by Shyla Colt
“I know you don’t understand my passion, but this is the choice I felt I needed to make. I ask that you respect what I’m doing, even if you disagree.”
“We only want to see you successful and happy, Anders.” Mom moves between us. “To us, this move seems risky. You’re thirty-five. It’s time to settle down and put down deep roots, not swing for fences blindly.”
Their worries are valid. I take her small hands in my own.
“If I never tried, I’d spend my life wondering what if? This is my time. Papa, Van and Win can handle everything without me. I loved working here with everyone. But this time, I’m doing something just for me.”
Sighing, her shoulders slump. “We created this company for you. So you’d never know the hard time we did.”
“And I love you both for that.” I kiss her cheek. “You always taught me to follow my heart, so that’s what I’m doing.”
“Your position will be here when you’re ready to come back to your senses,” Papa says with a huff.
“I’ll see you at Sunday dinner.” I walk away without looking back.
MY MOTHER CURSED ME. She went to a bruja, told her about her unruly child, and made a deal. I plop my head down on my desk to avoid the blank screen mocking me. I’ve only been a YouTuber for a month, and things are headed in the wrong direction. My views are on a downward trend, and my mind is not working correctly. Subscriptions and views are currency. It’s what gets you seen and noticed by others. In a lot of ways, we’re like crabs in a bucket, pulling each other down as we all try to get out.
Sitting up, I stand and walk over to the kitchen. When in doubt, bake it out. I got my love for baking from my Abuelita Maria, my dad’s mom. When I was young, she moved from Mexico when our abuela died. She taught us all to cook and bake, insisting cultural knowledge should be held by all. Her dismissal of gender roles has stuck with all of us. We cook, clean, and launder with the best of them. Mom would say that’s part of what makes us such a catch.
Abuelita has been gone for two years, but I sense her with me every time I cook. Gathering the ingredients for alfajores, I remember the holidays with all of us in the kitchen, making them together. I let my mind wander as I gather flour, cornstarch, baking soda, and baking powder to sift. It’s time to add a new segment to my channel. I need to recapture my current audience’s attention and reach out to new viewers. My numbers have leveled, and my views are starting to fall off.
That’s not a good place to be when this is my full-time job. The stress makes creating difficult, but I have to push past that. Because returning to Papa with my tail between my legs isn’t an option. I have a good chunk of money, but dipping into my savings account is a last resort.
“What do people want?” I ask, working through the things in my mind. “To be entertained, to learn, and to feel included. Inclusion.” A light bulb goes off on my head. That’s what I’m missing. I’ve said no to collaborations because I never had the time. I need to bring them into my world. Nailed It pops into my head, along with the “worst cooks ever” shows that have become popular. I’ve received dozens of emails asking me if I make house calls or give personal lessons. What if I did? I’d have to vet the person and keep them local while I work out all the kinks, but it could work.
I finish making the dough, wrap it in plastic, and set it in the fridge to chill.
Riding high off adrenaline, I return to the computer and pull up my email. I sort through the messages, letting my intuition guide me.
Subject: Did you know cookies can catch on fire? Unfortunately, I do.
The email jumps out at me. If this is clickbait, job well done. As I read, my eyes widen. This is straight out of a Christmas movie. My lips quiver, and a laugh bursts free. My eyes water as I howl with laughter. This poor woman has been through the wringer. She deserves a break. There’s no way I’d turn her away, even if I wasn’t looking to break into helping bakers out.
I just hope she’s willing to agree to my terms. It can be invasive having cameras in your home and sticking to a script. I’m going to make it my personal mission to turn her into a lean, mean, baking machine. When I’m done, the only tough cookie around will be her.
Chapter Two
Matilda
“Cookie lady!” The greeting dogs me as I move from the parking lot into the Wine and Cheese bar. I mentally curse Brittany out. She’s the one who penned the name on air. It stuck. She’s another gift that keeps giving. I step through the glass door and relax as the bright lighting bouncing off the light wood of the walls lifts my mood. The wood and lemon scent of what I think is their wood polish greets me. I spot Jordan at the bar and join her at the end, farthest from the door.
“If it isn’t our latest local celebrity.” She grins.
I scowl as I sink onto the stool beside her. “You’re supposed to have my back, Jordy.”
“I’m helping you make lemonade from lemons.”
“Yeah, and enjoying it a little too much.”
“I can’t help it. I’ve never known anyone famous before.” She clutches her non-existent pearls and flutters her strawberry-blonde lashes.
“Jackass.” I roll my eyes. After shrugging off my jacket, I spread it over the back of my chair.
“It made you smile, didn’t it?” She wiggles her eyebrows, cornflower-blue eyes twinkling merrily. She’s like an Irish faerie come to life.
I smooth my twitching lips into a straight line and glare. There’s no use encouraging her.
“Ha. You can’t hide anything from me, woman. I know you, and you love me.”
“I don’t know why.”
She pushes a glass of rosé toward me. “The charcuterie plate will be here shortly as well.”
“Okay, you’re working your way back up my good list.” I take a sip of the wine, sighing as it hits my tongue.
“So, tell me how we’re going to make the blonde fembot pay.”
I snicker. “Savage.”
“Don’t play nice. I know you haven’t forgotten Brittany’s parting dig about helping Clem.”
“She activated godmama bear, huh?” I’m amused.
“Damn straight. Now share your plan ’cause you’re too calm.”
“I’m going to make her eat her words at the bake sale. She’ll be there covering it, and I’m sure she’ll just have to taste mine.”
Jordan’s face falls. Her brow wrinkles, and her lips turn down at the corner. “That’s your plan? You do realize you almost burned down your house trying to bake a week ago, right?”
“Not true.”
She tilts her head. “Where’s the lie?”
“It was a small oven fire which I could’ve put out myself if Gladys hadn’t jumped the gun.”
“Are you going to split hairs about an appliance aflame?”
“Listen, I have it all figured out.”
“Catering and passing the desserts off as yours?”
“Mean.” I scowl.
“I’m sorry, babe. You can throw down in the kitchen when it comes to cooking meals, but baking is your kryptonite.” Jordan shrugs.
“I have someone who can fix everything.”
“Jesus?”
“No,” I scoff. “The Cookie King.”
“The who?”
I pull my phone out and cue up Anders’ channel.
“Oh,” she purrs. “I have a cookie he can finesse.” She lets out a low whistle.
“Jordan Russo.” I feign shock.
“What? I’m married and committed, not dead.” The cheese, cracker, and meat spread arrives. We move closer together to watch more of Anders’ videos.
“How is Mr. McSexy going to help you? Because just watching his videos, as entertaining as they may be, isn’t going to get it. Last time you baked alone, you went full-on Drew Barrymore in Firestarter.”
“Dude, I didn’t start a fire with my mind.”
“Tamato, tomato.” She waves me off. “You need direct supervision.”
I clench my jaw. “I�
�m not that bad.”
“Firefighters. Channel Nine news.”
“That’s why I hired him to come to me and teach me in person.” I wouldn’t tell her about the desperate email where I spilled my guts, praying he would let me play the sympathy card. It had smarted my pride to do it. Still, my scheme worked.
“If he can do that, he’ll become a local legend,” Jordan whispers.
“Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t learn. I’m pointing out the fact that you have less than a month to prepare. When are you going to find yourself wrist-deep in cookie dough?”
“This week, actually. Tuesday.” And I’m kind of freaking out about it.
“That’s tomorrow,” Jordan says, aghast.
“That is what usually comes after Monday.”
She shoves the plate toward me. “Eat up. We need to go shopping.”
“Why?” I wrinkle my nose. “I’m learning how to bake, not going on a date. Looking cute is not high on my priority list.”
“It should be. I refuse to let my best friend meet Mr. Cookie in a frumpy get up.”
“I’m not sure if I should be offended by your insinuation that my normal look is lacking.”
She exhales slowly. “You’ve gotten into the habit of dressing for comfort.” I open my mouth, and she holds up a hand. “Which is fine, if that’s what makes you happy. It’s not okay when it’s a way to hide. You’re stunning, and I want to see you step back into that slay mode. After everything happened, Clem had to be your first concern. I understand and respect that. It’s been a year now.”
“And?” I swirl the wine, watching the pink liquid trail back down the sides of the glass.
“It’s time for you to spend some time on yourself. You’ve done the mental work.” She places her hand over mine. “Let me help you do the outside work.”
“With what time?” My excuse is lame. Though I hadn’t been the one who’d done wrong, I was judged. I got to hear the spiel about losing my man. The mentality had done damage to my psyche and esteem. I couldn’t control gossip. So, I wore nondescript clothing, hoping to blend in and go unnoticed. Rocking the boat meant stepping away from the safety I get from anonymity.
Keeping my style business casual and trying not to draw attention to myself gave me a sense of control. The apprehension drying out my throat feels like manacles. I’ve responded to the small-town lies and judgment for long enough.
“We can make time now.” She meets my gaze. “It’s important, and you deserve it. Which is why you need to drink up. We’re going shopping on me.”
“Whatever we purchase, we need to be able to wash it. No dry cleaning only pieces allowed. We know what happens in my kitchen when I bake.”
“Yes, it gets hot. I’m hoping that trend will continue.” She nudges me with her elbow. “If you know what I mean.”
“He’s a cook, not a male escort.”
“It’s 2021. Why not both?” She pops a slice of cheese in her mouth, and I laugh, and it feels fantastic.
I STAND AT THE END of the driveway and smile as the banana yellow bus pulls up. Seniority and a killer computer system setup allows me to leave work and finish up the rest from home to be here when she gets out of school. I nearly pulled my hair out shifting schedules, making deals with my company, and dedicating an office to work last year. But now it runs smoothly, and I’m happier than I’ve ever been.
“How was school, Clem?” I ask, holding my arms out for a hug as she gets off the bus.
“It was okay.” Her voice is muffled by my waist, but she sounds a little off.
“Anything interesting happen?” Pulling away, I wave at the bus driver, Mrs. Swanson, and throw my arm over Clem’s shoulder to guide her into the house.
“No.”
“So you sat there all day and didn’t learn a thing? I better get a refund from the school then.”
“Mom,” she whines.
“What?”
“Nothing interesting happened.”
“Ah. That sounds more like it. Third grade is so dull.” I use a valley girl accent, and she giggles.
“We did testing today. That’s why I said that.”
“So, no specials?” I suddenly understand her sullen mood. She loves music, computer, gym class, and art. Missing out on any of those would sour the school day.
“No, and I wanted to work on my art project, too!” Her lips pucker into a pout, so like her father’s.
A brief pang passes through me. It was the betrayal that hurt, not the dissolution of marriage. I allow myself to feel the hurt before moving forward. Keeping it in had left me an angry mess. Thank God for therapy and time.
“Your snack is on the counter.” She walks toward the kitchen island that continues to gleam post-professional cleaners coming in to fix the chaos the fire left behind.
“Ants on a log.” She picks up the snack, heads into the living room, and places her book bag on the couch for me to go through.
I remove the navy-blue take-home folder and flip through the homework and returned, graded pages. Clem’s a great student. Good at math, which she must get from Jackson, and she has an enthusiasm for learning I love seeing. Reaching into her book bag, my fingers brush a crumpled piece of paper. I pull the pink paper into the light.
“Clem. What’s this?”
She turns to look over her shoulder. Her face goes blank.
“Did you get into trouble?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “Daddy and Ms. Brittany said not to show you that because it would upset you.”
Unballing it, I smooth it out. My heart drops. It’s an announcement for a cookie contest at the bake sale in February.
“Are you sad now, Mommy?” she asks, her voice small.
“No, honey.” I stand up and walk over to her. “Who makes mistakes?”
Her nose wrinkles up. “Everyone?”
“Exactly, and Mom and Dad are human, so we’re not perfect, right?”
She nods.
“You never have to be worried to show or tell me anything, okay?”
“Okay, Mommy.”
“What’s the most important thing about mistakes? Because we’re always going to make them.”
“To learn from them.”
“Right. And that is exactly what Mom is going to do. I’m taking baking lessons.”
“You are?” she shouts.
Laughing, I nod my head. “Yes, ma’am. I have to give us a fighting chance at winning, don’t I?”
She nods, throwing herself at me. I grin, accepting her impromptu hug.
“First-prize is an annual pass to the aquarium.”
“I know someone who loves going there.”
“Me.”
I kiss her head, inhaling the coconut scent of her leave-in curl tamer. She’s the reason I signed Anders’ ridiculous contract. He wants to film in the house and potentially air it on his channel. I understand why, but I hate the thought of being back on the screen for all to see. Still, beggars can’t be choosers, and February is fast approaching. If I want to win this, I need to do more than bake a decent chocolate chip cookie. I have to deliver something with pizzazz.
“Ms. Brittany already entered.”
“Oh, did she now?” I ask sweetly.
“Mmm, hmm. Ms. Brittany said she’d win it for me.”
“And what do you think about that?” I ask, careful to keep my tone neutral.
“I’d rather make cookies with you, Mommy. I don’t like Ms. Brittany.” Her voice is low as if she’s sharing a secret.
“Why not?” If she’s upsetting my little girl in some way ...
“She always wants to dress me up in frilly dresses and pink.” Her tiny brow furrows, forming a crease between her eyebrows. “I keep telling her my favorite color is black.”
“And she doesn’t listen?”
“No. Ms. Brittany redecorated my room at Daddy’s, and I hate it. I know she wanted to do something nice for me.”
“It’s okay to say you don’t like something, Clementine.”
“But Daddy says it’s important to include her and make her feel welcome.”
I cup her face with my hand. “No. It’s Ms. Brittany’s job to make you feel that way. She’s the adult, Clem, okay?”
“Okay.”
“I’ll talk to Daddy about it tonight after bedtime.”
Her head tilts back. “I don’t want to be mean, Mommy. I really don’t.” The panic in her voice guts me. She’s had a difficult year, trying to acclimate not only to our divorce but the new woman in his life. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from talking badly about Jackson. Spoiled and wealthy, he’d always been a bit entitled and selfish. Seeing him forget to put Clem first boils my blood. He doesn’t get to make things easy for himself by guilting our little girl.
“I know, sweetheart, and disagreeing with someone isn’t mean if it’s your truth. Never let anyone silence your voice.” I tap her chest.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Now finish your snack, my darling. We’ve got homework to do.”
Turning back around, she munches cheerfully on the peanut butter coated celery as I mentally eviscerate her father. If I do it here, I’ll be able to actually have a civil conversation with him in real life.
ANDERS
I pull into the driveway and clutch the steering wheel. I haven’t felt this apprehensive since I missed curfew back in high school. It’s the first time we’ve all gotten together since the party and my announcement. Not going back to work with them after the first was bizarre. Evander and Winston had sent me shots of my empty desk. Deciding to rip the band-aid off fast, I throw the sedan into park, hop out, and walk to the door. I step inside, and suddenly Mom appears in front of me.
“Mijo, I’m glad you came.” Mom kisses my cheek, and I hug her. The scent of Carne Asada makes my stomach rumble.
“I never miss a chance to eat your cooking. You know that.”