The Key to Love

by Betsy St. Amant

  This entire feature was already grating on his nerves more than he’d anticipated—and that’d been a lot. “Just stop.” He needed a minute. Needed a breath. Needed her to take one, and stop babbling like a lunatic about some crazy matchmaking ideas she kept trying to make French.

  Bri paused on her amble along the stepping-stone pathway and blinked, as if coming out of her host trance. The next step in front of her fancy shoe read Wanderlust, just like some of the décor he’d noticed inside the bakery.

  For some reason, that annoyed him even more.

  She blinked up at him. “I’m sorry, do I need to repeat something? Was I talking too fast?”

  Heck no. And yes. But that wasn’t the problem. Gerard ran his fingers through his hair, trying to pinpoint the wave of frustration rising. “First of all, the name is ridiculous. Love locks. What even is that?”

  Bri shrugged. “Take it up with Paris. They started it.”

  There she went again. “And hated it, hence why they shut it down.”

  “Oh, come on. Now you sound like Charles.”

  Gerard clicked the recorder back on. “Who’s Charles?”

  “This local lawyer who wants to buy the property from Mabel and Agnes.”

  “Trying to find his match made in heaven?”

  The breeze stirred her long blonde hair off her shoulders. “No, trying to tear it down and build something else. Probably some overpriced, corporate coffee chain.”

  He sort of liked Charles already.

  Bri crossed her arms over her pink sweater. “Why are you writing this feature, anyway? You don’t seem like the romantic type.”

  Good eye. He shut off the recorder. “What type am I, then?”

  “Well, look at you. I’d much sooner expect an article with your byline in something like Mechanics Weekly.” Bri slapped her hand over her mouth. “Ugh. I don’t know why you make me do that.”

  He held out both hands. “Do what? I’m just standing here. Not insulting you, by the way.”

  “I know.” She groaned and shoved her hands into the pockets of her sweater. “You just make it so easy.”

  “To insult me?”

  She straightened, as if she’d found her propriety somewhere in those pockets. “You bring out my sarcastic side. I’m sorry.”

  He liked seeing her rattled. Between her perfect hair and that flawless apron, she could use some mellowing. “Don’t be. You seem like you need toughening up.”

  “What do you mean?” She bristled.

  He pointed to her tense posture. “That, right there. Everything offends you, doesn’t it? You keep your heart on your sleeve but get upset when someone bumps it.”

  “Sure you’re not a reporter from Psychoanalyze Weekly?”

  “You do know that not all magazines have the word weekly in them, right?”

  “There I go again. And there you go again.” She turned away from him and started walking toward the stone fountain.

  “Okay, okay. Truce?” He caught up to her and touched her shoulder. She ducked out of the gesture but plastered on a polite smile as fake as Mrs. Beeker’s hair color.

  “There’s no need for a truce, Mr. Fortier.” She lifted her chin. “You’re a professional writer researching for an article, and I’m a professional baker providing said research.”

  Apparently she’d found a “How to Be Formal” manual in that pocket too. As much as her gushing romantic vibe bugged him, this stilted professional act was much worse.

  He clicked the recorder back on and braced himself. “Tell me about the fountain.”

  A slight smile flickered across her glossed lips. Truce accepted. “In Paris, lovers would throw their key into the Seine after securing their lock on the fence. It was a symbol of their everlasting commitment.”

  He knew that already. He’d been there nine years ago. Had stood near the fence and met his hero, a famous travel photographer named Remy, and had a potent conversation about the trappings of love. He’d seen the locks, touched them. Watched Remy scoff at them.

  Remy had been right. “Just chase after the story, son. Don’t let it catch you.” Love didn’t last, whether or not you threw away the key. Some keys floated right back up and had no trouble clicking open metal. He’d witnessed it a dozen times in his mom’s life, had experienced it once himself with Kelsey, and didn’t need further proof. Love was a sham, and this pitiful impersonation of the Parisian love-lock bridge here in Kansas was feeding into the illusion.

  But what else could he expect from these locals, with their obsession for petit fours and themed hotels and all things fantasy? They wanted to stay in their illusion. Unfortunately, it was his job to make it sound good enough that people would travel to come taste it for themselves.

  And the way Bri lit up when she talked about this stuff might mean she was the most disillusioned of them all.

  He held the recorder closer. “And then what?”

  She glanced down at the little black box, then at him. Confusion danced in her eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “After they lock it and throw away the key—then what? They live happily ever after?”

  Her brow furrowed. “I like to think so.”

  He knew better. After the commitment came too much reality. Food preference arguments that led to financial fights that led to spiritual differences. Shouting matches and slammed doors and holes in the Sheetrock. Rubber marks on the driveways from squealing tires. Missed calls and sleepless nights and unfamiliar men’s colognes.

  After the commitment came pain. Not a fairy tale.

  “I know family law. And I can confirm there are not a lot of happily ever afters out there.” An unfamiliar male voice broke the pulsing silence between them.

  Gerard turned. A thin man with wire-rimmed glasses walked toward them, stepping carefully across the grass in what looked to be new loafers. A brown suit jacket was draped over one arm of his perfectly pressed dress shirt.

  Bri sighed. “What are you doing here, Charles?”

  Charles. As in, the Charles wanting to open a corporate chain? He stopped passing judgment on the guy’s stuffy suit and held out his hand. “Gerard Fortier.”

  Charles shook it with a grip firmer than he’d expected. “Charles Richmond. You must be that feature writer from up north.”

  “That would be me.”

  “Pleasure.” Charles released his hand and tucked his back under his draped jacket. His expression hardened as he looked back to Bri. “And to answer your question, I’m here to talk business with the owners.”

  “Mabel and Agnes are still at the store.” Bri stepped toward Charles and pressed on his elbow, turning him toward the parking lot. “I’ll make sure to tell them you came by.”

  “Eyesore, isn’t it?” Charles ignored her attempt, turning back to Gerard.

  He clearly wasn’t taking Bri’s hint to leave. Gerard hated that type of personality—he’d seen men do that to his mom over the years and it had rubbed him wrong ever since. That sense of entitled arrogance—and from the looks of Charles’s wardrobe, the man had money. That typically made it worse.

  “The wall.” Charles pointed to the locks, as if taking his silence for confusion.

  Gerard shrugged. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” Yes, it was an eyesore. He’d give him that, but he couldn’t say so outright in front of Bri—that wasn’t exactly professional. He was a feature writer, not a critic. Still . . . there could be a game to play here.

  He crossed his arms and regarded Charles. “What would you put in its place?”

  “Something the town could appreciate. Who wants a reminder of an outdated historic icon in another country?” Charles scoffed. “They tore it down in Paris for a reason.”

  Bri glowered. “If you’re done eavesdropping on our conversation, the parking lot is that way.”

  Apparently Gerard wasn’t the only one to bring out the aggression in Bri. He held back his grin. The guy was a complete tool, though, to ignore her the way he did. It s
eemed like their war for the bakery went deeper than Bri had initially let on.

  And the device in his hand was still recording. “I’m guessing from your reaction that you don’t have a lock on that wall?”

  Bri snickered, then tried to cover it with a cough.

  Charles cut his eyes toward her, then smiled at Gerard—a cool, polite smile that hinted at something much more tumultuous beneath the surface. “I do not. And soon enough, no one else will have to worry about that pitiful display either.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell Mabel and Agnes you stopped by. Uninvited. Again.” Bri’s cheeks flushed.

  “That would be lovely. Please do.” Charles nodded calmly, which just seemed to make Bri madder. Her small hands clenched into fists at her sides.

  Gerard wished he had popcorn. What was the deal between these two? Did she really just want to hang on to the crazy old ladies’ bakery that badly? It wasn’t like Bri couldn’t find a job elsewhere. Heck, Peter could probably get her a modeling gig up north with a single phone call. And why did Charles act like the love-lock wall personally offended him?

  No one was saying what they meant.

  Gerard opened his palm around the recorder so as not to muffle the sound. “What’s so bad about the love locks? Besides the eyesore element.”

  Charles started to respond, then glanced down. His eyes lingered on the recorder, and he shifted his jacket to his other arm. “I believe I’ve overstayed my welcome. Good day, Mr. Fortier.”

  Then he nodded at Bri, just enough to say he did it if accused otherwise but not overtly enough to encourage friendly thoughts. Gerard should know—he’d mastered that particular nod over the years.

  Bri watched him go, a mixture of worry and disdain coating her expression. “You missed your quote opportunity.”

  “I sort of gather he’ll be back.”

  “Unfortunately.”

  He watched her. “Not your favorite person?”

  “He can’t buy the bakery.” She said it so matter-of-factly, Gerard almost wondered if he’d misread the concern a moment ago.

  “What’s the big deal if he does?”

  Bri’s eyes narrowed. “I thought you were here to bring publicity to the Pastry Puff—positive publicity.”

  “Honest publicity.” Gerard slid the recorder into his pocket. “But hey, I’m just asking questions to get the whole story. It’s called being interviewed.”

  “Then ask better questions.”

  He shook his head as she strolled off ahead of him, back to the bakery. She was toughening up, that was for sure. He just wasn’t sure if he—or Charles—had inspired the sudden burst of fortitude.

  A flicker of an unfamiliar emotion rolled through his stomach.

  Jealousy? No. Impossible. He’d never been jealous a day in his life, and he wasn’t about to start now over some starched suit and a woman he’d known for less than twenty-four hours.

  He started to head inside after her, then detoured to his car instead. He would start fresh at the bakery in the morning, after everyone had a good night’s sleep and Bri had some distance from her encounter with Charles.

  At this point, even the red room felt more appealing than dealing with her.

  The man was infuriating. Both of them, actually.

  Bri’s frustration welled up and over. How dare Gerard act so cocky about something he knew nothing about. And how dare Charles waltz onto property she’d practically been raised on and dismiss her so casually—in front of a stranger, no less.

  She groaned as she slid Mabel the money bag of the day’s cash and receipts across the counter. “I really don’t know who’s worse.”

  Agnes intercepted the bag with a frown and unzipped it, rummaging inside as Mabel patted Bri’s hand atop the glass display. “I know, dear, it’s a tough call.”

  The sisters had finally returned from the store, and they’d just put away tomorrow’s baking supplies and were having their evening ritual of coffee and conversation before locking up for the night.

  “Tough call, indeed.” Mabel sighed and shook her head as if commiserating with her. “Both men are pretty handsome.”

  “Ugh, no.” She needed more coffee. Or one of those petit fours, after all. She cast a sidelong glance at the leftover desserts from the day. “Charles is not handsome.”

  Agnes mumbled her agreement as she counted out fives.

  Mabel adjusted the purple shawl she always wore to the grocery store, year-round. “Well, he wasn’t too hard to look at, or you’d never have dated him.”

  “Can we just forget I ever did?”

  Agnes nodded. “Hear, hear.”

  “By the way, Mr. Hansen came in earlier while you were out.” Bri tapped the stack of ones Agnes had just counted. “He left a big tip.”

  Agnes huffed. “Now I have to start over with my counting.” But her flustered smile gave her away.

  “Quit counting, Agnes. You missed it.” Mabel pointed a manicured nail at Bri. “She just admitted that Gerard was handsome.”

  Bri’s head jerked up. “What? When?”

  “Just a moment ago.” Mabel kept pointing, nearly blinding Bri with her big aha grin. “You argued that Charles wasn’t. You didn’t argue about Gerard.”

  Oh, forget it. She was getting a petit four. Bri plucked the one with the biggest flower petal from the display tray, then shoved half of it in her mouth.

  Mabel beamed at her while Agnes shook her head with a tsk. “Now she’s stress eating. Just like her mom used to do.”

  The mention of her mom settled Bri’s stomach. She set the petit four on its wrapper and licked a remnant of green icing from her thumb, suddenly feeling much calmer. Talking about her mom always tended to do that to her—especially with the two ladies who had known her better than Bri had. “What was her favorite dessert when she worked here?”

  “Macarons.” Mabel and Agnes answered at the same time.

  Mabel winked at her. “She’d have loved your new recipe tweak, adding that extra dash of almond powder.”

  Bri paused. “How’d you know I used extra—”

  “My taste buds aren’t as dull as my eyes, dear.”

  Guess not. Bri braced one hip against the counter, chewing slowly on the remainder of her petit four. “I still can’t figure out her exact recipe, though.” She was missing an ingredient, something vivid she remembered from the past, something Mabel and Agnes never knew either but confirmed was just a little different in her mom’s recipe. She was determined to master it one day.

  “But think of all the great new recipes you’ve invented from trying.”

  Bless Mabel and her encouraging heart. Bri shot her a grateful smile. Charles couldn’t buy the bakery—because Bri couldn’t lose this. This physical connection to her mom. Her eyes darted around the shop, taking in its tiled floors and tiny tables meant for two, the little vases boasting fresh flowers and pink napkin holders with the Pastry Puff’s signature cursive print scrawled across the front.

  Her mom had learned to bake here. And while the shop had been updated over the years, the building carried a permanent piece of her mom’s presence. That was the same counter she used to stir at, the same giant metal mixing bowl she used to dump ingredients into. Just like Bri had that morning.

  And Gerard had asked what the big deal was. Fresh irritation blossomed. He probably didn’t have a sentimental bone in his body. The sooner this feature was written and he rode off into the sunset on his motorcycle, the better.

  Mabel began packing the few remaining petit fours, macarons, and cookies into a to-go box. Bri brushed the petit four crumbs off the counter and into her hand and dusted them over the nearby trash can. “Where are they going today?”

  Every evening, the sisters alternated where they sent leftover food. Sometimes they took the desserts to the fire station, sometimes they split them up to take home themselves, and more frequently than not, the sweets went to a local church for the staff to enjoy or hand out to someone in need.


  Mabel tucked the cardboard corners neatly inside the box, her voice breezy and innocent. Too innocent. “Why don’t you run these over to the B&B?”

  “Oh no. No way.” Bri held up her hands. “I don’t need any more of your matchmaking schemes.” She’d already had her daily dose of Gerard, thank you very much, and it was plenty.

  “It’s not matchmaking.” Agnes huffed. “It’s simply a crying shame to let these go to waste.”

  Nice try. Bri pushed the box across the counter toward Agnes. “Then why don’t you take them to Mr. Hansen, like you did the other day?”

  Agnes gasped.

  “That’s right. My eyes aren’t dull at all.” Bri winked at Mabel, who grinned behind her handkerchief.

  “That’s neither here nor there.” Agnes pushed the box back toward Bri. “Think about it. That man is here to write a story about the bakery, and he hasn’t eaten a blessed thing from it yet.”

  Bri started to protest, then stopped. Unfortunately, Agnes had a valid point. Gerard had been in the shop twice now—twice? Three times? It was starting to blur. And he had only drunk—and complained about—the coffee. Not exactly the best material for a headlining, save-the-bakery-from-Charles feature.

  “Fine. I guess a little bribe never hurt anyone.” She took the wide bakery box and balanced it on her hip. She pointed her finger at both of them in warning. “But don’t get any ideas. I’m just doing this for publicity’s sake.”

  “Of course, dear,” Mabel cooed as she reached over and smoothed back a flyaway wisp of Bri’s hair. “Do you want to try my new Sparkle Magic lipstick?”

  Bri shooed Mabel’s hand away and hurried for the door before she could offer perfume or a padded bra. “You’re all incorrigible.”

  She’d go. But she’d stop by her home for a minute first. She needed a positive boost before she saw Mr. Anti-Romance Mechanic Weekly, and that boost was safely tucked away in her attic.