“So, you know about Bri.” Figured.
John grinned wide. “It was obvious at Casey and Nathan’s wedding, man. The two of you . . .” He shook his head, letting out a low whistle. “Gives new meaning to ‘opposites attract.’”
“Well, they might be repelling now, if you ask her.”
“What do you think?”
Gerard shrugged, his throat knotting up. “It doesn’t matter, unfortunately. I’m heading out tomorrow, and she made it clear how she feels.”
“One thing I’ve learned in my years of pastoral counseling is that it’s never too late.” John pointed at him with his cookies. “But it’s hard to talk when you’re driving away.”
“You think I should stay longer?” The thought both appealed to and repulsed him. Plus, Trek was waiting on him. His mom was waiting on him . . .
John shrugged. “I don’t know what the Lord has planned for you and Bri. But I know you won’t find out if you’re afraid to try.”
Gerard scoffed. “I’m not afraid of anything.”
John raised his eyebrows, as if waiting for elaboration.
He had plenty to give. “I’ve cliff-dived. Bungee jumped. Swam with sharks.” Gerard’s heart pounded even now at the memories. He pushed up his shirt sleeves. “I’ve gotten more tats than I can count. I’ve never turned down a dare or a challenge. I’m a straight-up adrenaline junkie, man. You’re preaching to the wrong choir on that one.”
“That’s impressive. I couldn’t do half of those things.” John nodded slowly. “But tell me this. Have you ever sat still?”
No. Gerard clenched his jaw. And he clearly didn’t need to speak it for John to know the truth. How did this man keep doing that—keep reading him with the familiarity of a used paperback?
“I jog a lot.” John plucked at the front of his hoodie. “My wife teases me about having more athletic gear than she does, but it’s what I do. I run. Run when I’m hungry, when I’m stressed, when I’m bummed out. Run when I’m mad.” He paused. “I’ve come to realize that staying still is often hard because it means we have to face ourselves—and our inadequacies.”
Gerard started to protest. “But you’re—”
“I’ve got them too. Don’t think that just because I’m a preacher I have it all figured out.” John shook his head. “I still sin. I have flaws and baggage. I need the Lord daily.”
Gerard’s rebuttal died in his throat. He’d never heard a pastor admit to even half of that.
“I don’t know what kind of church background you have, and I can’t fix old hurts, but I can tell you that you’d probably have a different experience in our congregation.” He winked. “If you stick around, that is.”
Gerard clamped his mouth shut. The pastor had a point—as much as he hated to admit it. He’d been running. Bri had seen it. He’d even felt it but refused to acknowledge it. He ran to hide from his mom’s addiction. Ran to evade rejection. Ran to avoid the truth about his feelings for Bri.
All it’d gotten him were sore legs and loneliness.
“I’ve been talking to the Lord about your mom.” John lightly tapped Gerard on the shoulder with his Oreos. “Wouldn’t hurt for you to take a minute and do the same about your future.”
Bri flipped on the bakery lights at the Puff, wincing against the sudden glare. Her eyes, which had been red-rimmed and glazed when she dared peek in the mirror that morning before heading to work, felt as dry and lifeless as she did.
She had been too late. She hadn’t found Gerard. He hadn’t answered his cell, and when she ran by the B&B, Mrs. Beeker admitted she hadn’t seen him all evening.
Now, it was after 6:00 a.m. He was probably halfway back to Chicago—if not already all the way home. She’d googled the distance last night while lying in bed, kicking herself for her emotional knee-jerk reaction and losing him. Over eight hours.
Maybe a clean break was for the best. Rip off the Band-Aid and all that.
But it didn’t feel like the best.
In fact, nothing felt right anymore. It was like she’d awakened from a dream, and now everything felt . . . a little false. Tainted. Different.
She was different.
Bri planted her hands on her hips and turned a slow circle around the empty bakery. In a matter of weeks—maybe sooner, if Charles had his way—the Pastry Puff would be gutted and a uniformed barista would be standing in that same spot her mother used to stand. But instead of humming and creating delectable art, this barista would be pouring brand-name coffee and pushing brand-name muffins across the counter.
The door chimed, and Mabel and Agnes shuffled in. Agnes’s coat was buttoned to her neck, and Mabel had a mink—hopefully fake—scarf draped around her neck.
“Good morning.” Bri forced her best smile, but Mabel shook her head.
“No need for the fakesies today. We know you’re upset.”
“That’s not even a word, Mabel.” Agnes rolled her eyes as she dumped her purse on one of the nearby tables and began to unbutton her coat.
“It’s a word now, because I said it. Fakesies.” Mabel repeated it louder as she undraped her scarf with a dramatic flair. “And Bri knows what I mean. Don’t you, honey?”
Before Bri could answer, Mabel pointed to the chair across from Agnes’s coat. “Sit.”
Bri sat.
“We couldn’t let you go a minute longer without hearing the whole story.” Mabel took the chair next to Bri and reached for her with her gnarled, wrinkled hand. The deep purple of her fingernail polish matched the veins running across the top of her hand.
Bri clung to her—to the same hand that had wiped her tears, hugged her tight, and swatted her when she was being ridiculous.
“Are you mad at us?” Agnes sat down in the third chair, leaning forward and bracing her weight on her elbows. Her gaze, while always serious, held a tinge of genuine concern Bri hadn’t seen in a long time. “It’s okay if you are.”
“Not mad.” Bri shook her head, not fully trusting her voice. “Just—confused.” To say the least. After all this time—why now? Why at all? Had she failed, somehow? All the questions she couldn’t voice without collapsing into a pile of tears.
Mabel nodded. “It was a hard decision. I know we act like spring chickens, but we’re getting older, and honestly, I don’t think we can keep up this pace.”
“Don’t get us wrong, you’re an amazing help around here. You run the place and do most of the baking.” Agnes patted Bri’s arm. “But you can’t be a one-woman show forever.”
“You have a gift, Bri.” Mabel’s voice dropped to a whisper, as if she were sharing a secret. “You bake like your mother.”
The compliment ricocheted off her guarded heart. She couldn’t let it fully sink in. Couldn’t take the praise she so desperately wanted to hear. She’d wanted it for so long, she didn’t know how to receive it. “You mean because I finally figured out her secret ingredient?”
Agnes raised her chin. “Speaking of which, that was the most random secret ingredient ever—”
“No.” Mabel shot Agnes a look with a capital L. “Because you bake with love, honey. You put yourself into those desserts. It matters to you—because the customers matter to you.”
The compliment wiggled through the brick guard and embedded deep. Slowly, her wall began to dissolve. Mabel’s words reminded her what Gerard had said on the street that day she’d run into him on her way to Casey’s house. “You’re happy because you’re serving the people of your town. Caring for the elderly and discounting goods for those struggling and holding babies for stressed out moms so they can drink their coffee in peace. Handing out cupcakes to homeless men on bicycles. Remembering people’s orders and making them feel special. Listening to everyone who’s willing to talk. That’s what fills you up.”
Her mom had done the same—baked with love, with intentionality. She used desserts to calm anxieties and develop friendships and offer encouragement. She’d brought back her recipes from Paris to create masterpieces in he
r little town, ones filled more with joy and hope than cream or compote.
Tears pricked for an entirely different reason. Was she really like that? She wanted to be.
“You’re capable of more than this.” Mabel gestured around the Puff. “You have so much to offer. We knew if we held on to the Puff, you’d never leave. We want you to fly.”
“Why is leaving such a good idea?” Her pulse thudded in her ears, and she thought of her plane ticket to Paris. She was about to fly, literally—ready or not. “What’s wrong with home?” With security. With familiarity.
“It’s never truly leaving when you have a home. And you always have a home here. With us.” Mable gestured between her and Agnes, who nodded. “Nothing else will change.”
But Bri knew it would. The Puff would change into a chain. Charles would be in charge. She’d have to make an effort to go by Mabel and Agnes’s house to see them regularly. Their tight dynamic would shift a little, because that’s what happened when you stopped seeing someone every day. And one day they wouldn’t be there at all—many years down the road, hopefully.
Somehow, Bri had to be okay with that.
She took a deep breath. She couldn’t control it—couldn’t control her parents’ decisions. Couldn’t control the sisters’. And couldn’t control Gerard’s. She could only control her own.
“I understand. Thank you, both. I’m sorry I didn’t take the news better last night.”
Agnes waved her hand in the air dismissively. “It was late, and honestly, that tea was pretty bad.”
“We wanted you to have this.” Mabel handed Bri a piece of paper.
A check. Bri stared at the numbers in the dollar field and blinked. Then blinked again. “How can—this is—”
“Let’s just say Charles was a desperate man.” Agnes winked.
Mabel giggled. “And Agnes here knows how to strike a deal.”
“Seriously.” Agnes shook her head in disgust. “You should have heard what Mabel was going to accept. Someone had to step in.”
“I can’t take this. It’s too much. You guys need it.” Bri slid the check across the table, heart thudding. There was no way she was accepting that much money from two elderly angels.
Mabel immediately slid it back. “If you have one single ounce of respect for either of us, you’ll put this in your purse right now, young lady.”
Bri opened her mouth to protest.
“Use it to take a risk.” Agnes reached over, clamping her warm hand on top of Bri’s.
Bri looked up in surprise at the unusual show of affection.
Agnes’s gaze riveted to hers. “Your mother took a risk going to Paris—and look how that turned out for her. You need to live too.”
“Yes. Don’t be afraid to try.” Mabel put her hand over the two of theirs.
Agnes yanked her palm free. “Stop getting so mushy.”
Mabel bristled. “That’s not mushy. Mushy would be Agnes and Mr. Hanseeeen sitting in a tree . . .” She broke into sing-song.
Agnes glared. “His name is Carl.”
Bri tuned them out, tucking the check inside her pocket. The sisters were right. Gerard had been right. All this time, she’d been so focused on romantic love, she’d never realized how much she was showing love to others in different ways. Never realized how fulfilling it was despite her single status. Real love was sacrifice. Serving.
God was love. And she had to find her identity there. Not in Paris. Not in her parents’ relationship.
And not in her relationship with Gerard.
The door opened, and a gust of wind swooshed in. Mabel grabbed for her mink. Agnes turned abruptly in her chair, and Bri’s heart stuttered.
He hadn’t left.
Gerard stepped just inside the threshold, as if unsure he’d be welcomed.
Bri slowly stood, also unsure if she should welcome him. Her heart and her fears played tug-of-war in her chest.
“Come on, Mabel. Let’s go turn on the ovens.” Agnes grabbed Mabel’s elbow and pulled.
“That’s hardly a two-person job,” Mabel protested as Agnes dragged her away. “How am I supposed to eavesdrop from the kitchen?”
Their voices faded as the kitchen door swung shut behind them.
Gerard approached her cautiously, wearing the black leather jacket he’d worn the first day she saw him, backpack slung over his shoulder. As Agnes had asked on that first day, Bri followed suit. “You needing directions—or a cup of coffee?”
Recognition flickered in his eyes and a half smile tugged at his lips. “I don’t know. Is it any good?”
She shrugged, unable to stop the hope blossoming within. “I hear it’s pretty awful. But I can vouch for the macarons.”
“I can vouch for their baker.” Gerard stopped directly in front of her, and the heat from his body warmed her all the way through, despite the inches separating them. “I’m sorry, Bri. I was wrong.” He winced. “I don’t say those words often enough.”
“No, I was wrong. I should have heard you out.” Bri wrung her fingers together. “I let Sandra get to me, and when you didn’t immediately correct what she’d said, I panicked and assumed the worst.”
“It wasn’t totally inaccurate—but the motivation was. Charles swindled me.” Gerard pushed his hands through his hair. “I figured it out. He knew I wouldn’t keep that money, but he wanted to make sure you eventually found out that I took it. It’s obvious now.”
“That’s why he backed off for that long in the media war, wasn’t it? He had a new strategy to get to me.” Bri shook her head. Dismay filled her chest. “What a rat. And now after all that, he got what he wanted.”
“What do you mean?” Gerard frowned.
“They sold the bakery.” The words still felt foreign on her tongue. “Charles won.”
“Oh man.” Gerard sank into the chair Agnes had vacated. “I’m sorry, Bri.”
“No, you’re not.” She sat in the chair across from him.
“I’m sorry you’re hurting, but you’re right. I do think this is good news. Hard news, but good.”
“That’s what Mabel and Agnes said.” Bri released a slow breath, trying to garner the courage that had carried her this far. “They said I have more to offer, and that I need to fly.” She pulled out the check she’d tucked into her pocket. “Apparently now I have the wings to do so.”
Gerard’s eyes widened. “I’d say so. What are you going to do with it?”
“I don’t know yet.” Bri shrugged. “It’s all still a little . . . surreal.” She bit down on her lower lip. “I really thought you’d left already.”
“I did.” Gerard smirked. “I got about an hour down the road last night, then decided to take Pastor John’s advice and quit being a coward. I came back to the B&B around midnight and prayed until I crashed.” He looked down at his hands. “Also hard, but good.”
“Sounds like it.” Bri’s pulse started a runaway gallop. “Why are you here?” Her voice sunk to a whisper as her fears rode shotgun. Afraid of him leaving. Afraid she already cared too much if he did.
Afraid of the giant unknown future staring at her from all fronts.
“Because I needed you to know that I started off caring more about the feature and my promotion than I did about you and the Puff. But that changed—quickly, I might add.” Gerard reached for her hand, waiting until she slowly opened her palm to him before threading his fingers through hers. His touch warmed the leftover chill inside. “I should have let you read the feature, but I was afraid of how you were going to take it.”
“Is it bad?”
“No. But it’s not what you were expecting.”
“I’ve learned recently that it’s better to just have zero expectations.”
“Great. Then you’ll love it.” Gerard reached into his pack on the floor and pulled out his laptop. “Here.” He booted it up, hit a few keys, and turned the screen for her to see. “This is the final part two, save any edits my boss feels led to incorporate.”
Bri adjusted the screen to compensate for the glare of the overhead lights and started to read.
Not all who wander are lost—but in Story, Kansas, not all who stay are found.
She raised her eyes to meet his.
“Keep reading.”
That said, there’s much to be found in the Pastry Puff, a Parisian-themed café tucked into the middle of the Midwest—somewhat bitter coffee, exceptional service, and one of the best macarons this world traveler has ever tasted.
“You had to mention the coffee.”
“I’m a man of honesty. Keep going.” He tapped the computer.
She skimmed through the recap of their menu offerings, more fully described in part one, along with the joint ownership between Mabel and Agnes.
The Puff is best known for its love locks and matchmaking schemes—but perhaps the Puff’s greatest treasure isn’t found in its celebration of traditional love. Perhaps it’s found in the heart of the service behind the management.
A popular TV show once thrived on the theme of belonging, of coming where “everybody knows your name.” At the Puff, not only will your name be heard and remembered, it’ll become part of the establishment.
This seasoned traveler has purchased goods from remote corners of the world—from tents surrounded by camels, from huts composed of mud and straw, and from modern stores dripping in diamonds—and not once have I encountered such a genuine desire by the management to connect with and make a difference in the community.
Bri’s eyes misted over and she kept reading. The number of days the Puff has left are unfortunately quite possibly numbered. Mid-America cafés aren’t always suited for longevity and are hard to sustain in the ever-changing retail market. Throw in a few wealthy sharks circling live bait, and the end is often inevitable.
She snickered at the accurate allusion to Charles.
But one tale I suspect will live on forever in Story is the one that began in a tiny, Midwestern bakery. A story of once upon a time, of a beautiful woman with a great deal of courage who left her home to journey to a faraway land. A story where a woman fell in love, made choices both good and bad, and birthed a miniature version of herself, whom she taught to carry on her legacy.
The Key to Love Page 27