Then I pressed down on the pedal and we cruised downhill toward Bentwick and the winding river below. As I biked after my friends, I realized that we all had had very different reasons for wanting to start La Petite Pâtisserie.
For Ella, it seemed mostly about doing something together as friends. Plus, since her dad was still unemployed, she’d wanted to earn some money to help buy her own school supplies, which she did. Now she hopes to help buy her own clothes, too.
Maddy seemed most interested in the art and advertising part of the business. If anything needed to be designed—like our brochures and our website—she was all about it. But mostly, she just liked to be part of anything she considered exciting.
And me? I wanted to see if I could take a hobby I love and launch it into something bigger—into a business I could share with others. I loved the challenge!
As we biked past City-Way supermarket, Maddy piped up. “Hey, y’know how the City-Way bakery always has that promotion of ‘Buy one, get one free’?”
“And ‘Buy a dozen, get a dozen free,’” Ella added.
As we came to a stoplight, Maddy glanced back at us. “So maybe we need to do something like that?”
Ella wrinkled her nose. “I’m not sure we can afford it,” she said hesitantly. Ella is a whiz at math, and she takes care of recording our expenses—whatever we spend on ingredients, supplies, and packaging—as well as what we make in sales. If she thought we couldn’t afford a promotion, then we probably couldn’t.
“If things were slow,” I said, “maybe we’d have to offer a promotion or cut our prices. But right now, we have plenty of orders to fill, don’t you think?”
Maddy nodded in agreement. We rode together silently for the last block before arriving at Ella’s olive-green house. As Ella turned into her driveway, hens cackled from her backyard.
“I thought they were only supposed to crow in the morning,” I said.
“They’re not crowing,” Ella replied with a shake of her head. “They’re telling us it’s time to collect some eggs.”
Maddy giggled. “Great! More fresh eggs for us. See you soon, Ella!”
“I’ll be over as soon as I can,” Ella called over her shoulder as she disappeared into her garage.
Maddy and I continued on to Maddy’s white Victorian house. I waited out front while she dashed up the porch steps past the wicker furniture, unlocked her front door, and headed inside with her backpack. In no time, she was back out, her clothes changed, door locked again, and ready to bike with me to my house.
We continued toward home, biking along the dirt towpath beside the canal. From the shallow water below us, a flock of mallards took off, quacking and flapping as they lifted into the air.
When we stepped into my kitchen, we were met by two clashing sounds: Josh’s pounding piano chords and Bonbon’s whining and barking.
“Josh,” I said, glancing into the living room, “you could at least let Bonbon outside when you get home.”
My fourteen-year-old brother was bent over the piano in the living room. “I was going to, but I had to get this melody out of my head first,” he said, and kept playing.
I exhaled in frustration and headed for the kitchen. I know that Bonbon is my responsibility, but sometimes Josh gets so wrapped up in his music that he doesn’t notice anything else.
“How hard is it to let Bonbon outside?” Maddy whispered as she grabbed her apron from the hook in the kitchen.
I shrugged. “Pretty hard, apparently.”
With upright ears and big round eyes, Bonbon whined at me from inside her crate.
“Hi, girl,” I said, opening her crate door. “Of course you want out. You’ve been in here all day.”
Bonbon tried to run past me, but I held on to her pink collar and steered her toward the backyard. I didn’t want her to have an accident on the floor.
“I’ll start pulling out ingredients,” Maddy called.
“Great!” I called back. We couldn’t actually use the oven until Mom got home from school, but we could get going on prep work. Mom would be here soon, anyway.
When I opened the back door, Bonbon tore down the deck steps and out into the yard. She ran in wide circles within the stone wall, yipping excitedly, and then finally stopped and squatted in the grass.
“Good girl!” I praised as I cleaned up after her. Then I found her rope toy and called her to me, and we played a quick game of tug-of-war. I wanted to get back to the kitchen, but I knew Bonbon needed to burn off some more energy. I had an idea.
“Wait here,” I said, stepping toward the gate. Mom and Dad had built gates with metal clasps so that Bonbon wouldn’t keep escaping through the gaps between the house and the wall.
I pushed through the gate to Mrs. Chatsworth’s yard, knocked on the back door, and asked, “Can Zulu come over to play with Bonbon?”
I knew the answer would be yes.
In seconds, I led Zulu, a golden retriever, through the gate to our yard. Bonbon put her head to her paws, her rump in the air. Zulu did the same. And somehow, one of them gave the signal to chase—and they were off, racing around the trunks of the towering oaks and running between Mom’s flower beds.
I shook my head, smiling. I love my little dog, but taking care of her sometimes feels like one more thing to juggle along with school and baking.
“Play hard,” I called on my way back inside.
While I was washing my hands, Ella showed up, and then the three of us set to work.
Our goal today was to make shells for tartelettes—luckily, something we can make ahead of time—so that tomorrow we could fill them with fruit and deliver orders fresh to customers.
“Mr. Williams must have spread the word about our tartelettes,” I said, using my fingers to fit a round ball of dough into a small tarte pan. “I just hope we can keep up!”
Mr. Williams had been our first unhappy customer, but we’d quickly turned him into a big fan of everything we made at La Petite Pâtisserie.
Ella looked up from our business notebook, pen and calculator in hand. “Tomorrow, once we make our deliveries, we’ll be able to pay ourselves again—maybe fifteen or twenty dollars each.”
“Woo-hoo!” Maddy chimed in.
I nodded at the stack of metal pans we’d bought at the Kitchen Shop. “I thought we’d never catch up on spending after we bought all these supplies, but we’re making progress! And maybe someday,” I said with a sly smile, “we could use our earnings to visit Paris.”
Ella laughed. “Yeah, like when we’re ninety years old.”
Maddy giggled. “I hope it won’t take us that long to earn enough money. Maybe when we’re nineteen?”
I grinned. “It doesn’t hurt to dream.”
When Mom got home from school, she peeked in on us in the kitchen. She carried a shoulder bag brimming with papers and books.
“Hello, Mrs. Thomas,” Ella and Maddy said in unison. They sounded like they were still in Mom’s classroom.
“Hi, girls,” Mom said. She smiled, but she looked tired, as she often does at the end of the school week. “Are you ready to use the oven? I’ll need to start dinner soon, too.”
Over the summer, we’d had all afternoon to bake in the kitchen. Now, we had until five o’clock, which gave us only an hour and a half to work after school—barely enough time to make a mess before we had to start cleaning up again.
“Mom, while you’re here,” I said, motioning her closer, “we need to check online for orders.”
She nodded. “I’ll be right there. Let me drop this bag somewhere first. It’s heavy.”
When she returned to the kitchen, she stood behind us as we gathered around the computer screen. I opened up our website and the screen flashed:
You have 13 new orders!
“Thirteen?” Ella and Maddy screamed with excitement. I was excited, too, but I also had this anxious feeling, like a mini avalanche was heading our way and we were at the bottom of the hill, looking up.
n two
days, we got thirteen more orders?” I said. “That’s crazy.”
“You mean exciting,” Maddy said.
I clicked on the order screen to get the details. Many of the orders were for small quantities—from one to two dozen—of madeleines, tartes, and bonbons. But one order made me suck in my breath.
“Ten and a half dozen macarons?” Macarons took a really long time to make, especially if we made them in different colors and flavors.
Ella leaned in closer to read the customer’s comments aloud: “They need twenty-one boxes with six macarons each for a bridal shower.”
“By when?” Maddy asked.
“Yikes,” I said. “A week from tomorrow!”
“Oh my,” Mom said, massaging my shoulders. I was glad for the weight and warmth of her hands, telling me she understood how big this was for us.
Just then, the doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” Mom said. When she returned with Mrs. Eaton, Maddy looked surprised to see her mom.
“Mom! Hi!” Maddy exclaimed. “What’s up?”
Mrs. Eaton steered clear of our bowls of batter as she walked through the kitchen. Maybe she was worried that she’d mess up her silky white blouse. Maddy’s parents ran an antique shop, and her mom was dressed up in her work clothes.
Mrs. Eaton looked approvingly at the tartelette shells that lined the counter. “You girls are doing great work,” she said. “It’s fun to see you in action!”
“Thanks, Mrs. Eaton,” I said.
Maddy was eyeing her mom suspiciously. “What’s up, Mom?” she asked again.
Mrs. Eaton slid onto a stool. “Well,” she said, “I finally had time to check out residential bakery laws in Massachusetts, as we talked about last month. I learned some good news and some bad news.”
“Can you tell us the good news first?” Maddy asked.
“Okay,” her mom replied. “The good news is that you girls can apply for a residential bakery license and make La Petite Pâtisserie an official business.”
Maddy cheered, and Ella and I high-fived.
“We would need to register your business and get a federal tax ID number, and we’d also need to apply for a business certificate through the town clerk,” Mrs. Eaton added, “and that’s all doable. But there are some expenses involved. The license itself will cost seventy-five dollars.”
“Wow,” said Ella. I could almost see the math wheels turning in her brain.
Even I knew that we’d have to sell lots of treats to make up for that expense. But if it meant we could be a real business, we should do it. I gave Ella a reassuring smile.
Mrs. Eaton continued. “You would also need to apply for something called a ‘ServSafe certification,’ which would cost another hundred and thirty dollars.”
“Seriously?” I asked, starting to worry now. “A hundred and thirty dollars just to bake out of our own kitchen?”
“Not just to bake, but to bake and sell to the public,” Mrs. Eaton said. “That’s the big difference.”
“Goodness,” Mom said. “This is all sounding very complicated—and expensive.”
“Well, here’s the bad news,” Mrs. Eaton added. She glanced over at Bonbon’s empty crate. “The kitchen will need to be inspected by the public health department. And in licensed residential kitchens, pets need to be kept out of the preparation and storage areas at all times.”
My chest tightened as I felt the bad news close in on me like a giant vise. “But Bonbon lives here,” I said, my voice coming out wobbly.
Mom gave my shoulder another squeeze. “Don’t worry, Grace. Nobody is making Bonbon move out.” Then she turned to Mrs. Eaton. “Thanks for doing all this research for the girls. It’s clear that there are a lot of rules to follow in order to start a ‘real’ business. You’ve given us lots to think about.”
Mrs. Eaton nodded. I could tell she felt bad about delivering the not-so-good part of all this news.
“But what are we going to do?” I blurted.
“We’re all going to take a deep breath and sit with this information over the weekend,” Mom said. “I, for one, am a little too tired to figure it all out right now. Let’s discuss this later. Should we talk on Sunday?” She glanced wearily at Maddy’s mom.
“Sounds good,” Mrs. Eaton replied. “I need to run back to the antique shop, but I wanted to share what I’d found out.” She gave us all an encouraging smile. “I know there are some tough hurdles, girls, but if you’re really serious about this business, you’ll find a way over them.”
Mom walked Mrs. Eaton out of the kitchen. They talked quietly together by the front door for several minutes.
My friends and I looked at one another, eyes wide. I glanced at the tartelette shells and then back at my friends again.
“What are we going to do, Grace?” Ella asked in a small voice.
“I don’t know yet,” I said. I sat down at the desk and studied the computer screen. Our thirteen orders were staring me in the face. Could we fill them? Would we even be able to keep our business going?
When Mom returned, she gave us a sympathetic look before slipping on her rubber garden shoes at the back door. Whenever she is stressed, she works outside with her plants. “Don’t worry, girls,” she said confidently. “I’m sure we’ll find a solution.” Then, with gardening gloves in hand, she stepped out into the backyard.
I turned back to the computer. Suddenly, Mom was shouting. “Oh no! Zulu! Bonbon! No! Get out of there. Not my mums!”
“Uh-oh,” Maddy said, racing to the bay window.
I didn’t even want to look.
Suddenly, everything was tumbling together and gathering speed. Between a big order to fill, the bad news about our business, a report due Monday for Mr. Bauer, and Bonbon and Zulu digging where they shouldn’t, I felt overwhelmed.
Help!
That night, I tossed and turned so much that I almost rolled Bonbon off the bed. What were we going to do? I couldn’t ban Bonbon from the kitchen. That’s where we kept her crate! Even if we could pay the extra fees for running a residential baking business, we’d need to find another kitchen for baking—a kitchen without Bonbon. But where?
We couldn’t use Ella’s house. She had three little brothers—triplets—who were a tornado in motion. Her dad was around most days because he still hadn’t found a new job. We needed an adult like him nearby when we baked, but not a whole swirling family. I doubted that Mr. and Mrs. Petronia would say yes.
And there was Maddy’s house. It was decorated like something out of a design magazine. I just couldn’t imagine her parents letting us mess up their shiny kitchen every day. Plus both her parents were always at their antique shop. Without an adult to help, we weren’t allowed around hot ovens or stove tops. Without an adult, we weren’t even allowed to go online to check our website for new orders.
When I woke at 7:14, I knew only one thing: I had to talk with Grandma and Grandpa. They’d been there for me from the start, encouraging me to do what I love. They’d been in business for many years. Maybe they could help me find a way through this new maze of problems.
I sat up and kissed the top of Bonbon’s head. Then I jumped out of bed, and she followed at my heels downstairs to the kitchen.
With a puff of steam, the coffeemaker finished brewing. Dad stood at the stove, flipping French toast with a spatula. Mom sat at the kitchen table, correcting papers.
“Morning,” I called over my shoulder as I let Bonbon outside. While Bonbon sniffed around the yard, I scanned yesterday’s damage from the deck.
Mom’s garden of mums had lost half its flowers. The red wheelbarrow sat beside the flower bed, piled with wilted flowers of burgundy, gold, and amber, their roots exposed and dried out. Bonbon and Zulu had turned digging into a competition. I’d been so busy in the kitchen that I’d failed to check on them in time to stop them. I had promised Mom I’d buy and replant more mums, but she’d waved away my offer, saying, “Grace, thanks, but you have plenty to do.”
I clapped my hands tog
ether, and Bonbon dashed up the steps to my feet. “Good girl,” I said.
When we stepped back inside, I told Mom and Dad that I needed to see my grandparents. “With everything Mrs. Eaton had to say, I want to go ask Grandma and Grandpa for some advice. Can I go over right now and talk with them?”
“After you eat,” said Dad, setting plates of French toast on the table beside maple syrup, butter, and glasses of orange juice.
“And remember,” Mom said, “it’s Saturday morning. They’ll have lots of customers.”
“I know.” I’d helped out at the bakery a lot on weekends and knew that mornings were usually the busiest times.
I ate fast, threw on clothes, and pedaled down to First Street as quickly as I could.
Fortunately, when I stepped inside, there weren’t any customers at the counter. I was instantly met by the delicious smells of baked cinnamon and caramel rolls, doughnuts, cakes, and fresh bread. I breathed it all in and smiled.
From behind the swinging door to the kitchen came the sound of guitar strumming—one of Grandpa’s country-western stations.
“Ah, here’s the sweetest thing in the bakery!” Grandma said, leaving the counter and meeting me on the other side. She gave me a hug with an extra squeeze and then looked into my eyes. “I can tell that your busy mind is working on something this morning, Grace.”
I laughed. “You know me better than anyone, Grandma.”
“What brings you over so early today?” she asked.
I took in a deep breath. “I wanted to talk with you and Grandpa. It’s about business.”
“Sounds serious.” Grandma brushed her feathered bangs back from the edge of her red glasses. “Well, let’s go hunt him down. You’re making me very curious.”
We stepped into the kitchen filled with white tiles and stainless steel. Wearing a white apron, Grandpa was busy pulling baking sheets lined with round golden loaves from the ovens. “They’re old,” Grandpa always said of the two ovens with six rotating shelves. “But we’re keeping ’em. They just don’t make ovens today like they used to!”
Grace Stirs It Up Page 11