To save her family's business, a small-town baker returns to a television competition that made her a national laughingstock, where her partner is the professional baseball player who broke her heart.
After another disaster hits my poor bakery, I re...
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"Paigey, you don't need to do that." Violet's mom took the dishes I was clearing off the last table, set them down, and extended her arms for a hug. "Again, so sorry about the smoke damage."
I took a long sip of my wine before setting down the empty glass. Pinot noir's earthy infusion was an acquired taste—Vi's, not mine—but, for the numbness its fifteen percent alcohol offered, I'd drink it from one of my sweaty-soled shoes.
"We'll figure it out," I said, hugging her and directing another silent please into the sky.
This morning, while I was covered in a hairspray fog at the salon, Hugo delivered the twenty-grand blow. My car wasn't worth that much, but I'd already listed it. Wouldn't be the first time I'd driven the bakery van for personal use, and knowing my luck, it wouldn't be the last either.
"You always do." Sandra gave the best Mom-hugs, enveloping me in warm comfort. "We all thought you'd be here first."
Her words, perspiration, sunscreen, and pinot noir breath invaded my senses, rushing dizziness through my head. 'Here' didn't mean their expansive backyard with a beautiful sunset backdrop reception winding down. Here didn't mean being welcomed in their house like an adopted daughter.
Here meant married.
What was I supposed to say? 'It's okay' was a lie.
My fingers trembled as they gathered silverware. The busier my hands and feet were, the more candles I blew out, the trash I hauled to the garage, the flowers I gathered into vases, and tablecloths I folded, the less I'd obsess about what we were going to do.
What were we going to do?
Crickets serenaded the last muted conversations. The remaining guests lounged around the pool with their ties and heels abandoned. Vi's parents' backyard was the last place I'd expect she'd get married. Vegas on accident, sure, but they'd chosen a homey venue with artistic touches from hand-colored linens to a live artist painting her and Gabe's first dance.
I carried piles of plates to the kitchen sink. Busy was best. If not, someone would bring up—
"We were hoping Brody would come." Sandra stopped my scrubbing hands.
—him again.
Her round cheeks were flushed, kind sympathy filled the rich sapphire eyes she shared with the bride, and her red-stained smile was sad. "Do you ever hear from him?"
If I had a dollar for every time I'd been asked this question today, I could pay for the repairs. But Sandra was my second mother. She drove Morgan to her afterschool lessons whenever I needed to work, and we still kept a key to their house.
She'd hosted Mom and Dad's wakes in this house.
I shook my head, the ache in my chest demanding recognition. Any answer would either be a lie or reduce me to blubbering tears, so I swallowed the tightness in my throat.
