The Key to Love

by Betsy St. Amant

  That lovely blonde legacy still bakes at the Pastry Puff today. And it’s my suspicion that, come what may to the brick and mortar, this particular legacy will continue to do what she does best—serve with love—wherever she goes.

  Bri blinked back tears, a hundred thoughts vying for attention first. She licked her lips, wanting to speak, unsure where to even start. “I don’t know what to say.”

  His gaze held hers, steady and intentional. “Say you love me too.”

  Her heart cartwheeled and her mouth dried. “You haven’t said it first.”

  “Oh, yeah.” He smiled and stood, then took her hand, tugging her up beside him. “I love you, Abrielle. I love your bitter coffee and your heart for people and your courage.” He tucked her hair behind her ear, his finger tangling into her thick strands. “I even love your blonde hair.”

  “What do you mean, even?” She pulled back an inch to meet his gaze and frowned.

  “Long story. Tell you later.” He grinned, then his eyes grew serious once more. “My boss sent me here because he hoped I’d find something to get my writing back on par—he hoped I’d find you.”

  Bri swallowed hard.

  “And after talking with Pastor John and then after an even longer conversation with God, I realized that the Lord was the one who actually sent me here.” He gently rubbed her arms. “When I first met you, I thought you were a romance-obsessed, head-in-the-clouds kind of girl. A woman stuck in a fantasy.”

  “You’ve never done this before, have you?” Bri squinted at him.

  “Hang on. I’m not done.” He drew her close. “Turns out I was wrong—again. You had the wisdom I needed all along. You called me out for running—so when Pastor John did the same last night, I was able to hear it. You were right. I’ve been hiding. Scared of roots and what would grow if I stood still long enough.”

  “And are you standing now?” She held her breath, afraid to hope. Afraid not to.

  “A little wobbly, but I’m up.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I see now how many people tried to love me with little acts of kindness. They offered me a place to stay when Mom vanished for days or tried to give me home-cooked meals when she was on one of her benders.”

  She squeezed his hand. She couldn’t even imagine dealing with that as a kid—especially as a young boy trying to shoulder the responsibilities that should have been on a father. Her childhood had been perfect. Maybe some of it had been an illusion, in hindsight, but her parents’ love for her—and clearly for each other—had been a constant. Despite the recent discovery of the letters, she’d never had to doubt her security or her family’s name.

  Gerard continued. “I was so guarded, I thought the church members were just being nosy or pitying me. But watching you love the people of this town showed me how much genuine heart goes into those kinds of gestures. Then when I met Remy and heard all his negative talk, it sunk in even deeper.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Gerard hesitated. “There might be one more thing I haven’t had a chance to tell you yet.”

  And here they went again. She tried to brace herself and hang on to her new no-expectations policy. She took a deep breath. “What?”

  “Remember the photographer I idolized for years, Remy? The one who took the photo of me on the street near the bakery where your parents met?”

  She nodded.

  “That’s T.R.”

  Bri’s legs wobbled, and she pulled away, dropping into her chair. Blood rushed from her face, and she clenched her hands into a fist. What? No. “That’s impossible.”

  “When you showed me the picture, I couldn’t believe it either. But it’s definitely him.”

  Her brain raced to connect the dots. “Your idol had an affair with my mom?”

  “I guess that’s one way to put it.” Gerard hesitated. “I have a better way, though.”

  She raised her eyebrows, not trusting her voice.

  “I like to think of it as God using a man who interfered negatively in both of our lives for an overall good. It connects us in a way that sort of feels meant to be, doesn’t it?”

  Maybe. Bri rolled in her lip. How could so much have changed in just a few weeks’ time? Gerard had roared into town and upset everything she’d ever known. But she couldn’t find the room to be even remotely resentful about it. He was right. It was like it’d been meant to be. All of it. Her mistakes. His.

  Her parents’.

  “I put Remy on a pedestal, and he fell off—hard. You did the same with your mom.”

  Ouch. But true.

  “Remy spoke negativity into my life, and it came out in my relationship afterward. I was so guarded, always assuming the worst about my fiancée—and eventually, that self-prophecy was fulfilled. She became the worst.” Gerard pulled the empty chair closer to Bri and sat down, their knees brushing. “Remy was broken and hurting because your mother dumped him for your dad. She did the right thing—but he couldn’t handle it. He stayed bitter. He kept running from one location to another and had me convinced I had to do the same. Avoid love—avoid heartbreak. I thought he was onto something.”

  “Wow.” Mabel’s voice echoed across the room from the bakery counter. “Now, that’s a small world.”

  “Mabel!” Bri jerked around just in time to see Agnes hissing the same. She grabbed her sister’s sleeve. They briefly scuffled in a flimsy slap fight, then the two sisters disappeared back into the kitchen. But not before Mabel’s desperate voice pierced through the still-swinging door. “Kiss him, Bri! Fly!”

  Bri closed her eyes, torn between her desire to laugh and sob. It was like living in a cartoon lately. Nothing made sense, nothing was as it seemed to be. But maybe that’s what she’d needed all along. Picture-perfect wasn’t real. This was.

  And real was pretty romantic.

  She opened her eyes. “You were saying?”

  “My boss reminded me the other day that there’s a time—and a purpose—for everything. Ecclesiastes.” Gerard sighed. “The last few years, I’ve sort of been in a permanent state of ‘time to refrain from embracing.’” He rubbed one finger over her jeans-clad knee. “Until you.”

  “And now?”

  “I’d like to think I’m in the ‘time to love’ portion of the Scripture.” He clasped her hand. “You still haven’t said it, you know.”

  “Said what?” She couldn’t resist teasing him a little.

  He kept a deadpan expression. “That your coffee really does suck.”

  She playfully slapped his shoulder. “It’s not that bad.”

  “Am I still incorrigible?”

  “Apparently some things never change, after all.”

  “Some things do.” Gerard sobered.

  “And some things do.” Bri hesitated, then remembered her wings. Time to fly. She scooted over into Gerard’s lap, perched on his knee, and wrapped her arms around his neck. “You live in Chicago.” Speaking of wanting facts to change.

  “For now. Lucky for you, I work for a travel magazine.” Gerard lifted one shoulder. “Seems like there’s some good possibilities there for relocation.”

  “You’d move to Story?”

  “There’s a blonde there I hear makes it a pretty appealing place.”

  “You’re going to have to explain the blonde thing eventually, you know.”

  Gerard’s arms hooked around her waist. “Thankfully, I’ve got plenty of time.”

  Joy ballooned in her stomach. Still so many unanswered questions, but hope rose high. They’d figure out the details, somehow. Right now, she needed to celebrate. “You know, I’ve been instructed to kiss you, and it’s never wise to disobey love angels.” Her heart stammered in anticipation.

  “I really hate that phrase.” His gaze darted to her lips then back to her eyes.

  “I can live with that.” She pressed her lips against his. “Are you always going to tell me like it is?”

  “Always.” He kissed her again, longer this time, and her stomach applauded. “Are
you gonna love me even when I do?”

  She searched his gaze, then breathed a new kiss onto his lips. “Always.”

  One year later . . .

  “We’re out of macarons.”

  “Again?” Bri slid the next tray of petit fours into the display and turned to Gerard in surprise. “How many did you eat?”

  He avoided eye contact and shrugged. “Not as many as you and Junior.”

  “For the tenth time, you don’t know that this is a boy.” Bri touched her rounded belly under her apron.

  Gerard sidled up to her, tugging at her apron ties. “You don’t know that it’s not. And, hey, I’m just being a good husband and trying to gain sympathy weight.” He patted his own flat stomach with pride.

  “Try harder. But not with my macarons. You’re stealing them from the customers.” Bri waited until he stepped up to help the next guest at the counter—old Mr. Peters from the shelter across town—then snuck a bite of a petit four. Junior—or Juniorette—sure loved them, too, during this second trimester. Sweets were almost all she’d eaten. Thankfully, they’d left the pickle-chip stage behind in the first trimester. She almost turned green at the memory.

  “Have I mentioned I love that you’re a baker, and you have a bun in your oven?” Casey popped an apple slice into her mouth from her spot at a nearby booth and grinned.

  “Only nine times. Maybe thirteen.” Bri grinned back. Casey and Nathan had had their own surprise a few months ago, who was now nestled in the carrier at her feet, snoozing away in the muted sun streaming through the café’s beveled glass windows. “Why didn’t you tell me pregnancy was this exhausting?”

  “Because you forget that part after realizing how much more exhausting the actual tiny humans are.” Casey snorted. “Want the horror stories yet?”

  “Not yet. I prefer my naive ‘baking’ stage.” She rubbed her belly. She couldn’t believe everything that had happened in the past year. Marriage. A whirlwind honeymoon. An unexpected but most welcome surprise a few months later. And the grand opening of her very own nonprofit ministry café.

  The café door opened, and Mabel and Agnes strolled inside. Mabel was walking with a cane now, but it barely slowed her down. In fact, Bri had seen her swing it like she was in a Broadway production more than once.

  “We’re not late, are we?” Mabel hobbled across the tile floor. “I was wanting one of those legendary grilled cheese sandwiches.”

  Bri headed for the refrigerator. “You’re right on time. And I might have stuck one back for you.” Turned out she was better at cooking more than just sweets. Who would have thought? It was funny what one could do with a hefty check, a heartfelt dream to serve, and the perfect location a few blocks down from the Puff. Well, the former Puff, anyway.

  She heated the sandwich for Mabel and slid it across the counter to her on a paper plate—pink, of course.

  “Have we mentioned that we’re proud of you?” Agnes’s voice grew slightly raspy as she braced her forearms on the counter.

  “Yes.” Mabel nodded solemnly. “That, and we want a souvenir from Paris.”

  Agnes elbowed Mabel, and she huffed. “Well, it’s true. You know you do too.”

  “She’s right. We do.” Agnes nodded. “Preferably something purple.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” They were leaving the next morning for a week in Paris before her third trimester hit, when it would be more dangerous to travel.

  “And for the record, I’m proud of us too.” Mabel held out her hand to Agnes, who reluctantly slapped it a high five.

  “We knew the truth about you two the minute he roared into the bakery last year, you know.” Mabel gestured with her sandwich.

  Agnes nodded. “Obnoxious motorcycle and all.”

  “I know.” Bri smiled across the counter at Gerard, who was leaning against the display, strong arms crossed over his broad chest, talking earnestly to Mr. Peters. Gerard gave him his full attention and respect—just as he did the other homeless, poverty-stricken, or simply “having a bad day” folks who ambled through their doors every week. She’d married a man who’d not only helped her recognize her dreams but helped carry them out. “There’s no one I’d rather go to Paris with. It’ll be a fun trip.”

  “Who ever heard of going to Paris twice in a year? You two didn’t get enough on your honeymoon?” Agnes huffed.

  “Clearly they got plenty.” Mabel gestured to Bri’s rounded stomach.

  Agnes elbowed her again, harder.

  “Don’t make me whack you with my cane.” Mabel slapped at her with the hand not clutching her sandwich.

  “You already do. Quit pretending like it’s always an accident.” Agnes rolled her eyes as she ambled to the table next to Casey’s booth.

  “We’re just trying to make the most of our time before Junior comes.” Bri followed, handing Mabel a napkin and gesturing for her to wipe cheese off her chin.

  “Aha!” Gerard pointed at her from across the room, interrupting his own conversation. “You said Junior. So you do know it’s a boy.”

  Now it was Bri’s turn to roll her eyes. “He’s still incorrigible, you guys. Not even marriage can fix that.”

  “Hey, did you hear business is pretty slow down at Charles’s franchise?” A wry grin slid across Casey’s lips as she reached down and offered her now-waking baby boy a pacifier.

  “Is that so?” Bri kept a neutral expression as she ambled over to the counter and began to wipe up bread crumbs. Charles sure hadn’t wasted any time tearing down the love-lock wall—save the portion with her parents’ lock that Gerard surprised her with in her own front yard a week later—and remodeling the Puff into a well-known chain.

  Casey blew out her breath in a short laugh. “Oh, come on. Quit acting like you don’t care.”

  “I genuinely wish Charles the best.” She could say that honestly now, as she took in the blessings around her. Love. Family. Friends. An opportunity to live out her heart’s desire. Charles was the one to be pitied—manipulative and alone.

  Unless you counted Sandra, which Bri most often did not.

  Bri pulled her purse from under the counter and slung it over her shoulder. Hard to think in a few months it’d be a diaper bag. At least she had Casey to help guide her through this next adventure. She nodded at her friend. “Thanks for coming to lock up for me. We’re heading to put flowers on Mr. Mac’s grave before the sun sets.”

  “And Betty’s?” Casey leaned forward in her seat and raised her eyebrows.

  “Of course.” Bri grinned. “I’m sure I’d hear about it somehow otherwise.” A bittersweet twinge plucked, the way it always did when she considered the sweet man’s recent absence. But he and Betty were whole now, and together with their Lord. Yet another love story for the books.

  Speaking of . . .

  She held out her hand for Gerard, who came to her side. She twined her fingers through his, smiling up into the face of the one who knew her best and loved her anyway. They’d helped each other unlock their fears and insecurities—and guided each other toward the One who held the key to true love. There weren’t Parisian streets or kitchen slow dances or keys tossed overboard in the Seine. There weren’t heavy burdens and secret recipes and financial stress.

  After all this time, her story sure hadn’t turned out like her parents’ at all—it was better.

  It was theirs.

  Acknowledgments

  Writing a novel is sort of like raising a child—it takes a village. Special thanks to my talented tribe, including but certainly not limited to my awesome agents, Tamela Hancock Murray and Steve Laube, and to my brilliant editors, Kelsey Bowen and Amy Ballor. You guys make me look good!

  Additional thanks to the marketing and design teams at Revell—Brianne, Gayle, Mackenzie, Karen, Michele, and Erin. I knew I liked you all from that first sip of coffee during our meeting at the 2019 ACFW conference, but wow—you guys are the best! Thanks for your hard work and heart work.

  To my former assistant and curre
nt friend, Bri McMurry—I’ll forever remember you jamming out with me to Taylor Swift in that little oil and gas office on the fourteenth floor, where the idea for this book was born many moons ago. I still remember telling you the heroine was going to be named Bri, and here we are. You’re welcome.

  To Allen and Jim—I’m honored to be on this journey with you brothers in Christ. Thanks for walking me through all The Things. Pass the salsa.

  Georgiana—I couldn’t do this writing thing without your encouragement and critiques. Rachel—thanks for always harassing me to keep writing because you want more to read. Lori—you’re always one Vox away from a totally on-point brainstorming session that saves the day. Ashley—how were we ever NOT friends? Thanks for being you. Casey, Anne, Cat, Melissa, Katie, and Jenn—thank you for prayers, texts, salads in bed, pillow talk, counseling via text, random trips to monasteries, and other daily contributions to help me keep my sanity. Love you guys!

  Last but never least, to my husband, Topher—I’m so glad neither of us canceled that first coffee date. You’re the best thing to ever come from a nonfat, white-chocolate mocha. I love you!

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  If Rory Perez could find a way to wad all the cilantro in the entire world into a ball and hurl it into outer space, it still wouldn’t be far enough removed for her preference.

  “That’s enough, right?” She pulled her sweatshirt up over her nose and turned pleading eyes to Grady, who stood by the food truck’s efficiency stove and sprinkled the vile weed into a bubbling quesadilla mixture.

  Grady shook his head, humor dancing around the laugh lines by his eyes—wrinkles Rory was pretty sure she was responsible for. Probably responsible for the gray hair streaking his dark temple, too, even though he was only in his midforties. “Calm down, hermana. He asked for extra. Besides, who’s the chef here?”