The Key to Love

by Betsy St. Amant

  “To who? Betty or Jill?” Gerard snorted.

  “Betty. He’s been married sixty-five years.”

  “Does Jill know?”

  Bri’s smile faded, and her eyes iced over. “She drives Mr. Mac to the graveyard to see Betty once a week.”

  Oh.

  “So yeah, I’d say she knows.” Bri crossed her arms. “Jill is Mr. Mac’s nurse.”

  He swallowed. “I’m—”

  “A jerk? Agreed.”

  He couldn’t argue that at all.

  Bri slowly walked the deposit bag of the day’s receipts, checks, and cash to the bank, the late afternoon sun warm against her cheeks despite the November chill cutting through her jeans. She replayed that morning’s conversation with Gerard over and over in her mind but was unable to come up with any explanation other than he was simply a bitter bachelor.

  Permanent bachelor, she’d wager.

  She waited in line for the next available teller, foot tapping an anxious rhythm on the tile floor as the hum of the heater filled the quiet lobby. Of all the bitter, negative approaches to life. First, he actually expressed his sympathies toward a newly engaged woman, then he had the audacity to assume the worst about the sweetest old man in the entire town. The faster Gerard Fortier wrote this feature and got out of Story, the better.

  It still bugged her that he was French—even if it was only a quarter.

  “Well, now, Bri Duval. I thought that was you!” The woman in front of her caught her eye and smiled with overly lined red lips, her dyed blonde hair coiffed to perfection.

  Bri stiffened. Sandra Thompson, town gossip. Normally Bri wasn’t one to label people, but Sandra had actually written the town gossip column when that was still a popular thing in the local paper, well over a decade ago. And it was still a thing—one Sandra took seriously, even if it wasn’t published anymore and she now ran a secondhand shop over on Fern. She knew everything about everyone in town, and still held a grudge toward Bri for breaking up with Charles.

  “Hi, Sandra.” Bri quickly turned off her negative thoughts toward Gerard. She didn’t believe in mind reading, but Sandra had an uncanny radar. It wasn’t worth the risk. “How are you?”

  “Doing well, dear.” She held up her bank bag and wiggled it. “Business is booming.” Her eyes traveled down Bri’s sweatshirt and faded jeans. “You really should come visit our boutique. I get new arrivals weekly, and I only accept things that aren’t worn out.”

  She would never do that. “I’ll have to do that.”

  “I meant to shop, of course, dear. I doubt you’d have anything to sell consignment.”

  “Of course.” She’d learned a long time ago not to be offended. Sandra had two decades on her age-wise and thought of Charles like a brother. Her dumping him hadn’t gone over well, and the woman hadn’t grown to be gossip queen because she was quick to forgive and forget.

  Sandra leaned in, like she was about to get a scoop. Except she didn’t lower her voice, because she’d never been able to whisper. Her voice practically bounced around the lobby. “How’s the feature going? Is he going to put Story on the map?”

  It was a wonder she hadn’t come sniffing around the Pastry Puff yet to get a glimpse of Gerard. Or maybe she already had. Bri wouldn’t put it past Sandra to peer into windows after hours.

  “I hope so.” Though she wasn’t sure how Gerard’s pen could write anything positive about the Pastry Puff at this point. He had warmed up to the petit fours, at least.

  Sandra persisted. “I heard he’s incredibly handsome. Do you think so?”

  “Um.” Bri peered past Sandra to the front of the line, checking for the holdup. Oh no. It was Mr. Piper and his monthly coffee can full of coins to roll. She was trapped. “Is who handsome?” She stalled, wishing she could hide behind the row of potted plants to their left. Or maybe shove Sandra into one of the giant decorative urns over by the loan officers’ cubicles.

  Talk about a story.

  “The magazine writer.” Sandra’s voice pitched with eagerness. “I heard he’s a total McDreamy. Do you think so?”

  “Of course she does.”

  The deep baritone startled Bri, and she turned. Gerard stood behind her, so close she almost bumped into his chest—that frustratingly broad chest.

  “What do you want?” She stepped back, irritation rising quicker than Sandra’s penciled eyebrows.

  “Oh my. You must be the writer.” Sandra held out her hand, palm down like Casey had, except this time there was no ring to show off.

  Gerard shook her hand, oblivious, just like he’d done before. “In the flesh.”

  “I’ll say.” Sandra’s eyes skipped over him.

  Gerard coughed.

  “Look, Sandra, it’s almost your turn. Mr. Piper is down to his last roll of quarters.” Bri stepped between them, turning to face Gerard. She lowered her voice. “Are you following me now?”

  “You can follow me if you’d like,” Sandra piped up over her shoulder, her teeth extra white against her red lips. “I’ll be going to the coffee shop after this. I’d love to get to know you more. Maybe tell you a little bit about my business. I’m sure there’s plenty of room in the article for—”

  “Next, please!” the teller called from the counter. Bri grabbed Sandra’s dress suit–clad shoulders and spun her around. “Off you go. I’ll make sure he knows everything he needs to know about Story.”

  Sandra reluctantly walked to the counter, winking at Gerard before finally handing over her deposit.

  “I’m confused.” Gerard stared after her, rubbing his chin with one hand. His stubble scratched against his palm. “Is she after me for my influence or for my body?”

  “I’d guess both.” Bri pinched the bridge of her nose between her fingers. What a disaster. There was no telling what Sandra would spread around Story now. The last thing she needed was rumors of her having any involvement with Gerard, outside of being the main source for the feature.

  Was this article even worth it?

  Yes. Saving the Pastry Puff was worth it. Making a claim to fame in honor of the home where her mother had learned to bake was worth it. Sticking up for the dozens of love stories represented on the wall was worth it.

  Gerard shifted his weight, voice lowering much more successfully than Sandra’s. “I wanted to say I’m sorry. I know I was pretty rude about your friend in there.”

  “Which one?” Bri crossed her arms, tucking the bank bag against her chest.

  “Mr. Mac. But I guess judging by your tone, Casey too.”

  “Wow. You are smarter than you look.”

  Gerard’s eyes widened a fraction, and he stepped back. “Nice shot.”

  Her heart sank. Here she was having just convinced herself this was all worth it, and she couldn’t even be professionally polite. Something about Gerard turned her into the worst version of herself. “I’m sorry. I got defensive. Mr. Mac is the sweetest—”

  “It’s okay, really.” Gerard smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I just wanted to clear that up.” He glanced at the lobby floor, then back up briefly as he stepped toward the front door. “I’ll see you soon.”

  The door shut behind him, letting a bit of the warm lobby air escape. A chill—or maybe that was regret—rushed down her spine and into her toes. She glanced toward the front of the line, where Sandra stood facing her squarely, eyes wide and alert, lips parted.

  Bri wanted to throw herself into an urn.

  CHAPTER

  TEN

  You’re reminding me more of your mother every day.” Mabel patted Bri’s arm as she turned off the mixer and tossed the beaters into the sink. “You know she cleaned up as she baked too?”

  “As everyone should.” Agnes sniffed as she dropped her purse on the nearest table.

  They’d come in at 8:00 a.m. as usual, even though Bri had been baking since dawn. She didn’t mind—it was part of her job. Besides, she loved the way the quiet shop echoed the hum of the mixer, the warmth radiating from
the double oven as she waltzed back and forth between the prepping station and the industrial sink. The way the canned lights in the front of the shop shone tiny spotlights above the display, which was begging to be filled with daily treats.

  Baking alone in the shop somehow made Bri feel more connected to her mom. She could imagine her at the same counter years prior, singing softly under her breath the way she used to when she cooked dinner at home. Or picture her swaying in tune with the mixing bowl, her apron flaring about her skirt—just like when her dad used to twirl her in the kitchen.

  “I always told her not to worry about cleaning up. I wanted her to just enjoy the experience of baking.” Mabel smiled, staring off at something past Bri’s shoulder as she reached for the roll of paper towels. Her voice softened, seeming extra quiet next to the brightness of her electric-blue eyeshadow. “There’s something therapeutic about creating amid the mess.”

  Creating amid the mess. It sounded nice. But Bri never made a mess. She liked life tidy. Neat. In her control.

  “Did she take your advice?” Bri wiped the counter with a damp towel, gathering the last clumps of flour and smears of cream cheese from the smooth surface.

  “No,” Agnes piped up. “Thank goodness.”

  “I think after so long, the kitchen just knew to sparkle whether she actually cleaned up or not.” Mabel chortled.

  That sounded like the type of magic her mother had wielded. Bri smiled as she picked up her piping bag. She had no problem being just like her mom—neat, tidy, controlled. Life didn’t have to be complicated. Baking in the Pastry Puff was simple and predictable, and that’s where Bri wanted to stay.

  Mabel’s voice broke the cozy silence. “Charles called again last night.”

  Bri’s hand tightened on the piping bag. “To discuss the weather, right?”

  “Cloudy with a chance of ignorance.” Agnes rolled her eyes.

  Mabel swatted at her. “Agnes, he’s just a dedicated businessman.”

  “No, he’s a meddling lawyer.”

  “Who made us a very generous offer.”

  How generous? Bri’s stomach dipped. Surely they weren’t actually entertaining him.

  “A generous offer from an annoying—”

  “Now, Agnes, he’s persistent. It’s an admirable trait.” Mabel pointed with a hot-pink nail. “Besides, business has slowed since that initial rush after the virus.”

  “Viral video,” Bri and Agnes corrected at the same time.

  Mabel waved her hand. “Po-tay-to, puh-tah-to.”

  “She has a point.” Agnes pursed her lips. “I truly hate when that happens.”

  Bri had noticed the slowing business too but had hoped it’d been her imagination. Unfortunately, it seemed like business was back to locals only, which before the video had barely been enough to sustain the shop. The sudden influx of customers helped a lot, as evidenced by the bank deposits, but how long would the sisters be willing to keep it going on a thread if everything returned to normal?

  Her heart thumped louder in her chest. On top of that, Charles was upping the ante. Was her worst nightmare actually possible?

  Mabel chimed back in, concern pitching her voice. “Bri, dear, I think that petit four is decorated enough now.”

  Bri glanced down at her angry grip, which had squeezed enough green icing to represent an entire forest, instead of the flower leaf she’d intended. Oops. She set the bag down on the counter, unable to meet Mabel’s eyes.

  She tried to keep her voice level, but it pitched anyway. Agnes’s gaze bored into her cheek. “So, are you considering the offer?” She focused on the petit four in front of her, painstakingly swiping the excess icing with her finger and attempting to appear casual, as if her entire future didn’t hang on Mabel’s answer.

  “When you’re our age, honey, you consider everything.” Mabel laughed and elbowed Agnes, who remained stoic. She didn’t seem as tempted as Mabel to sell, which offered Bri a bit of hope.

  No way could Charles win. He had no idea what the Pastry Puff meant to her—not really. No one could truly understand, except maybe Mabel and Agnes. But if they were mulling over his increasingly ludicrous offers, maybe they didn’t fully get it either.

  Charles definitely wouldn’t listen to her—if anything, his bitterness over their failed relationship was egging him on out of spite. But Charles was too much of a professional to admit as much.

  If coaxing him down wasn’t an option . . . there weren’t many left. She licked a clump of icing off her finger. She had to do something.

  She hesitated. More like, Gerard had to do something. He might be her only hope—and she’d just publicly insulted her only hope in front of the town gossip and an entire lobby of people. It looked like there was only one solution. She stared at the lingering green stain on her finger.

  The crow she was about to devour wasn’t going to taste nearly as sweet.

  He’d never admit it, but libraries had always been comforting. When Gerard was younger and needed to hide from his mother’s newest boyfriend, he’d escape to the rows of science fiction and spend hours poring over the graphic novels and the newest releases from his favorite authors—which were usually over a year old by the time the library picked them up.

  The librarian who worked afternoons—he couldn’t remember her name, but she smelled like the wildflowers that grew by the highway and had curled gray hair he would swear to this day was a wig—would always give him a free bookmark or soft peppermint. Looking back, he figured she knew something was up at home and was doing what she could to encourage him.

  Back then, he just appreciated the free candy.

  Gerard pulled open the heavy door to Story’s library, a rush of warm air washing over him. He inhaled the scent of memories and felt a little bit of the stressful day chip off his back. With all his travels and writing, he didn’t spend nearly enough time on his favorite pastime, reading. One more thing to add to the “after this feature is finished” list.

  He figured he’d research the city’s history to give his article the extra depth it was missing. Checking out the local library had sounded a lot more appealing than googling facts while hiding in his room from Mrs. Beeker. The woman stalked him almost nightly with her tray of “bedtime snacks,” as she called them, which he knew were just a variety of Little Debbie snack cakes piled high on a silver platter. He’d better be careful or he’d be at risk of gaining a few pounds in this eccentric place, and the last thing he needed was to have to buy new jeans at the outlet strip on Honeysuckle Street.

  The fact that he knew the outlet strip was on Honeysuckle Street unnerved him enough.

  He really wanted to finish this project and get out of Story before he got pulled into the illusion any further. This town did something to people—sucked them into a sugarcoated reality, just like they literally sugarcoated everything else.

  The thought of sugar reminded him of Bri. Just when he thought they might be making progress in their working relationship, he had to smart off about an old friend of hers. Mr. Mac was apparently a town favorite—or maybe Bri just treated him like that. Come to think of it, she treated everyone who wandered into the bakery like a VIP.

  Except him, of course.

  He hadn’t meant to insult someone she cared about so deeply. Her defensive cut at the bank still throbbed a little. He’d pushed her too far, though, and he deserved it.

  However, he wasn’t sure anyone deserved that crazy, middle-aged blonde woman in the bank. He shuddered. What was her name . . . Sally? Sandra. That was it. The unfortunate reality, though, was that, in his experience, characters like that usually turned out to be pretty useful later. It was sort of like playing the game he was playing with Charles—keep a poker face and your cards flat on the table until you know how it’s going to go.

  He hadn’t made it this far in his life—or career—by trusting everyone who crossed his path.

  Gerard nodded his acknowledgment to the science fiction section, making a mental no
te to come back and browse after he accomplished some thorough word count the next day on his feature. It’d be his reward for dumping this story on paper and being one step closer to heading back to Chicago—with a check for his mom in one hand and a well-deserved promotion in the other. Then he could write about politics and third-world finances and things that mattered.

  He found a row of history books, not surprised at the small but overtly decorated endcap dedicated entirely to Story.

  He scooped up the two books that looked semiuseful, blew a layer of dust off the first one, and tucked them under his arm. Maybe he could just stroll past the sci-fi real—

  “I believe the theme of Pride and Prejudice was opposites attracting and producing a forever type of love.” A soft—and familiar—voice grabbed Gerard’s attention.

  Bri?

  He peered around another endcap featuring DIY home projects, not entirely sure why he cared whether it was her. And not sure why his heart raced at the idea that it might be. Probably wasn’t, though. What were the odds she’d be in the library on a random Thursday night?

  But it was definitely her. She was sitting in a leather armchair in an open nook slightly off the library’s main floor. She had her legs pulled up under her, twirling one lock of hair around her finger as she spoke to a small, eclectic mix of people also in armchairs. Casey, the recently engaged friend, sat to Bri’s left.

  “It’s like with my parents,” Bri continued. “My mom was the dedicated, loyal caretaker of the relationship, just like Elizabeth. She never stopped pursuing love. And my dad was more like Mr. Darcy—a bit more cynical by nature but easy to come around and adjust for the right woman.”

  What? This was ridiculous.

  A skinny guy in a plaid shirt and sandals adjusted his blue-framed glasses. “Yeah, I agree. Mr. Darcy was kind of harsh, and Elizabeth totally mellowed him out.”

  “Come on! Did you even read the book?” Gerard burst into the circle before fully processing the decision.