No matter. I could be inspired by anything. I could summon my muse at will, direct her to channel the great stories of the heavens through my body and down onto my keyboard. I helped myself to a mug of coffee, added a splash of cream, and sat before my keyboard. Today, I was going to address the time-traveling romance. I was just starting to get into a groove when there was a knock at the door.
I sighed and pushed back from the table. The movers had stacked the boxes on both sides of the hallway, so I had to turn sideways, scooting like a crab. When I opened the door, Jessie was standing there with a white cardboard box tied with a thin, blue-striped string. I recognized it instantly as coming from Hedda's, and I knew it would be filled with pastry. In her other hand was a bottle of champagne. "Hey, you," she beamed. "Happy housewarming. I thought I could help you unpack, if you want." Bless her industrious heart. She thrust the box and bottle into my arms. "Here. I brought muffins."
Her arrival made my heart sputter. I love my cousin, I do. It's just that I was trying to immerse myself in the Roaring Twenties. I accepted the box of muffins and stepped aside to allow her entry. "Thanks. Actually, I was just sitting down to write —"
"What is that? It smells like…fish?" She wrinkled her nose.
"Yeah. That would be the fish place next door."
"Well." She shrugged and gave me that endlessly optimistic smile. "I'm sure it's only seasonal."
She was off without another word, reaching for the top box on the stack. It must have been light. She turned it over in her hands. "It looks like you forgot to mark this one."
I pulled at the end of my ponytail and looked away. In my haste to flee LA, I'd sort of neglected to mark any of the boxes. I'd convinced myself that I didn't have the time, and further justified it by thinking that unpacking would become an adventure. If I didn't mark the boxes, I'd never be sure whether the box I was opening would contain kitchen towels or the porcelain figurine of the boy in lederhosen Aunt Esther had given me one year. That would be kind of fun, right?
But Jessie wouldn't be convinced, and my reasoning wasn't sitting well with me, either. "I was in a hurry to leave," I said. "I didn't think about anything but getting out of there."
Her face scrunched with sympathy. "Of course you didn't, you poor thing. How about if I tackle these boxes? You go do whatever you were doing."
But I couldn't go sit at my keyboard to write about flappers while she unpacked my apartment, could I? "No, let me help you. Can I get you some coffee?"
"Sounds great." She had set the box on the floor and was ripping the packing tape from the seams.
I turned sideways and shuffled toward the kitchen. Once there, I got down to work, feeling like maybe this could become my new purpose in life, to make coffee for other people. I am the coffee girl. It sounded less superhero and more pinup. I had a friend in LA who specialized in pinup photography. You could create a calendar of yourself in all kinds of different poses and scenarios: a sexy auto mechanic, a sexy librarian, a sexy dog walker, you name it. Could she do a sexy barista? I'd have to ask.
My little coffee maker was downright elementary compared to the gadget Dad had at Hedda's, though. That one was loaded with different levers and buttons and required the use of a thermometer. This was a standard model: pour water, scoop coffee, press red button. I could do it half-asleep, which I suppose was kind of the point.
I poured a mug for Jessie and grabbed my own, shutting down my laptop. I'd have plenty of time to revise that screenplay later. I was sure there would be some lag time between the end of my fake romance with Jax and his opportunity to pass my work to the right hands. No harm done, and I needed to unpack eventually.
Jessie had already stacked piles of pillows and towels to the side and flattened the empty cardboard box. "You don't have too much here. It probably looks like more than it is."
"I love your optimism." I handed her the mug. "I also love you for making me unpack."
"You shouldn't have to do this all alone," she said. "I mean, look at this stack of boxes. What if one fell on you?" She shook her head. "No. This is what family is for."
We were sort of having a Moment, where I was feeling like she was the one person in the world who understood that my refusal to unpack was not due to laziness. There was no need to go and muck it up with a verbal response, so I reached for the next box — which was quite heavy — and set it on the floor. Ah, here were my books!
We'd created a nice system and had brought the stacks down to waist height when Jessie suddenly burst into tears. "Oh. Oh my gosh." I rushed to embrace her. "What happened? Did something fall on you?"
She accepted my shoulder and wrapped her arms tightly around me, squeezing me back. When she'd caught her breath, she said, "We have to sell Hedda's."
My knees went limp. I took a step back, still clutching her arms. "Wait. Did I hear you correctly?"
"Your dad and I talked about it this afternoon. Business is down, and the cost of everything is rising. We've kept it going for as long as we could, but there's no choice." She swept her fingers across her damp cheeks. "Sorry. Did we unpack tissues yet?"
My body reeled as I backed away. "I'll get you some."
Selling the bakery. My heart had dropped out of my chest and gone skittering across the floor. What would my dad do? What would Jessie do? I walked to the bathroom on legs that felt like jelly, retrieved a box of tissues, and came back. "Gosh, Jess. I'm so damn sorry." I swallowed a lump in my throat.
"Thanks." She accepted the box and sat on the floor, leaning her back against the wall. She blew her nose. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised. That's why I was doing this catering business, you know? I thought it could make some extra money to support the bakery, but with the start-up costs…All of that work, and it hasn't made any difference at all."
I lowered myself to the floor beside her and wrapped my arms around my knees. Of course I knew that selling the bakery meant I would be out of a job, too, but at that moment all I could think was that Jessie was the kindest, sweetest person I'd ever met, and that this was her dream the same way writing was mine. I wasn't about to sit by and do nothing.
At my insistence, we left my apartment and went to Dad's house. He'd only purchased his own place in the last five years — a modest white ranch a few miles from the bustle of the town center. His face lit up when he opened the door to see us standing on the front step. "Hey, buttercup!" He pulled me into a hug and gave me a kiss on the cheek. "And Jessie. Hi, honey." He gave her a kiss and a hug as well. "I was just about to cook dinner. Want to stay? I'm just grilling some burgers."
"Sure, Dad," I said.
"Come on in."
I tried not to stare at him as he opened the door wide to allow us through. I'd always considered him handsome in a dad kind of way. He had an honest, demonstrative face, the kind that didn't mind being read by others. He was smiling, but I could see the tension in the way his shoulders sat a little higher, the lines on his forehead grew a little deeper. He closed the door behind us, and I turned to face him. "Dad, Jessie told me about the bakery."
"Oh." He recovered quickly and set a hand on my shoulder. "I don't want you to worry about that. I'm going to take care of you. Both of you." A little squeeze, and he walked into the kitchen.
Jessie and I exchanged a glance. "Dad. There's got to be something we can do. You know, with the film festival in town, maybe we could run a promotion? I know some people." Maybe Jax would be willing to make an appearance at the bakery, to sign autographs and pose for pictures. It was the least he could do, considering I was pretending to sleep with him.
"Honey, believe me. I've put up a good fight. So has Jessie." He opened the refrigerator and started to place items on the counter: ketchup and mustard, a jar of pickles. "I'm going to get the best price I can for us. For you, Wren. I'm going to repay you."
"Repay me? For what?"
"Don't you remember? Oh, don't feel bad. You were just a kid." He grabbed a plate of raw hamburger patties from the refrige
rator and closed the door with one foot. "It was part of the divorce settlement. You're half owner of the building. So really, once we sell, you're going to have some money coming back."
"Wait." My legs went weak again, and a sidelong glance at Jessie's open mouth told me she was learning something new, too. "Wait. I'm part owner of the bakery?"
"Of the building, yes. A sale means we'll be liquidating some assets. You can use that money to do what you want. It's not enough to buy a house, but it's enough that you won't have to worry about money for a while. Hey, Jessie," he pointed to a wooden bowl on the kitchen table. "Can you hand me that, hon? Thanks."
A little slow on the uptake, I had to swirl that information around my noggin for a moment while dad washed a head of iceberg lettuce. Selling the bakery meant that he and Jessie would be out of jobs, but I would be collecting a fat payday? "Dad, that's horrible," I blurted out. "If I'm half owner, then I don't want to sell." I folded my arms. "How's that?"
"Calling you half owner was a little generous on my part," he said calmly. "You own forty-nine percent. And anyway, it's all part of your trust. I have to act in your best interest, which means that I have to sell the business. If we hold on any longer, we risk losing everything."
"It's possible another bakery will buy it, Wren," Jessie said. "Who knows? Maybe the only thing that changes is the ownership, and a few months from now we're all still working together."
God, her optimism. I had to admire it as she stood there next to my dad, slicing tomatoes, but right then it felt like I was the only one capable of facing this reality head-on.
Hedda's was more than a bakery and my family's livelihood. It was where I'd grown up. I'd recovered from my show business heartache in that kitchen, done my homework with a slice of cinnamon toast at those tables. I loved that bakery. "What happened?" I forced the question out around the lump that was forming in my throat.
He met my gaze, and his eyes were sad. "The usual. Increasing costs. Competition."
"Paris Street Sweets is opening in a few weeks," Jessie said. "They sell cupcakes the size of small babies."
"They're well-capitalized," Dad added. "They're going to try to undercut us at every opportunity."
"Is that what it is? Paris Street Sweets?" I threw my hands up helplessly. "Well, that hasn't even happened yet! We can talk about new — you know, places to buy flour and sugar."
"Wholesalers," Jessie said.
"Yes. Wholesalers. Maybe we could find cheaper ones. And with the catering business, maybe we can branch out and offer a delivery service of some kind."
Dad was watching me as I rambled on, sharing my big ideas that admittedly had no basis in reality. I was the coffee girl, and I was trending barely competent at that. What did I know about saving a bakery business? When I took a breath and looked at him, I saw the pity. He knew it all, and he felt the same way I did.
I swallowed. "Don't look at me like that." My voice cracked. "I'm trying to help you."
"Tell you what," he said. "Let's have dinner. When we're done, I'll let you look at the books, and if you have any ideas, I want to hear them."
"Dad, I —"
"It's not what I want to do, Wren." He pinched his lips tightly and shook his head. "Believe me."
I let it drop. I had nothing to add to the conversation, anyway.
As promised, Dad let me inspect the books after dinner. I had him explain the columns to me, and it took me a few minutes to orient myself, but then I saw it. He was right. The margins were razor thin, and lately they'd disappeared entirely. It wasn't a matter of pushing more cinnamon rolls. Something big needed to happen.
I went home that night and finished most of my unpacking by myself, weeping. All these years I'd owned half of that bakery, and they had to sell it to protect my investment. My stomach ached.
I fell asleep around midnight, fully clothed and on top of my mattress. The alarm went off at four thirty, but I didn't even grumble when I hit the shower. That day, I had a new purpose. I was going to save that bakery. For once, I was not going to be responsible for dragging anyone down with me.
I'd experienced a string of failures in my life. Relationships. Careers. But this? This was something I was going to succeed at.
CHAPTER FOUR
Jax and I were striving for realism, so we hit the usual date places: an ice cream parlor, a hot dog stand, the quaint shops in the center of Great Barrington. The blogs called us "adorable" with an exclamation point, and looking at the photos, we really were kind of a cute pair. I guess it helped that I had achieved virtual expertise at concealing half of my face from the cameras. As a couple, we were a gorgeous male actor and the suggestion of a beautiful brunette. My actual looks were much more modest.
The thing about a fake relationship is that it sort of begins to feel real after a while. We held hands while taking a stroll down Arrow Beach. We had coffee at a table so small our knees touched. Jax was so committed to staring longingly into my eyes when the cameras were around that it was all beginning to mess with my head.
"Say something funny," he said as we headed to the black Maserati he'd rented. We were walking with our fingers intertwined loosely, three photographers trailing us. The dark hair on his forearm tickled my skin.
"What, like a knock knock joke?" I searched my memory. "You know I don't think well on my feet like this."
But it didn't matter, because he burst into laughter like I was the funniest person ever. "You should write that stuff down, turtle," he said, shaking his head.
Turtle. Yes, he was throwing around ridiculous pet names. I'd elected to refer to him as food items. "I'm overcompensating. One of us has to be funny, cookie," I said. When we reached the car, he took the shopping bags from my hands and opened my door. "Why, thank you, wheat puff."
He smirked. "Don't mention it, my little scorpion."
He shut the door, and I waited with my face down while he walked to the driver's side. The routine was always the same: he picked me up at a designated spot several blocks away from my apartment, we drove somewhere for a "date," and then he dropped me off somewhere else, leaving me to walk home alone. This way, I'd maintain my privacy and anonymity. So far, so good.
"Taryn says that the relationship is reading well," he said as he backed away from the parking stall. "Her words." He shifted the car into gear and we were off. Jax liked fast cars. "Public opinion of me is rising now that I'm in love."
"Oh, is that according to the latest scientific poll?"
I took off my straw hat and shoved it into the shopping bag, which was strictly a prop. We were in the clear now. I'd left my bike in a remote area on the outskirts of town, hidden under a pile of leaves. Honestly, the things I'd do to sell a screenplay.
"You can joke all you want, Wren," he replied, downshifting at a sharp curve in the road. "This fake relationship has done wonders for my very real career."
"I'm so glad to hear that, Jax. I've found it rewarding to be your fake girlfriend this week. I can only hope our relationship destructs in a publicly monumental manner."
"Yeah, we're going to have to do some thinking about that one. You know, plan some dates where things between us are looking tense. You might want to practice looking sullen."
"I can sell sullen. Believe me."
"It's not going to be until after the party," he said. "I need this to last a little longer, maybe fizzle out slowly. I've told Taryn that we were old friends. She's going to float that to a few reporters. I thought it added some depth to the relationship."
"Sure. But in fairness, this relationship is pretty shallow." I took a sip from the bottle of water that Jax insisted I carry with me on all dates. "When is Brennan supposed to make a decision about the role of Ben, anyway?"
Since I'd learned of the bakery's financial troubles, my focus was laser-like. The sooner Jax was cast as Ben, the sooner my screenplay would land on Brennan's desk, and the sooner he would make an offer I couldn't refuse and I could use all of my proceeds to save the bakery.
The possibility may have been thin, but it was all I had.
"My agent says it's any day now. Once the ink on that deal is dry, we can break up." He slowed as we approached the area where I'd left my bike, and pulled to the side of the road.
"Thanks for the ride. I had a thoroughly acceptable time this afternoon." I unfastened my seatbelt.
"Good," he said. "I'll send my driver by your place to pick you up tomorrow afternoon, before the party. I won't make you bike to the woods again."
"And they say chivalry is dead." I shut the door behind me.
He waited as I made my way to the ditch where I'd hidden my chariot: an old purple ten-speed that Dad bought for me on my twelfth birthday. The gears were a little rusty, but at least it didn't come with a basket. I pulled an elastic cord from the bottom of the shopping bag and secured the bag to the back, behind the seat, before giving Jax a little wave. "See you tomorrow."
"Hey." Jax poked his head out of the window. "I realize you have some hang-up about prostitution, but I insist on buying you a new bicycle."
"What's wrong with this one?" I couldn't help but feel a little injured.
He winced. "It makes me think of orphaned children."
"It works just fine." I sat on the seat and managed to get in two pumps of the pedals before the chain broke.
I dismounted and tried to piece the chain together, but then I had not only a broken bike chain, but grease all over my fingers. "Dammit." It was a little over three miles home.
Behind me, I heard Jax open the door of the Maserati and sigh. I braced myself for a snide remark. "It's fine. I don't need help. This happens all the time." Without a word, he calmly lifted the bicycle from the road and carried it toward the car. "Wh-what are you doing?"
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