The Muffin Top. Small Town Bakery. Sandy McCarthy, owner/operator.
Charlie looked back at her mom, raising her eyebrows in question.
“Sandy’s a friend of mine. She’s so sweet. Been divorced for a bit and finally decided to bite the bullet and do something she always wanted to do. A few months ago, she bought that old bakery you worked in when you were in high school, remember? She’s looking for help. I mentioned you were coming home and what a terrific baker you are, and she said to send you over.”
“Oh.” Charlie wasn’t sure what she felt in that moment. A bit of excitement to have a possible job opportunity? A smidge of nerves worrying that she wouldn’t know what she was doing? A little embarrassment that her mother had been talking about her to people she didn’t know? Charlie wondered how detailed her mom had gotten about why her big city daughter was suddenly returning to the nest.
“She needs help with pies,” her mother said with a twinkle in her eye, unaware of the swirling in her daughter’s head. “She tested out a few and they sold like crazy, but they’re not her strong suit. You’re just what she needs.”
Baking was something Charlie was good at. Very good. She didn’t really know why she’d gravitated toward it, but she had. She loved to bake just about anything. Cookies, cakes, muffins, breads. Pie, however, was something she’d always had a knack for.
But there was a slight problem.
“Mom, I haven’t made a pie in years. Literally.” Darcy would never have something homemade if she could buy the best instead. And let’s face it, living in Manhattan meant you could pretty much buy the best of anything you wanted if you had the means.
To her mother’s credit, she tried to hide the flash of surprised disappointment as it zipped across her face, but Charlie knew her well enough to catch it, and it bummed her out.
“Well,” her mom said, recovering quickly, “I doubt that’s something you’d just…forget. It’ll come back to you. Maybe go see Grandma for a refresher.”
Not a bad idea at all. Charlie needed to see her grandma anyway. She’d already been home almost a week, and if she didn’t go see her soon and she found out, her mother would get an earful.
“I think I’ll do that.” Charlie stood back up, cleared her dishes and put them in the dishwasher, then grabbed the card off the table. “Thanks, Mom.” She kissed her mother’s cheek and headed downstairs to shower.
And just like that, she felt almost energetic, something she hadn’t felt in a really long time. Being dumped, kicked out of your home, and forced to move back in with your parents was a pretty good way to feel weak, powerless, and flattened. Energy was something she’d become rather unfamiliar with. But not today. Today, after waking up with little direction for the hours stretched out in front of her, she had a plan. She would go see Sandy McCarthy at The Muffin Top about a job, and then she would visit her grandmother and hope she’d be up for making some piecrust.
Maybe today, things would start looking up.
Today, Charlie had a purpose.
Chapter Six
Enormous potential.
That was the first thing Charlie thought about The Muffin Top. Enormous potential. It was a good-sized space for a bakery: not huge, but not tiny and cramped. Plenty of room to grow, if that’s what Sandy McCarthy wanted. The glass case was large enough to hold a decent variety of baked goods, but not so big that it was in danger of looking empty if they didn’t keep it crammed full, something very important from a marketing standpoint. The front of the bakery, when you first walked in, was decorated in pink and white, with fun oil paintings of cupcakes and muffins along the walls in all different bright colors. There were five small round tables with three chairs each, though Sandy told Charlie during her interview that people didn’t really hang around, so Sandy wondered if the tables were a waste. Coffee had seemed a no-brainer solution—she’d suggested Sandy sell it, so people would want to sit and sip it with their baked goods—and Sandy had looked at her like she’d just given her the cure for cancer.
Then she hugged Charlie and hired her on the spot.
My God, bakeries open early…
Charlie was not a lazy person by nature, and while she enjoyed sleep—true, more in theory lately than in practice—she wasn’t one of those people who thought getting to work by nine was torture. However, she did think that getting to work by four thirty came pretty close. Wow.
She’d showered quickly, hoping that the water beating on her would help wake her up, then threw on old jeans, a white V-neck T-shirt that she didn’t care about, and pulled her hair into a ponytail. It was the best she could do at oh-dark-thirty.
If Charlie thought sleeping at her parents’ was hard because of the quiet, seeing the main stretch of Shaker Falls before sunrise was almost eerie. There was literally nobody to be seen as she drove. Not a soul. No other cars, no people, no activity whatsoever. It made her think of various horror movies from her childhood where a meteor passed over the town or some horrific virus decimated the population and she was the only one left. Thinking up survival techniques helped keep her awake until she pulled into the back parking lot of The Muffin Top and had to refocus.
Sandy only had one other employee, her niece Bethany, who was home from college for the summer. Charlie hadn’t met her yet, but when a small Honda Civic pulled into the spot next to hers and a bleary-eyed teenage girl in jeans and a worn Patriots T-shirt got out, she assumed she was about to.
“Hi,” Charlie said as she shut her car door, the sound seeming to jerk the girl to attention. “Are you Bethany?”
She squinted at Charlie as she nodded.
“I’m Charlie. New employee.” She stuck out her hand. Bethany looked at it for a good five seconds before shaking. Yeah, the girl was tired. Charlie thought back to her time in college and how alarmingly little sleep she’d gotten the entire four years. Her first week home for summer vacation, she had never wanted to leave her bed.
“Hey,” Bethany said, then headed toward the back door of the bakery without another word. Charlie followed.
Sandy was the opposite of Bethany in the morning, and after having interviewed with her, Charlie had suspected as much. Sandy was bright, bubbly, and friendly, and also seemed just a little bit frazzled at all times. Slightly flaky was how Charlie’s mother described her, but with affection. Instantly likable was how Charlie did. She was in her forties, tall and lanky, and had pin-straight chestnut brown hair. When she smiled her very wide smile, her dimples lit up her whole face and made you want to smile right back at her.
“Good morning, staff,” Sandy said as Bethany and Charlie entered, then giggled at her own joke. She wore black leggings and a white T-shirt, a pink Muffin Top apron tied over it. Her hair was in a ponytail, and she wore zero makeup, as far as Charlie could tell. She seemed ridiculously wide awake.
Bethany grunted a greeting—at least that’s what Charlie thought it was—and she smiled in reply. Despite the lunacy of the hour and knowing this was just a temporary thing, it surprised her to realize that she was happy to be there.
The Muffin Top smelled amazing. Charlie wasn’t sure why that fact surprised her a little bit—it was a bakery, after all—but it did. Maybe because it was so early? She stood still and simply inhaled the scents of flour and dough and chocolate and cinnamon, all making her feel warm and hungry.
Charlie had just registered that the scent of cinnamon was most prevalent and was making her mouth water, when Bethany said, “They’re ready. Excellent.”
Puzzled, Charlie furrowed her brow as she turned to see Sandy, oven mitt on one hand, pulling something out of the oven. The scent of cinnamon became more intense, and Charlie became hungrier as Sandy set down a tray of huge cinnamon rolls.
“Oh my God,” Charlie said softly before she could catch it, and Sandy chuckled.
“I like to get my day started with a little blast of sugar and the warmth of cinnamon. I did it once, and it somehow became tradition.”
Bethany alrea
dy had a small plate and a spatula in her hands. She dug out a roll, and it steamed as she set it on her plate, then handed the spatula to Sandy, who dished one out for Charlie.
“You do this every morning?” Charlie asked. Was there drool on her chin? Did she look like some Pavlovian dog? Because good God, the smell was divine. Her grandma had taught her that humans ate with their eyes first, and just looking at the soft doughiness of the roll, the perfectly golden top, the brown swirls of cinnamon running through it told her how amazing it was going to taste. She glanced around for a fork when she saw Bethany pick her roll up and take an enormous bite, despite the fact that it must have been hot. Bethany’s eyes stayed closed as she chewed, and Charlie swore she could actually see her waking up fully.
Screw it. Charlie followed suit. And it was hot. Burn-the-roof-of-your-mouth hot. But also freaking delicious. Sounds came from her throat. Embarrassing sounds. Humming. Moans of delight. The dough was pillowy soft and light, the amount of cinnamon perfect—not overwhelming and not too subtle.
“Oh my God,” Charlie muttered, fingers in front of her full mouth.
Sandy beamed as she lifted her own roll. “You like?”
“Oh my God,” she said again, then took another bite.
“Welcome to The Muffin Top. There’s icing in the fridge if you want it.” Sandy grinned, and the pride she had in her bakery was unmistakable. For a moment, envy surged through Charlie. Sandy had what she wanted. She was making it a success. She’d taken something she loved—baking—and turned it into her livelihood. Pretty cool. Pretty goddamn cool. Sandy handed Charlie a pink apron with the Muffin Top logo—a smiling, dancing muffin with stick arms and stick legs and a pink paper cup acting as its dress—screen printed across the front. “All right. Let’s get this day started.”
The first couple of hours, Charlie got to know the place, learned her way around the kitchen and the shop itself. Bethany, fully awake now and actually in possession of a very approachable personality, pointed out the whiteboard on the wall where Sandy would write a to-do list for the day and showed her the ropes: which baked goods were made first, where all the spices and other ingredients were kept, what to do if something was running low. They pulled anything left over from yesterday out of the giant refrigerator and boxed it up, reduced the price, and put it out on the day-old table in the shop area. What didn’t sell today would be picked up by a local food bank. Then Bethany gave Charlie a quick lesson on the cash register, which she grasped pretty fast.
By six thirty, when Sandy unlocked the front door and switched the sign from Closed to Open, a few early birds came in, and by seven thirty, the shop was quite busy. Cinnamon rolls, croissants, and muffins were the popular morning items, Charlie noted. Sandy had made most of them as Bethany showed her around, so the freshness couldn’t be beat. Then she watched Bethany whip up a batch of blueberry scones—so much butter, oh my God. While Charlie wasn’t new to baking at all, watching how quickly the two women worked and how well they knew each recipe was pretty intimidating.
At the same time, her business schooling had started to tickle the back of her neck as she paid attention to possible profit-building opportunities. Where Sandy could make more money. Where she might be losing it. Coffee was definitely something that needed to happen. Charlie kept her phone in the back pocket of her jeans and, anytime an idea came to her, jotted it down in her notes. Old habits.
By nine, things had tapered off a bit. She and Sandy were standing behind the glass display case when Sandy turned to her. “Okay, we’re in a lull. How’re you feeling?”
“Well”—Charlie pointed at the front of the shop—“I just now noticed that the sun is up and there’s daylight out the windows.”
Sandy laughed. “Yeah, that happens when we have a rush.” She studied her for a moment. “Does my new employee feel like making me a pie?”
Charlie’s face lit up—she could feel it. “Hell, yes. What kind?”
“Let’s start with something simple. Cherry?”
“On it.” Adrenaline shot through her as she headed back to the kitchen, Sandy following.
“You can work right here.” Sandy indicated a large countertopped workspace off to the side, more spacious than any kitchen Charlie had ever baked in, that was for sure. Even Darcy’s gourmet one. “Bethany showed you where everything is, but ask if you can’t find something. I’m not going to watch over your shoulder.” Charlie felt her own relief at that, because she kind of expected Sandy would watch over her shoulder, and the idea of somebody observing her every move made her nerves jangle. “If we get a sudden rush, I might need your help, and I could call you away. Just know that.”
Charlie nodded, not worried at all. She’d interned in one of the busiest marketing firms in New York City. Being pulled away from her cherry pie to ring up some sugar cookies wasn’t going to rattle her.
She’d taken photos of several of her grandmother’s recipes during her visit, just to refresh her memory, and she called the one for cherry pie up on her phone.
She got started.
* * *
“You sure you’re okay?” Alec Haberman, her sous chef, had asked the question three times now, and Emma wanted to be annoyed by that, but she just couldn’t. The nicest of nice guys, Alec was simply voicing concern, and Emma knew it.
Can’t blame him, she thought as she caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the large stainless steel pot he carried past. Dark circles highlighted—lowlighted?—her eyes, her coloring was dull, and it was glaringly obvious to anybody who gave her a passing glance that she’d gotten little sleep. So many things in her head that wouldn’t leave her alone, wouldn’t let her relax.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just didn’t sleep well.”
Alec gave a nod and went to work on the base for the chicken potpie that would be tonight’s special.
A yawn pried Emma’s mouth open wide and she grunted a sound of annoyance. This was why she couldn’t open for lunch. She’d need to get started even earlier, and she just couldn’t imagine doing that. Not now. Not yet. But she’d get there. She wanted to get there.
Emma wiped her hands on a towel, tossed it to the counter, and went to the walk-in freezer, where she stepped inside and closed the door, leaving it ajar a few inches.
A ritual of sorts.
When life got to her, when things beyond her control were weighing her down—today it was Sabrina…again, her mother…always, and Charlie…unexpected—she went into the freezer and closed her eyes. She let the fog swirl around her as she took in three deep breaths. Slowly. Deliberately. In. Hold. Out. Two more times. Then she opened her eyes, shook her arms out as if she was a boxer about to step into the ring and do battle. She rolled her head around, taking satisfaction in the grinding and popping of her spine as she worked out all the kinks. One more deep breath and she was ready.
End of ritual.
She stepped out of the freezer, caught Alec’s eye as he shook his head.
“It always freaks me out when you do that,” he said with a chuckle.
“I know.” Emma grinned at him as Jules walked in the back door.
“Hi, gang,” she said cheerfully. Everything she did she did cheerfully. Everything she said, she said cheerfully. Emma joked once that when you looked up the word perky in the dictionary, there was a picture of Jules next to it. Jules sniffed the air. “Oh, that smells wonderful. What are we making?”
And so, the day began. This was how it always went. Honestly, it wasn’t a bad gig, and she knew it. She was lucky. She was the boss. At barely twenty-eight, she owned her own business. It was quite an accomplishment, and she often had to remind herself of that. She let the feeling of success wash over her as she and her tiny staff got to work.
Sometime later, Emma pulled the first batch of her chicken potpies out of the oven. Five of them. The smell was heavenly, rich and meaty. The crust was baked to a golden brown. She set the tray on the counter to let them cool.
“Okay,” she said. Alec lo
oked up from the clam chowder he was making. Jules was working on salad ingredients. “Lunch is served. Let’s see how we did.” When the pies had cooled, the three of them sampled one, digging forks in, looking critically to each other.
“Mm. That’s delicious,” Jules said as she chewed.
“The base needs a bit more salt,” Emma commented, then looked at Alec, who was nodding. “The chicken is nice and tender, though.”
“Peas were a good call,” Alec said.
“Agreed.”
“And your crust is on point.”
“It came out good.” Emma turned to Jules. “Wrap two of them up and run them over to Sandy’s place. See what she’s got for us.”
“You got it, boss.”
Inventing and experimenting. Tweaking and adjusting. This was the part of cooking Emma loved the most. Making changes. Adding. Subtracting. Until it tasted perfect, whatever it was. Getting her out of her own head was simply an added bonus. She could set aside things that had been weighing on her. She’d been known to make the same dish a dozen or more times until she felt it was the best it could be. It was all about focus.
As Jules put the potpies in a bag and headed out the door, Emma got to work on the next batch. Comfort food at its finest. Her specialty.
“These are going to be a hit,” she said, not really to Alec, just in general. But he nodded with enthusiasm.
“Definitely.”
* * *
Nerves tickled up and down Charlie’s spine like fingernails, as it had been a long time since she’d made pie on a regular basis, and she found herself wanting to impress Sandy. She took a big, fortifying breath and got to work.
Five years old. That’s when she first started to help with the baking. Helping in the kitchen was something that caught her young attention early on, but only with regard to baking. She didn’t really enjoy cooking actual meals, but cookies? Cake? Pie? Sign her up.
It took her a while to figure out why that was. Why did she love to make dessert, but hate to cook anything else? Why did she loathe her mother asking her to get dinner started but would happily make a batch of oatmeal raisin cookies at ten o’clock at night? It wasn’t until her freshman year in college and her first visit home over Thanksgiving that she figured it out. She hadn’t expected to be homesick at college—and she didn’t tell her parents how badly she was because they’d warned her it would happen and she was eighteen and, like all teenagers, didn’t want them to be right—so she was quietly thrilled to be back in the house she grew up in, preparing for the holiday. She had no desire, really, to help with things like the stuffing or the sweet potato casserole or even the turkey. But she was all about making the pumpkin and apple pies. She watched her mother toss various ingredients into her stuffing, not measuring anything, just tasting and adding, tasting and adding. It wasn’t until she pulled out her mother’s beat-up binder full of recipes to get what she needed for the pies that it struck her: rules. She was a huge follower of rules. She liked them. Preferred them. A good girl. She waited for the Walk sign when she crossed the street, even if no cars were coming. She had never in her life cut in line, nor had she ever littered. She was a rule-following girl who grew up to be a rule-following woman, and baking was all about rules.
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