by Snow, Nicole
I'm shocked because he'd been planning it for months. Had the cabin bought and renovated and everything, even had a sweet new boat dropped off at the refurbished dock. I lean back in my chair. “Why not?”
“Because we can’t put Ben on a plane right now. He just got out of the hospital, Hunt. Too many germs in all that closed up air.”
I nod, then reach over and clap his shoulder. Now, it makes sense.
I know how much he loves Ben. We all do.
More than I ever thought possible, really, but I can feel Cory’s frustration as strongly as I can feel my own. It’s always been this way between us. This strange sense binding us like blood.
“Then drive,” I say. “Take the extra time. Colorado isn’t that far, and the fresh air there will do Ben some good.”
Cory spins his beer around and picks at the label. “No. We’ve decided not to go, so we aren’t. End of story.”
I have to wonder who decided that. Both of them, or only him?
* * *
Present Day
“Dad?”
I shake my head to dispel the memories. “Yeah?”
“I’m gonna have another bite of that dessert Wendy made,” Ben says, peering into my office. “You want some?”
I move away from the door. “No, you go ahead.”
“Didn’t you like it?”
Noting the frown on his face, I walk over and drape an arm around his shoulders. “Yeah, I did. Damn good. You know, on second thought, I will have some more.”
I'm not really hungry, even if Wendy's sweets are divine. But a tasty, sugary distraction might be just the thing to take the edge off when I couldn't dive into whiskey.
His face lights up. “Cool. It really is something, isn't it?”
I look at him for a second, trying to remember the last time I heard him this chipper, this carefree.
This kid means the world to me. I give his shoulder a squeeze.
“No doubt about it,” I agree as we head to the kitchen together.
“And it looked really cool, too, before we started eating it. How does she do that?”
“Don't know, son. You've got yourself a chance to find out the inner secrets of Midnight Morning soon enough, though.”
“Yeah, sure hope so.” He grins, looking up at me. “The unicorn cake looked amazing, too. But really, Dad...you got your picture taken with it? A unicorn cake? You do know you're on their website now?”
It's not disgust on his face, just good-natured disbelief in that weird way kids have.
I chuckle. “Had to, Ben. Wendy needed a favor. You should've seen it from the start. The cake was just a blob of brown the first time I saw it. I would've bet money that she couldn't have turned that thing into a unicorn masterpiece. Lots of money, really.”
“What’s the bakery like?” he asks. “Is it big?”
“No. It’s pretty small, cozy back there, but nice and clean. Smells good.” I’d spent most of my time in Wendy’s cake room, and the garage where the van was parked, so I couldn’t really describe much of the shop as a whole. “Hard to believe you'll have it too rough. Mostly dishes and cups from the cafe part, I suspect, plus some pans and mixers.”
He asks several other questions about the bakery and jobs in general. I gave him my thoughts while we finished off Wendy's dessert.
Then we watched a movie in the den, some spy-action flick. I lose interest in the first ten minutes. A yacht comes roaring across the screen and my thoughts go straight back to wedding cakes. All sorts of cakes. And then to Wendy.
Damn, she was trouble. Too cute, too sassy, and too fucking likely to still be here if Sloan hadn’t shown up.
I tell myself again his clumsy pop-in was a good thing. He disrupted something that could've turned into disaster for her and me both.
I know my focus. It needs to stay on Ben for a few more years. Just until he's grown.
After the movie, we head to our rooms. I see an extra bounce in Ben's step before he shuts the door, something that makes me linger in the hall, just smiling.
Apparently, baking isn't the only kind of magic Wendy Agnes does.
And if I'm not careful, that woman might just make me a believer in miracles.
* * *
The next morning is less pleasant. It's time to visit the game shop owner.
Ben fidgets nervously in the passenger seat the whole way there. You know it's bad when a teenager is too freaked out to even look at his phone and check the latest dozen Snaps and texts coming in.
Mr. Murray isn't what I expect in a game shop owner. He's older, sixtyish, and overall a nice guy, but very tired of a specific group of kids.
The same ones who’d put the notion of stealing in Ben’s mind. He says they've cost him at least four grand in losses this year.
Naturally, I put the responsibility on Ben's shoulders for following through with their suggestion, and so does Murray. Ultimately, I'm relieved when I find out he’d wanted to talk to me because he could tell Ben wasn’t like the others.
He wants me to know that letting him hang around those other boys is only going to cause more problems if I don't put a stop to it.
I do.
Soon as we're done and back in the truck, I straight up tell Ben he'd better cut ties with those other brats. Stick to Tommy, and whoever else is a good kid.
I let him know I left Murray a card, and told him to call me if any of them ever show up at his place again. I hope the other kids do. Putting a bit of fear in those hoodlums by reporting them to the principal would suit me just fine.
Hell, maybe more than that, considering the resources I've got at my disposal. One little call to Sloan, and I'll have all their parents' names, numbers, addresses, and the color of their moms' panties.
I don't abuse privacy unless there's a damn good reason. Fucking with my son is one of them.
“So, uh, now that that's over...can we drive past the bakery today?” Ben asks after we're buckled in and pulling out for the ride home.
“It’s closed up early most Sundays,” I say.
“I know. I just want to know where it is. If it works out, maybe I can ride my bike.”
“Oh, no, buddy. Wrong time of year for bikes and skateboards,” I tell him, cringing inwardly. Especially because I know how much I hate bikers in the winter when I’m driving around downtown. There’s just no safe place for them to be, and one little patch of black ice and bad luck with brakes...
“I’ll drive you and pick you up. It's not a big deal. Maybe have Sloan do it the days I can't.”
“What? You don’t trust me? Dad, I'm not a total idiot. I know how to be careful. I've lived through these winters most of my life!”
“I trust you, Ben. You're getting too worked up. It’s others I don’t trust. The bakery opens at six in the morning. It’s still dark then. Snowstorms aren't always predictable, and besides being dangerous they could make you late. Look, I’m not having you down there alone in the dark.”
I pause, then add, “The first aspect of self-defense is knowing your surroundings.”
I'm exaggerating, of course. Midnight Morning is on one of Saint Paul's finest streets, very low crime, but I know he'll take me seriously if he thinks I'm worrying about some bigger, scarier danger than a bad slide on the ice.
He nods. “Fine, yeah. You’ve told me that before. Guess I forgot.”
“Don’t,” I say. “Don’t ever forget it. Knowing how to kick, punch, fight, or even run...that's all secondary. Priority number one is keeping yourself out of trouble. Away from any scraps or surprises in the first place.”
My mind goes to Wendy, more seriously. To her being there alone sometimes, opening at five or six in the morning, and whether or not she’s ever taken a basic self-defense class.
I make a mental note to find out.
The next day, when she tells me herself, I’m not impressed. “How long ago?”
She shrugs. “Seven...eight years, maybe? It was a required class. A P.E. elective.
”
We're in the bakery's kitchen, and she’s flipping pie crusts in tin pans two at a time. Ben is in the small office behind me being interviewed by Sammy, Wendy’s mother.
“A required class, in high school, years ago,” I say, rattling it back to her.
“Yeah, why?”
I refrain from voicing my real concern by asking, “What do you remember of it?”
Her hair is once again pulled up in a ponytail, but she’s also wearing a net over it, and she has a white apron tied around her waist, over the top of a navy-blue t-shirt.
She lines up six crust-covered pie tins and spoons pumpkin filling in one after the other while saying, “Let's see...always be aware of my surroundings, park under a light, know where the exits are, and to carry my keys in my hand, not my purse, if anything seems sketchy.”
Those are good answers, but I’m still not satisfied.
“What about maneuvers? Did they teach you any?”
Without missing a scoop of pumpkin, she says, “Oh, yes! I know how to maneuver you out of my kitchen.”
I bite back a smile. I can't resist her sass, but I stay on point. “I’m being serious, Wendy.”
She levels a stony stare my way. “So am I. No need for you to take care of me, Hunter. I'm a big girl.”
With a wave of her spoon, she points at not only the pies she's just filled, but the ones already baked before the spoon swings toward the massive stainless-steel ovens. “I have a hundred and twenty-four pumpkin pies to make today.”
She drops the spoon in the bowl with a clatter. “My mother said you could wait for Ben back here, but I have the authority to kick you out if you become a distraction.”
Inwardly, I'm grinning like a fool. Like she doesn't know she's the damn distraction?
How can someone look so illegally sexy while making pumpkin pies? A hundred and twenty-four of them?
My mind doesn’t work that way. It stays sharp, focused, unflinching. “Self-defense is a serious matter. Not here to distract you in the slightest, Sugar.”
Her eyes narrow. “Uh-huh. So, are you worried about Ben? Is that what the fifty questions are about? Well, don’t. This is a good neighborhood. One of the best in the city. It’s patrolled well, and he’ll never be here alone without an adult.”
I nod, trying to comprehend her sensible advice.
Right about now, I’d like to grab her hips, pull them against mine, and plant a kiss on her lips that she’ll never forget. I'd like to slide my tongue in, chasing hers, showing her a brash preview of everything I'd do to that sweet body.
Good thing I'm not completely gone. Because my own good senses tell me if I do any of that, I'll get whacked with her big metal spoon.
Instead, I shift my weight on the stool and ask, “What about you? Are you ever here alone?”
“Only all the time.” She scoops flour out of a big tin with a metal cup the size of a pitcher and dumps each batch in the big mixing bowl. “Been that way for years, ever since my parents decided I could handle everything here. Nothing new there. Big girl, remember?”
I’m about to tell her she’s not a big enough girl if the wrong, angry bastard ever corners her here alone, but the door opens beside me. Ben walks out, closely followed by her mother, Sammy.
The smile on his face eases my nerves. I hadn’t wanted to admit, even to myself, how worried I was for him. Job interviews at any age are nerve-racking, but especially for a kid on his first try.
“So?” Wendy asks. “Do I have a new dishwasher or not?”
The few gray hairs in Sammy Agnes’ brown hair defies the energy that flows in her wake. “Sure do, Wendy-doll,” she answers, hooking her arm with Ben’s. “I believe young Benjamin will be the perfect addition to our kitchen.”
“Yay!” Wendy’s smile lights up her whole face like a Christmas tree. “Congrats, Ben!”
She gives him a wink. “We’ll make a great team.”
Ben’s cheeks flush red. I give his shoulder a fatherly slap, refraining from saying anything more.
I’ve been in his shoes. Compliments, much less wild congratulations, can be uncomfortable at his age.
“I’ll show Ben around while you two get better acquainted,” Sammy says as she shoots Wendy a scheming lift of a brow.
“No, Mother,” she replies. “Ben will be working with me most of the time, so I’ll give him the grand tour.”
“Wendy –”
“Mr. Forsythe and I don't need to get better acquainted, if that's what you're thinking.” Wendy’s face turns serious. “And you have orders to check on. Better double-check to make sure a hundred and twenty-four pumpkin pies will be enough.”
“Who orders a hundred and twenty-four pies?” Ben asks.
I’m glad, because I was wondering the same thing.
“Anyone with a mammoth family who doesn’t want to bake their own for Thanksgiving,” Wendy answers.
“Speaking of that,” Sammy says, turning to me. “Ben can start on Black Friday, the day after Thanksgiving. He doesn’t have school, and we’ll be extra busy with all the crazy shoppers buying their Christmas treats.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I answer. “How about you, Ben?”
“I only have school through Wednesday this week. So, uh, technically...I could start today. If that’s okay with you, Dad.”
Okay?
I haven’t seen this blown confetti-like excitement in his eyes for ages. Turning to Wendy, I tell her, “Guess that'd be up to your new boss.”
Within five minutes, I wonder if I should have kept my mouth shut because I find myself alone outside of the bakery, with gusts of freezing November wind circling me as I look through the glass windows.
I can’t see the kitchen from here, but I know it’s there. So is Ben. So is Wendy.
She flatly ordered me to leave and return at three, when the shop closes, to pick up Ben.
I don’t believe I’ve ever been ordered out of anywhere in my life.
“Excuse us, sir!”
I step aside so a woman holding a little girl’s hand can hurry toward the bakery door.
“This wind is brutal today,” the woman says.
“You ain't kidding.” I reach past them to pull the door open, my ears echoing with the ding that chimes whenever the bakery opens.
“Thank you,” the woman says gratefully, glancing to the little girl. “Say thank you, Maddie.”
“Thanks,” the little girl whispers. “I’m here to give this to Wendy.” She holds up a piece of paper. “See? I drew her a picture to say thank you for the unicorn cake she baked for my birthday. It was the best cake ever! So yummy and pretty.”
The mother smiles, then tugs the girl inside, and I let the door close slowly behind them.
A strange sense of satisfaction rolls through me. Like for the first time in forever, things are gonna be fine.
Midnight Morning will be good for him. Ben could've done a whole lot worse when it comes to first jobs. I consider following them inside, just to see Wendy’s reaction, but considering she’d kicked me out, I decide not to.
I’ll just let her believe she's won, this one time.
It's only a few hours, but the time between when I left the bakery and when I return are some of the longest I’d ever spent. This time I park in the back, next to Wendy’s gray Chevy.
And wait.
7
Waiting Game (Wendy)
I see Hunter outside through the window of the back door.
Leaning against my car. Huge, imposing legs crossed at the ankles, comfortably tight in his jeans.
He was a distraction earlier, while I’d been baking pies, and he's a bigger one now.
Ben senses he’s out there for very different reasons. I smile, forgetting how flustered having this lion of a man in close range makes me.
The kid did a great job today. He’s smart, a quick learner, and goes all out.
Even when he was up to his elbows in dish soap for hours, he never whined once. I put h
im to work rolling out pie crusts in between dish washing sessions. He took to it like a bird that's just found its wings.
The smile on his face was contagious. Ben even has my father laughing and joking. Dad does that with the customers all the time – he’s our best salesman – but never with the employees.
That scares me.
Maybe it pissed me off a little because I’m sure if my parents are being this nice to Ben, it's because they think Hunter is duty bound to take me to Rochelle’s wedding. She blew in here earlier, gushing with delight at how they'd finally found me a date, and now her precious table settings will be an even number.
God forbid that she might have to set one table of seven instead of eight.
Like no one else there will be single, or dateless, or divorced?
No, they won’t, outside a couple extended family members. She’d uninvite them. She's that vain.
Everything, everything, right down to the number of table settings has to be perfect.
And God forgive any last minute no shows. They'll surely be banished to hell forever for ruining her day.
“Ben, please tell your father to come in,” Mother says. “There’s no reason for Mr. Forsythe to stand out in the cold.”
“No,” I say. “There’s no need. It’s after two thirty, and Ben's done for the day. He should wash up and go right out to meet him.”
Ben tosses a furrowed brow between the two of us, unsure who to listen to.
My heart goes out to him. It’s like being stuck between a rock and a hard place. One I shouldn't be putting him in.
Mother may be the owner, but I'm the kitchen boss. His boss.
“You did great today, Ben.” I grab his coat off the hook by the door. “I’ll see you Friday morning bright and early.”
Mother senses his nervousness over who to obey and for once does the right thing. “Wendy's right, dear. It’s past your quitting time. You’ve had an excellent first day and we all look forward to seeing you again.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Agnes,” Ben says. “For the opportunity and the job.” He nods at me. “Thank you, too, Wendy. I learned a lot today.”
