionist, sitting idly behind the desk, and head into the staff kitchen.

  "Only because you'd scare them away."

  I scoff. "Right."

  "Honestly, you would. You just laughed, and that was the first time I've heard you do that in a month."

  I put the groceries down on the kitchen island. "I laugh," I protest. "And I wouldn't scare them away. It's their job to impress us, that's all."

  She rolls her eyes and begins to unpack the bags. "Right."

  Sarah reveals new placemats for the dining-room and golden napkin holders. My sister might be a tad eccentric, but there is no denying that she’s needed here. Left to me, the place would look…sparse. I know my limits, and design is one of them.

  I decide to change the subject. I can't deal with another one of Sarah's you-need-to-live-life-to-the-fullest tirades. She has given them periodically ever since I got back stateside.

  "I looked over the booking for tomorrow. Nearly seventeen guests all in all. It's the most we've ever had, outside of wedding season."

  "And all thanks to that bird! We should make it the ranch's mascot."

  "I got us listed on the National Ornithological Society's website for bird-watching friendly hotels."

  Her eyes widen. "That is not a real thing."

  "Believe it or not, it is. I don't care why they come here, as long as it keeps bringing in the money."

  She snorts. "Dad would be proud."

  "We're bringing jobs and tourism to the community. As far as I'm concerned, we're honoring their legacy just fine."

  Her eyes soften. "We are. You are. I didn't mean it like that."

  I look out the window. Jack and Tim are working side by side, and as I watch, Jack throws his head back and laughs at something Tim said. "I know."

  Sarah clears her throat. "Do you want to hear the latest town gossip?"

  "I think you can’t wait to tell me."

  "The Rhodes' niece is in town."

  "Fascinating."

  "And apparently she's going to be staying for a while. I heard it from Mrs. Masters, who heard it from the barber, who heard it from Phil Rhodes himself."

  "This is truly riveting."

  The Rhodes have talked loud and often about their extended family for years. Hell, several of the cookies in their store are named after their favorites. There's a sugar cookie shaped like a diamond that's called Lucy, from the old song about Lucy in the sky. When Claire Rhodes explained the connection to me once, I had to stop myself from pointing out that the song was really about LSD.

  Sarah shoots me an exasperated glance. "Mock me all you like, but if I don’t keep you updated on this town you’ll become a hermit. I keep you informed."

  "Maybe I like being a hermit."

  "No, you don't. Besides, John and I have a plan to change that." Her tone is firm, and despite being nearly ten inches shorter than me, I know my sister has a will of steel.

  It frequently clashed with my own.

  I put my hands on the kitchen island and brace myself for a Morris show-down. “What plans, Sarah?”

  "John has a co-worker over in Huntersville who is thirty-two, newly single, and has a great sense of humor. I've met her and she's just lovely."

  “Dear God, not this again.”

  "We've already spoken to her and she'd be willing to meet you. How about a double date on Saturday? I know you're not busy. You're never busy."

  "Sarah,” I say. "I'm not interested, and I won't go on any blind dates."

  "Yes, you will. You've been alone for far too long."

  "My dating life is none of your business."

  "Your well-being is," she fires back.

  "I'm perfectly fine."

  Sarah raises an eyebrow, like she's calling my bullshit, and it only makes me angrier. "What do you want? A list of the women I've gone out with in the past four years? What will it take for you to back off?"

  She scoffs. "A list with a couple of crappy one-night-stands with suppliers or former receptionists won't sway me. It doesn't count."

  "I'm not having this discussion with you. Period."

  "Fine, then don't. But I know you, Ollie. You're not meant to live alone. You never used to, not…"

  The word she doesn’t want to say hangs in the air between us. Before.

  "Yeah, well, things change."

  "Which means they can change again." Her voice is just as steely as mine, and she pats my shoulder as she passes by. "At least think on it, okay?"

  The door closes behind her and I'm left alone with my anger. Somehow, she can make me just as irritated as she did as a child.

  I'm not relationship material. Maybe I was once upon a time, but I'm not anymore. I don't have the patience or the skills necessary for it. Painful conversations during awkward first dates… Having to handle the expectation that I’m supposed to be charming or entertaining. It's not for me.

  I've wondered more than once if you can ever truly adjust to civilian life—if the paradigm of war ever leaves you. And the memories, all the things I’d seen. Will they ever go away? When I brought up the subject with my sister, she blanched. “You're home now,” Sarah said. “That's all that matters.”

  I suppose it was all that mattered, even if it didn't always feel that way.

  I grab a drink from the staff fridge and head upstairs to my office. It's where I spend most of my time, and where I can avoid both the staff and the guests. Our frequent five-star ratings for customer service would drop considerably if I was forced to interact with people.

  Austin lifts his head as I enter and his tail begins its familiar swish across the carpet.

  "Hi, buddy." My hand gets lost in his thick coat, his black-and-white markings distinct. "Have you been guarding my office?"

  He looks up at me with brown eyes, as if to say what else was I supposed to do? The border collie has been by my side since the first day I got him, nearly four years ago.

  "Good boy."

  My email inbox has filled up, just in the short amount of time I worked outside. Business is truly picking up after a couple of sluggish years and it's showing. Both Sarah and I work longer hours, and we are hiring new people every couple of months. But it took a lot of work to get us here. Being a business-owner was as tough a fight as any I'd battled, although there was considerably less risk to my health.

  There's an email from Phil Rhodes, who delivers the bread to us every morning. I groan as I read it. He has business out of town tomorrow and wonders if we can pick-up instead. It has to be early though, I’m thinking. We need the goods before breakfast starts for all those birdwatchers.

  I run through the list of employees, trying to find someone who can do it. But I quickly give up and type back a reply. I'll be there. Getting up early isn’t a chore these days—I barely sleep through the night as it is. Besides, if you want something done properly, and on time, you’re better off just doing it yourself. Sarah might think I'm a hermit, but I've learned my lesson.

  You're stronger alone.

  3

  Lucy


  Claire and Phil, in their usual fashion, have been hard at work since the early hours of the morning. I heard them working from my studio upstairs and laid awake for a while, listening to the familiar sounds. The scent of newly baked goods—of rye bread and French loaves, of muffins and brown butter toffee cookies—climbed up the stairs until I couldn't stand it any longer. I crept downstairs to help out a bit with baking, but mostly to eat any of the imperfect ones.

  "Are you sure you're OK with this?" Claire asked me as I munched away on a blueberry muffin.

  I hadn’t worked in the bakery since I was sixteen. I’d never worked there alone before either, but I'm not one to back down from a challenge. "Yes, I'm sure. You've given me the full run-down twice, and I won't be baking or making anything. Just handling the cash register and front desk."

  "Claire, she'll do just fine!" Phil is waiting by the door, a heavy-looking crate in hand. "You forget that she's spent years working in the big city. And we'll only be a phone call away."

  "That's right," she tells me. "I won't put my phone on silent, not even during the meeting."

  "Thank you, Auntie, but I promise I have it under control. Now go, or you'll be late."

  She gives me a final worried glance, but Phil shoots me a thumbs up behind her back. The door closes behind them and they're off, away to a meeting with a potential distributor. Someone passing through town had gotten a taste for their famous cookies and wanted to buy the recipe for national distribution. There was no way they weren't going to take this chance, and I told them so.

  The store is quiet in their absence. It's still early, the sun just about to rise, and the place smells heady from yeast and bread. I look around at the homely environment, this little nest of heaven. It feels like just yesterday that I spent my summer days here. As if the past months of hardship are washed away, and I'm once again young, and hopeful, and happy.

  "I love this," I say out loud. "I love this place."

  The bakery doesn't say anything back, but I feel better for having told it all the same.

  It's nearly an hour until opening, so I sneak back into the kitchen. I can bake exactly one thing, and that's carrot cake. It doesn't take long to whip up the batter. My idea is brilliant—I'll use one of Claire’s fancy icing kits to decorate it. It'll be a surprise when my aunt and uncle get back, to celebrate their good fortune.

  I turn the radio on and sing along while I work. For the first time in a long while, I'm just happy and enjoying the moment. The knot of unease in my stomach is slowly coming undone. Claremont was the right decision.

  I've just popped the cake into the oven when I hear a sharp knock on the store's front door. It's exactly eight o'clock, and the bakery is officially open.

  "Hello! Hi! I'm so sorry, let me just unlock the door…" I twist the sign from closed to open. "Welcome!"

  A dignified older lady steps in. I recognize her immediately—anyone who's spent five minutes in Claremont would.

  "Mrs. Masters, it's great to see you again."

  She blinks at me. "Little Lucy Rhodes."

  "Not so little anymore," I say with a smile. "I’ve grown up. What can I get you?"

  "Phil told me you were coming back to stay for a while."

  "Yes, that's right. I've missed it here."

  She pats her perfectly coiffed hair and looks me over from head to toe. I'm sure I've already committed at least five wrongs in her book. "We're so happy to have you back, dear."

  "Thank you. Do you have a standing order?"

  "No. I came in to buy a loaf of banana bread, the ones Claire makes so well. Do you have any today?”

  "Yes, we do. Let me get that for you right away."

  She watches my every movement as I package the bread, the silence thick. Mrs. Masters is the staunch matriarch of this town, a gossipy old lady with very strict ideas of right and wrong. Aunt Claire is both in awe of her and absolutely terrified—an emotion I share.

  "What do you do now, Lucy Rhodes?"

  "I'm packaging your banana bread."

  She doesn't appreciate my lame attempt at deflection. "Back in Dallas."

  I square my shoulders. "I'm a massage therapist."

  Her eyes widen. "A masseuse?"

  "Yes. I'm licensed to rehabilitate injuries, relieve muscle pain, sports massage and deep tissue… the works.”

  Mrs. Masters’ silence is more telling than any words. "I see," she says finally. "That's great."

  "I think so, yes. I enjoy it. Here's the bread."

  She hands me exact change—down to the cent—and gives me a tight-lipped smile. "I'd be happy to see you at church this weekend, if you're still here then."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Masters. I'll see if I can swing by."

  She stops by the door. "You do that."

  The door swings shut behind her, the small bell attached jingling gayly. I release the breath I've been holding. It's the reaction I was expecting, the same reaction I got in my own hometown when I first started. No matter how much I explain and justify, people's reactions around these parts tend to be… negative. To be a massage therapist is not a proper profession—and it's certainly not a respectable one.

  I've tried to explain the positive health benefits of self-care and of not having knotted muscles. Of working through sports injuries or hurt muscles. Health is a holistic endeavor. I actively chose this profession.

  But no. They hear masseuse and they hear happy ending.

  And if anyone in Claremont were to find out why I was let go at my last job and why I had to flee here… it's too terrible to think of. So, I decide I won't tell them, at least not right now. I turn up the volume on the radio and set to work on the frosting for my cake. The town is small and I can't imagine there'll be another customer for a good long while.

  I'm halfway through a not-so-successful attempt at creating a carrot out of frosting when the little bell by the door rings again.

  "Just one moment!" I wipe at the flour and frosting covering my apron. Instead of making me look presentable, I'm now entirely covered. I look like I've just taken a tumble in a mix of batter. Well then. I'll just have to look incompetent—at least it'll be an honest representation.

  I turn the corner and put on a big, serviceable smile. "Hi, there!"

  The customer has his back to me, looking at a display of elaborately decorated cupcakes. A rugged jacket is pulled snug across wide shoulders, thick golden hair tousled on his head. He's big. That's my first impression—he's tall and wide and takes up a lot of space in this small bakery.

  "Did you make these, Claire?"

  His voice is deep, too. Calm and commanding. "Claire did make those, yes. But I'm not her."

  He turns. Cheekbones. Five o'clock shadow. A pair of dark blue eyes look me over. His expression is mildly disapproving, a frown turning down the corners of a wide mouth. "No, you're clearly not."

  "I'm her niece, Lucy. I'm helping out here for a bit. I'm actually from—"

  "I know who you are."

  Well then. I shoot him an apologetic smile. "I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage. Are you from around here?"

  "Yes."

  The man was impossible. "What's your name?"

  His eyes narrow, almost imperceptibly. "Oliver Morris."

  "Mr. Morris of the Morris special!" I extend a hand covered in flour across the counter. "Sorry about the mess. It's a pleasure to meet you. I've heard a lot about you, too."

  "I'm sure you have.” He sounds displeased at the notion and regards my outstretched hand for a moment before he shakes it. His hand nearly engulfs mine, fingers rough and warm against my skin.

  "Can I help you with anything?"

  "I'm not sure. Can you?"

  It takes me a moment to realize he's looking pointedly at the mixture of cake batter and frosting splattered across my apron. It's such an ungentlemanly thing to point out that I just blink at him.

  He raises an eyebrow.

  "Um, I think so, but it depends on what you need. If you're here to
order a three-tier wedding cake ready on the double, then no. But I'm great at packaging cookies." I put on my usually winning smile and meet his gaze head-on. Oliver Morris might be the most ruggedly attractive man I've seen in years, but I won't be intimidated by power tactics. I've faced worse.

  He seems unfazed by my smile. "I'm here to pick up a standing order for the Ranch. It should be in your logs."

  "What is it exactly?"

  "The Ranch orders daily bread rolls and loaves. I send the orders a week in advance to Phil."

  I flip through the small black book next to the register. "And you come to pick them up daily? I thought my uncle delivered?"

  Oliver's jaw tightens. "I'm here to pick them up myself today because of their meeting out of town."

  "Okay. Let me just find the logs. One moment, please."

  My heart rate rises with every passing second as I search for the plastic binder I've seen Phil handle a million times before. It's nowhere to be found. An order this large must be recorded… and it's done daily? To the Morris Ranch? They didn’t mention before they left.

  Oliver is quiet, watching me search through the shelves behind the counter. His coiled impatience is palpable.

  "I know the order by heart."

  "I'm sure I'll find it!" I'm pretty sure I won't. "Let me just give my uncle a call, and we'll have this sorted out in no— Hey!"

  Oliver opens the counter hatch. "Twenty-eight whole-wheat rolls, thirty white ones. Two trays of cornbread."

  He strides through the back door and into the kitchen, but I'm right behind him. "I'm sorry, but you can't go in there!"

  He keeps on walking.

  Up close, it’s striking just how tall he is, and so broad across the shoulders. If he felt too big for the bakery, he’s definitely too big for Phil and Claire’s little kitchen.

  "Look, sir, I'm sorry about not being prepared for your order, truly. But I can't have you in the kitchen."

  "Uh-huh." He doesn't even look at me.

  "There are rules about this sort of thing. Health codes, and…and… I'm sure we're violating a dozen regulations right now."