by Holly Kerr
“I worked in a patisserie in Edinburgh long enough to know what goes into a simple croissant.” He smiles, the corner of his mouth barely visible between his beard and moustache.
“Where do you work now?” My heart begins to race, thoughts quickly forming in my head.
“I’m between jobs. I finished a stint as a barista on a cruise ship. You should add a bit of cinnamon to your café au lait.” He pushes the bowl-like mug across the counter to me. “Adds a bit extra.”
“You’re a barista. Who can bake?” I ask, unable to hide my eagerness. I glance at Rhoda, leaning against the back wall scrolling through her phone.
“I am, and I can bake well enough. You wouldn’t happen to be needing anyone to work here, would you?”
“When can you start?”
~
A few hours later, the early morning rush has slowed down, and Adam is manning the cash as I ready for lunch, still feeling the high of hiring Reuben. I invited him into my office for a more thorough interview and asked for references. If they pan out, then I have myself a new employee, one who really seems to know the ins and outs of a patisserie. I gave him a tentative start day of Thursday, never hiring someone so quickly before.
Reuben could open for me. I could have a few days off without worrying myself sick. I’m still giddy when Flora bursts in.
“I just sent Imogene with your coffee,” I say with confusion, the scent of the lemon Danish on the tray making my stomach growl. I didn’t have time to eat this morning. But I forget about my hunger as I take in Flora. She looks a mess, wearing dirty cutoff shorts and sneakers, her hair tangled like she’s scrubbed her hands through it.
“I’m sorry,” Flora cries, wringing her hands, still with dirt under her nails. “Dean was here but now he hates me but I’m going to find him and fix it so you can fall in love with Clay.”
“Dean?” I clutch the tray of pastry so hard my knuckles turn white. “What are you talking about?”
“Dean came into the shop,” Flora says miserably.
“Dean? Here? And Clay? Is he in Toronto? Here?” Hope blooms in my chest bigger and brighter than any of Flora’s flowers.
“It’ll be okay.” Flora’s face scrunches like it does when she’s about to cry. I hand the tray to Adam and rush around the counter. “Flora, what’s going on? You look like you’re ready to burst into tears.”
And then she does start to cry, standing in the middle of the patisserie, oblivious to the stares of those sitting at the tables or waiting in the line.
I hustle her into the kitchen. “Tell me what happened.”
It’s hard to understand her through the crying and even more difficult to comprehend.
Dean came into her store looking for flowers.
“He lives in Toronto?” I demand. “And Clay, too?” But Flora refuses to answer my questions, continuing her halting recap of how Dean was in the store, and somehow Thomas was there, too, but the worst thing was that Thomas had somehow married the woman who left Dean at the altar and Dean had stomped off, furious with Flora.
“I don’t know what to say.” There’s a throbbing in my temples as I try to follow her story. Dean and Thomas and another woman? But what about Clay?
All I want to know about is Clay. The disappointment and regret that I’ve felt since Ruthie got us thrown in jail, missing the “date” with Clay rolls away like the end of a storm, leaving a surge of hope and anticipation in its stead.
“I don’t know what to do!” Flora wails, fat tears still rolling down her cheeks.
Adam pushes the door open a crack. “Is everything okay back here?” he asks in a theatrical whisper.
“Everything’s fine,” I tell him with a wave to leave us alone. Adam gives Flora a sympathetic glance and lets the door swing shut after him.
“I should go.” Flora sniffles. “I’m scaring your customers.”
“Maybe just keep your voice down?” I grab a wad of napkins from a dispenser and hand them to her.
“What do I do now?”
“That’s my line. But I think you need to go find Dean,” I say firmly, trying to tamp down my excitement at the thought. She has to find him because finding Dean will lead me to Clay.
And I have a feeling Clay is something special.
“He hates me,” Flora moans. “I ruined his life.”
“I’m going to hate you if you don’t go find him,” I say in all seriousness. “This is my one chance to see Clay again. Go get me my man.”
Clay
I start work on Monday morning nursing a headache from Mrs. Gretchen’s schnapps. That’s the last time I’m drinking with Dean’s neighbour. I don’t think ninety-year-old women should be able to drink like that.
The pain in my head doesn’t get any better when Pearl drops a pile of paperwork on my desk, along with my morning coffee.
“Sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings on a Monday,” she says with an apologetic smile. “Your uncle needs you to go over these reports first thing. You have a ten-thirty meeting with him.”
Uncle. I fight the urge to wince. How many times have I wished I could have a job with no family relations? Even new hires are quick to notice the coincidence of their new boss having the same last name as the company president, the face of FoodMart, Charles McFadden.
And McFadden isn’t a common name, so there’s no way to explain it away.
“Thanks, Pearl,” I say over the throb of my head. “I’ll get right on it. And thanks for the coffee. You got one for yourself?”
“I actually stopped into this little French bakery this morning. I got you something.” Hesitantly, she sets a plain white paper bag before me. “It’s a pain au chocolat, made fresh this morning. The place smelled incredible.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“My kids loved the cupcakes last week. It’s the least I could do.”
I grin. “Someone has to eat them. I’d have to go to the gym a lot more if I ate everything I baked.”
Pearl shakes her head with wonder. “They were amazing. I can’t believe you bake like that. You just…” She gives a wave of her hand at the office. “You don’t seem the type.”
“My sister-in-law taught me. Helps me relax. I’ll remember your kids like them, if you don’t mind bringing more home.”
“Anytime.” Pearl beams. “Enjoy your snack.”
I sniff the bag appreciatively. “This smells great.” I look up with a grateful smile. “You’re a lifesaver, Pearl. I might be able to get through the morning now.”
She gives a quizzical smile. “Is everything all right?”
“Have you ever drunk schnapps?”
“Only peach schnapps. I quite like a Fuzzy Navel now and again. Vodka, orange juice, and peach schnapps,” she adds quickly, like she thought I might be thinking about her own navel.
I’m not. I’ve taken Rashida’s warning to heart and I don’t want to encourage Pearl, even indirectly. “This was nothing like the peach stuff. This was hard core and appley.”
Pearl nods knowingly. “Hair of the dog will help.”
I give a surprised laugh. “That sounds like you know from experience.”
“Just because I’m over fifty doesn’t mean I don’t know how to have fun,” she says with a pert smile.
“Maybe I’ll start with the coffee and my treat.” I reach for the cup, the scent of Starbucks dark roast already clearing away the cobwebs.
As Pearl leaves, my phone signals a text. I groan again.
Heather. Again.
We’d gone out for drinks again after work on Thursday night and this time I didn’t need an excuse not to prolong the evening. I had a baseball game at nine that I had to get to, so drinks were all I had time for. Heather had pouted, dropping comments as though I couldn’t tell from the pursed lips that she was annoyed I wasn’t giving her enough time.
Apparently, she’s over her sulk because she hasn’t stopped texting me all weekend. I’ve kept up a weak back and forth with her,
mainly until I can figure out how to end things.
I didn’t know how things had begun. In my mind, two dates don’t make a relationship, especially when I’ve only spent a grand total of ninety minutes with her. Plus I met Amy on Friday night at the gym, and she doesn’t seem the type to pout, so sayonara, Heather: hello Amy.
I make a note to text Heather to let her down gently, and begin to wade through the papers Pearl gave me. It isn’t until I’m halfway through that I remember the pastry.
I’ve never had a pain au chocolat. It seems like a fancy name for a croissant but as I take the first bite, I close my eyes with enjoyment. Buttery, flaky pastry like no croissant I’ve ever tasted, the centre of chocolate adding a richness that I want to savour. As I finish the last bite, I study the bag. It’s plain, white, with no name on it. I make a mental note to ask Pearl where she got it.
I’m going to need another one of those.
~
The meeting with Uncle Charles runs into the three-hour mark and even with the morning snack, my stomach is aching with hunger by the end of it.
Braving the lunchtime rush crowding the sidewalks in downtown Toronto, I make it to Hero Burger and back to the office in twenty-four minutes flat. I step out of the elevator, my burger and fries leaving a stomach-growling smell.
“Did you bring something for me?” Rashida asks, eyeing my bag with the telltale grease stains as she passes me on her way to the elevator.
“Was I supposed to?” I shake my head. “Brutal meeting, it went so long.”
“Did he go for the changes?”
I take a sip of the Pepsi. “He loved them—eventually. I made sure I told him about your contributions. He’s pretty impressed.”
Her cheeks pink with pleasure. “You told the president of the company about me? Thanks, Clay. I really appreciate that.”
“You do a lot for me, and I appreciate that. You deserve credit for your work.” I grin. “It doesn’t hurt that I get credit for finding you in the first place.”
“You’re being so nice. Maybe I shouldn’t have told you last week that you’ve been a grump to work with.”
“I am a nice guy, and I was a grump. I think I’ve snapped out of it.”
“Who is she?”
“Why do you assume she’s a woman?”
Rashida cocks her head. “Because it’s you.”
“Well, it’s not this time. I mean, I met someone, but she’s not special. I’m sure she is, but maybe not to me.”
“Poor Clay. Don’t you think it’s time you find someone special for you?”
“You sound like my sister-in-law,” I grumble. “I keep getting the lecture from her. It’s not my fault.”
“Well, who’s fault is it that you can’t meet anyone?”
“Fate?” I suggest. “Destiny? Someone’s out there for me, but it’s not our time yet.”
“You really believe in that?”
My phone rings before I answer. It’s such a surprise that I almost drop my bag. No one calls me, not even my mother. Texting is the way to go for me.
I juggle my food and Pepsi in an attempt to pull out my phone. “Can you grab it for me?” I plead. “Jacket pocket.”
“It’s probably a telemarketer. I love dealing with them.” She drops her hand into my pocket and pulls my phone out to read the screen. “This one has a name. Moira Donnelly.”
“Who?”
“How would I have any idea? Want me to answer?”
“Just give me a sec—” I expect her to follow as I hurry down the hall to my office but she stands by the elevator with my phone to her ear.
“Hello? Clay McFadden’s phone.”
“Who is it?” I hiss with a backwards glance.
She waves me away, listening intently with a cocked eyebrow. “Las Vegas, you say? With Dean? I know Dean.”
“Who are you talking to?” I demand. By the time I drop my food at my desk, Rashida is strolling down the hall with a smile on her face.
“No, he’s great. I work with Clay. I guess you can say he’s my boss, although he doesn’t always act like it,” Rashida says, turning her shoulder to me and ignoring my outstretched hand. “Right. I know.”
“Could I have my phone?”
“My husband plays ball with them,” she continues. “I’ve known Clay for years. So you were there for the non-wedding?”
“Who is on the phone?” I make to grab it, but Rashida dodges. “I better give him the phone. I think he might want to talk to you,” she says with a laugh. “Nice talking to you. She says her name is M.K,” she adds as she finally hands me the phone.
My mouth drops open. An image of a dark-haired woman in a blue dress sitting across from me in a crowded Las Vegas nightclub fills my mind with rising excitement. Dark blue with a shy smile. “M.K.? Really?”
“Who is she?”
“Give.”
“Say please.” Rashida laughs, obviously enjoying my reaction.
“Give me the phone,” I growl. Practically grabbing it from her hand, I don’t even glance at the name before I slam it to my ear. “M.K.?”
“Is this Clay?” asks a tentative voice. “Clay—Dean’s friend.”
“We met in Las Vegas. This is me. And you’re M.K. Blue dress? Really you? I can’t believe you called!”
Rashida laughs from the doorway. “I knew there was something more you weren’t saying,” she sings as she backs into the hall.
I fight the urge to give her a finger gesture as I find my chair. “How are you? Where are you?”
M.K. laughs, and my heart literally flips over from the sound. “I’m in Toronto, can you believe it? Dean walked into Flora’s flower store this morning.Of all the flower shops in the city, he picks Flora’s because he lives right around the corner. I thought I’d never see you again, and now I find out you’re so close.” She laughs again.
Even though she speaks so quickly that I barely understand, I laugh with her. Stretching out my legs, I prop them on my desk, forgetting about my food or my empty stomach. “I have no idea how you got my number, but I’m glad you did. And my head’s a bit jumbled from hearing from you, so can you explain again, please?”
I can’t keep the smile from my face.
Chapter Seven
M.K.
I’m going to see Clay tonight.
I turn the music up loud, but not too loud because Pat and Paul who share the wall between the semi-detached houses have a new baby and I don’t want to wake him up. Although two-month-old Gilbert isn’t as considerate, crying with loud wails that break through the wood and plaster to invade my sleep.
Babies are inconsiderate.
I dance around the room to Whitesnake. I may look like a quiet mouse of a girl but inside I’m all rocker chick. My youth flew by, punctuated by the songs of the ‘80s and ‘90s; the hard rock, metal bands like Def Leppard and Poison, Mötley Crüe and Skid Row. Bands with big ballads and even bigger hair. I grew up knowing the words to every Guns N’ Roses song, worshiping KISS like some girls loved NKOTB. I could debate David Lee Roth versus Sammy Hagar for hours and had pictures of Brett Michaels with his glam-rock pout plastered on my wall.
When my father left us, his collection of vinyl remained, and I secreted them in my room in milk crates. I recorded the vinyl onto cassette tapes and listened to them on his old Walkman.
My mother hated the thing because I would never tell her what I was listening to. “You wouldn’t like it,” I’d say, which had been like waving a red flag at a bull. How could I enjoy something she didn’t like? It made no sense to her.
These days, of course, Apple Music and Spotify make it easier to listen to my music, as well as Sirius radio, but I still have the crates of vinyl tucked away in the crawlspace in my basement, my only connection I have to my father.
My first rebellion growing up was to save my babysitting money and buy a secondhand drum kit, which I set up in the loft above the garage, far away from my mother’s unbelieving ears. I had been a decent dr
ummer for a time. Dropping out of the oenology and viticulture program at university to work for the restaurants at other wineries was bad enough; my mother had been under the impression I was studying to be a sommelier rather than a pastry chef. She wouldn’t have survived if I had followed my first love and became a musician.
My air drumming is interrupted by the chime of my FaceTime notification. I prop my phone up against my mirror as I finish applying mascara.
“You’re nervous,” Flora greets me.
I widen my eyes, stilling the excited shake of my head before I poke out my eye. “Why would I be nervous?” I bluff, dabbing at my lashes with the brush. “And how can you tell, even if I was?”
“You’re listening to Whitesnake,” Flora points out. “It’s your gettin’ ready to get sexy song.” She growls the words in attempt to sound masculine.
“I don’t have a sexy song because I am the least sexy person I know.”
“I’m not sure you’re the best judge of that. You should ask Clay tonight.”
My stomach once again ties itself into knots at the thought of seeing Clay tonight. Of talking to him. Of getting to know him. Of maybe…
I shutter the thought.
“Are you nervous?”
Onscreen, Flora runs her hand through her hair, preparing to pull at the ends, but she’s stymied from her recent short cut. “There’s no reason for me to be nervous. Dean says he thinks it’s a good idea to be just friends. Which implies he thinks it’s bad to be more than friends.”
“He just got out of a relationship,” I remind her. “As did you.”
“Yes, but Dean and Thomas are so different that I’m sure I would have no trouble compartmentalizing my feelings for them.”
“So you have feelings for Dean?”
Flora laughs hollowly. “You know what they say—women sleep with men because they love them, men sleep with women because they want to fall in love. I don’t think that applies to either of us.”