Beautifully Baked: A Sweet Romantic Comedy

by Holly Kerr

  “Was she cute?” It’s my go-to response for every female situation.

  “Can’t say I noticed,” Dean says with a roll of his eye.

  “Deano, you’ve always got to notice.”

  “In case you missed it, I am waiting to get married.” He waves at the doorway of the chapel. “Waiting. To get married.”

  “Yeah. About that.” I wish he’d said the girl was cute because it might make this part a little easier. I hand him my phone, watching his expression change from worry to resignation. “Bro, it says she’s not coming,” I say helpfully.

  Dean hands the phone back to me. “I got that, thanks.”

  “That’s all you’re going to say?”

  “What do you think I should say? She’s not coming.”

  An uncomfortable silence falls between us, broken by the chatter and fits of laughter of those on the sidewalk. I watch as Dean stares off into the distance, wondering what to say to him. I’ve known Dean since he moved to Toronto two years ago, meeting him at the Baseball Zone, a training facility I hang out at when I feel the need to smash a bunch of balls into oblivion. We hit it off right away, but it took a bit to convince him to join the team. Once I found out about the injury and the aborted MLB career, it made sense, but a guy with Dean’s natural ability needs to be on the field.

  Plus the team has done so much better since he joined.

  I’m not ashamed to say he’s become one of my best friends, but we’re both guys’ guys—not much discussion about emotions or deep thoughts. I can go head to head about the Jays’ rebuilding but not about how he feels about Evelyn.

  I assume he loves her, so I assume he’s upset that she just ditched him at the altar.

  Who does that? It’s like something out of a movie.

  “Maybe we should get out of here, head back to the hotel?” I finally suggest. Dean continues to stand in the doorway, not noticing the couple who is trying to slip past his six-foot-five frame. “Deano? Wanna get out of here?”

  Dean finally turns and runs his hand through his hair. “I guess.”

  We walk back to the hotel in silence, me following Dean as he cuts around clusters of tourists on the sidewalk. I’m not a short guy by any means, but being around Dean always makes me the smallest. He’s like the quarterback, weaving his way through the defensive line, all ready to throw a tackle on him. In this case the defense is the interested glances of the women he passes.

  How can he not notice? Dean’s a smart guy, but he’s clueless when it comes to women. Like Evelyn.

  What am I supposed to say about her?

  I’ve only met Evelyn a few times, but none of them went well. And it wasn’t just because she didn’t fall for the charm, as Trev calls it. He was there the last time when Dean brought her out for a drink, and Trev noticed as well as I did how Evelyn didn’t even make an effort.

  And how Dean spent the entire night fawning over her.

  I’m all for making a woman happy, but not if it’s going to force me into becoming some p-whipped wuss.

  I like Dean a lot, but not when he’s with Evelyn.

  I think back to the message Evelyn left me:

  I’m not coming.

  Maybe that’s not a bad thing.

  Chapter Two

  M.K.

  Ruthie and I catch up to Flora, who is surprisingly fast in those shoes. I hail a cab, and Ruthie practically tackles Flora to get her inside. Once we’re bundled into it, no one says a word for a minute.

  “Aren’t you forgetting someone?” the driver asks.

  With his singsong accent, it takes me a moment to understand what he’s asking. “Pardon me?”

  “Didn’t I just drop you off?”

  That’s when I realize he’s the same man who drove us to the chapel. I have no idea how to respond, and Ruthie only laughs. I’m sure this is just another adventure to her. Ruthie is always looking for excitement, always dragging Flora and me along. But this isn’t an adventure. This is Flora walking out of her wedding to Thomas.

  “Couldn’t do it,” Flora says from where she’s crammed in the backseat between us. She has the deer-caught-in-the-headlights look about her. Stunned. Shocked.

  I’m shocked. Flora is known to be impulsive at times, but I never expected that.

  “No kidding.” Ruthie laughs harder.

  “It’s not funny,” I snap at her, which only makes Ruthie laugh more.

  Flora takes a shaking breath. “I don’t know if I should laugh with you or start crying.”

  “No man is worth you crying over him,” the driver says as he slowly makes his way back to the hotel.

  “He’s right.” Ruthie tries to give him a high five through the seats, but luckily he keeps both hands on the wheel.

  Flora elbows me and I glance down at the hand she presents to me. The leaf I gave her is wrinkled and wilted with green bits trapped under her nails. “Thanks. I guess I don’t need this anymore.”

  “Is this because he forgot the flowers?” I ask gently.

  That’s when I notice her eyes are dancing, even though her face is tight and pale with guilt, much like she looked when she got caught trying to sneak into the boys’ bathroom in grade two. A strange noise escapes; part giggle, part sob. “I just walked out on my wedding.”

  “You did.”

  “Technically, you ran out,” Ruthie says.

  Another giggle/sob bursts out of Flora. Her eyes are still dancing but I think it’s beginning to hit her now. “What do we do now?” she whispers.

  “That’s my line,” I say, squeezing her hand. “And I’m not really sure, but we’ll figure it out.”

  “Time for a drink,” Ruthie announces.

  “Did you see that guy I ran into?” Flora demands.

  “I don’t know how you missed him.” Ruthie laughs. “He’s standing there, looking so big and buff, and you ram straight into him. If that’s a new way to pick up guys, I’m not sure it’s working.”

  “Like she’s in the mood to pick up,” I scoff. Then I pause as I remember the other man. Shorter, with perfectly styled dirty-blond hair, and dancing green eyes. Clean-shaven, which is good; looking very attractive in his fitted, gray suit, which is even better. I like well-dressed men. And the smile.

  I like men who smile. At least ones who smile like that.

  “Did you see his friend?” I ask carefully. I glance over my shoulder, out the back window, but of course I can’t see them.

  I’ll never see him again.

  Clay

  We bump into them at the hotel bar.

  One minute, Dean is pushing his way through the throng of people and then suddenly he’s got his hands on a guy who looks like he’s about to hit a woman.

  The woman turns out to be the one who ran into him at the chapel.

  Of course I don’t recognize her, but as soon as I lay eyes on the dark-haired one in the blue dress, my eyes light up with recognition. “Hello, there.”

  “Hi,” she says, looking flustered.

  “We’re looking for a table.” I whip out my best smile, full on and focused. “Care to join us?”

  Thanks to Dean’s height, it’s relatively easy to find a couple about to leave and snag their table. I can’t stop looking at the brunette. Petite and delicate, her features are like a doll, with a waist tiny enough to span with my hands.

  Dean looks like a giant beside her, but he can’t take his eyes off the blonde. I can’t stop smiling.

  “I’m Clay,” I say after we are seated. “Maybe I should have started with that.”

  “We would have lost the table.” She looks hesitant, her smile uncertain. “I’m—” A cheer erupts at the same time as she says her name.

  “Emmy?” I ask with a frown.

  “M.K.” It’s too loud for a proper conversation. “My initials. M,” she enunciates. “And K.”

  “Emkay,” I repeat.

  “And you’re Clay.”

  “Clay,” I say. This is a stupid conversation, just repeat
ing each other’s names, but I can’t seem to get past her eyes—almost black—or her smile, which turns her from pretty to downright stunning. She tucks her chin-length hair behind her ear and I catch sight of a wicked-looking scar that runs the side of her face.

  I want to know how she got it.

  I lean closer to her. “How’s your night been?”

  I love the way she rolls her eyes and smiles at the same time. “Unbelievable. Flora should be getting married but isn’t. She left him at the altar. I guess, technically, he left her, but she said it first.”

  The bar is so loud that I only hear every third word, but I get the gist of what she’s saying. Runaway bride. Got it.

  “The same with him.” I gesture with my chin to Dean. “She never showed. Sent him a text.”

  “His girlfriend.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Do you have a girlfriend?” She seems surprised when the words pop out of her mouth, like it’s not in her nature to be so direct.

  I’m completely charmed by it, by everything about her. There’s something about this girl that makes me want to find out more. Find out everything—her history, her secrets, her hopes and dreams.

  I lean close enough to bump her shoulder, inhaling her perfume. “Not yet,” I say with an encouraging smile. “Got anyone in mind?”

  She doesn’t respond, but her smile says enough.

  Of course, I’m too busy wanting to know more to ask her anything relevant. Anything that would help me find her later.

  I let her leave, convinced we’ll see each other later. So convinced that I don’t even ask her last name. Or a number, which is unheard of for me.

  I only watch the sway of her hips as she walks away with her friends, admiring the way she looks in that dress, without realizing I’ve lost her.

  Chapter Three

  M.K.

  Two weeks later…

  I place each macaron on the tray, leaving the exact space between each of them. A row of strawberry-balsamic, one of black sesame, the meringue cookie looking more gray than black, a line of hazelnut, and vanilla with flecks of bean dotting the filling. Another tray carries salted caramel, Earl Grey tea, mango, and chocolate.

  My back winces as I straighten up, and I let my hips sway to the classic Whitesnake song on the radio to stretch. I adjust a mango macaron before carrying the tray out of the kitchen to set inside the L-shaped glass counter closest to the cash. Macarons finished.

  I take a moment to survey my domain. The love of my life. My patisserie, Pain au Chocolat.

  The lights are still out, the closed sign hanging on the door because I won’t open for another hour. I like being here when it’s quiet and still, the ‘80s rock drifting in from the kitchen the only sound.

  Pain au Chocolat is an old pub/failed smoothie bar/grilled-cheese restaurant and as I like to think, the most successful of the previous establishments. There isn’t a lot of space for lingering customers—three tiny round tables placed just so, three square tables at the bench beside the counter—but I’ve made the most of what I have, and the chairs are definitely more comfortable than Starbucks. Each table has a slim glass flower vase. Flora provides flowers for the tables in exchange for coffee and I’ve had countless customers take their coffee and scones and head down the strip to her shop. I notice a limp stem of one of the gerbera daisies and make a mental note to replace it.

  Flora helped me paint the walls a clean eggshell white with blue and yellow accents, and I picked out every framed print of the French countryside. It’s a neighbourhood spot, with regular customers that I am forever grateful for.

  I sweep a glance at the counter—the white cups and mugs are simple but thick enough not to worry about constant breakages, unlike the delicate cups I used back when I first opened.

  That first year was a never-ending drain of my savings. The second year was a bit better but still a loss, but I broke even halfway through the third year. I’ve never looked back since, with Pain being named one of the city’s best patisseries for the past two years, with “…gorgeously buttery croissants and sweetly eclectic macarons taking centre stage, along with the namesake, pain au chocolat. Best I’ve tasted.”

  I had the review framed. It hangs on the wall beside the cash register.

  The coffeemakers behind the cash register gleam in the dim light from the streetlight outside. The coffee is the last thing I do before I open, but I’m tempted this morning. Flora and I went out last night, and I got home later than expected. One of the first things I learned was that I need an early bedtime for the even earlier mornings.

  I don’t remember the last time I slept in past six a.m. Even the weekend in Las Vegas saw me up with the sun, wandering the hotel for a decent coffee and croissant.

  The buzz of the timers sends me hurrying back into the kitchen to swap the oatmeal chocolate chip muffins in the oven, which are always a favourite with the regulars, with the cranberry pistachio, the chunks of white chocolate oozing at the top.

  Even at the early hour, the kitchen is immaculate—everything in its place and a place for everything—but the classic rock and heavy metal music I prefer seems a little out of place in the pristine environment.

  But since I’m by myself this morning, I’m going to listen to what I want.

  Pain has been mine for five years now, but there had been eight exhausting months after I first bought the patisserie when I couldn’t afford to pay anyone to help. I had done everything myself, and I look back fondly at that time, much like the mother of a newborn would, forgetting about the sleep deprivation and exhaustion and only enjoying the memories of the time spent with the baby. This patisserie is my baby.

  As I pull out the last empty muffin tray and fill it with the banana nut batter, I glance at the corkboard above the counter.

  It’s covered with recipes, and lists and staffing schedules, all neatly laminated to keep safe from flyaway bits of batter or dough. I wipe a gob of muffin batter on my still- cleanish white apron as I glare at the schedule.

  I shouldn’t even be making the muffins because the schedule above me clearly shows that Rhoda’s shift began at five thirty, and it’s now five fifty, and she’s nowhere in sight. This is the third time Rhoda has been late and unless she has a darn good reason, it’s going to be her last.

  I heave a sigh of frustration. There’s no sense getting upset about it now because I still have the pastries and breakfast bars to set out and make the breakfast sandwiches. I’ve always disliked that the most: taking the time to make the perfect egg sandwich only to have it sit uneaten for the entire day, watching the cheese become hard and rubbery, the egg cold and uneatable. I’m sure I’m the only person to have sympathy for leftovers.

  I make a mental note to call Adam to beg him to come in early.

  Whitesnake ends and Poison begins, the classic ballad, “Every Rose Has It’s Thorn.” I rush across the kitchen to change the song. Ever since Flora’s non-wedding, I don’t listen to ballads, especially ones about flowers. In the two weeks since we got back from Las Vegas, I feel like Flora and I have talked about nothing but that weekend, especially how she left Thomas at the altar. But last night’s revelation about her and Dean’s hookup brought my own memories about Clay to the forefront, and I’d prefer not to be reminded of them today.

  Not that I have any real memories about Clay.

  Clay, who I locked eyes with at the chapel.

  Clay, who I spent an hour getting to know in the hotel bar, and afterwards spent the rest of the night smiling whenever I thought of him.

  Clay, who I’ll never see again.

  It drives me crazy that I spent all that time talking with Clay that night, but neither of us once gave personal information. I know his name is Clay; he has two brothers, likes baseball, and has a smile that makes him look a bit like Tom Cruise. The younger Tom Cruise, although the man has aged incredibly well. Will Clay look as good when he’s in his fifties?

  I’ll never find out because I’ll
never see him again.

  I push away any thoughts of Clay because there’s no use mooning over a man I’ll never see again.

  There’s no use mooning over men, period.

  Motley Crue replaces Poison, and the wild drumbeats of the music quickens my pace as I scoop the muffin batter. My ever-present regret, as well as my current irritation with Rhoda lift slightly as I sing along to the music.

  Adam arrives within a half hour, and with his help, I’m able to get everything ready to open. But I don’t have time to change into my dress or even swap my apron for a clean one. I pull my hair down along my cheek, feeling self-conscious about the scar without the usual foundation masking it. I didn’t even have time for a slick of my usual lipstick.

  Adam switches the music from hard rock to his favourite easy-listening playlist, the one with the French songs thrown in, as I unlock the door with my usual sense of pride.

  “Good morning.” I hold the door for Mr. Cullen as he pushes in his walker.

  “Coffee ready?” he barks.

  Thanks to Adam, it is. “Of course,” I say with a smile. “And I have some lemon-poppyseed muffins that I think you’ll really like.”

  I don’t understand his harrumph as he wheels by me.

  The next few hours have a steady trickle of customers, mostly those stopping by on their way to work for a coffee fix. I pride myself on the coffee, using only the best beans I can afford and hiring young and imaginative baristas. I poached Adam from a Second Cup on Yonge Street because he made the best flat white I’ve ever tasted.

  Just before eight thirty as I’m refolding the newspaper from Mr. Cullen’s table, I glance up to see Imogene come in. She manages Fleur for Flora and is roundly pregnant. I’m wary around women who procreate so easily and so happily. I’m a little afraid it’ll rub off on me.

  “You’re in early.” I smile.

  “I’m sick of trying to light a fire under Flora,” Imogene grumbles, resting a hand on her protruding belly. “This baby is coming whether she likes it or not, and she needs help when I go. I’m finding my replacement today.”