The Little Bakery of Hopes and Dreams

by Kellie Hailes

  ‘And we her. After, well …’ Callan paused. His lips pursed – like he was self-censoring himself – then released. ‘After what happened, she got her Mother Hen on and took such good care of us. Dropping off meals. Giving Mia loads of hugs. Offering to help wherever she thought she could. And she was never offended when all the help she offered was met with a no. Even when I was ruder to her than I should have been.’

  ‘Grief makes you behave in ways you otherwise wouldn’t.’ Josie settled her chin into her cupped palm. ‘When my mother left, when I realised she was never coming back, when things changed at home, well, it’s safe to say I wasn’t the model daughter.’

  ‘Is that your way of saying you went off the rails? I can’t imagine you acting out.’ Callan’s chin met his own palm, mirroring Josie’s pose.

  A shadow darkened their table as the waitress came to take their order.

  ‘Latte for the lady, a long black for me, please.’ He tipped his head back and eyed the cabinet, which was filled with sweet and savoury scones, crumbly pastries, sandwiches stuffed full of meats and salads, and an array of brownies, cupcakes and slices. ‘A cheese scone too, please. Warmed and buttered?’

  The waitress noted down their order and left without a word.

  ‘She’s a chatty one,’ Callan observed, his lips quirking to the side.

  ‘Maybe she was forced to get a job by her parents. It’s what my father did to me when he decided I’d gone too far with my behaviour.’ A hot flush rippled over Josie as she recalled some of her less than wonderful moments. Being found drunk as a skunk outside their house while trying to crawl undetected up the stoop. Sitting in the local stationer’s backroom while a phone call was made to her father explaining that if his daughter was caught stealing pens and highlighters again the next phone call would be to the police.

  ‘It must’ve been bad. You’ve gone red.’ Callan nodded his thanks to the waitress as the coffees were plonked unceremoniously on the table along with the scone.

  Unheated and unbuttered, Josie noted.

  ‘I can’t help but feel humiliated about the things I got up to when I was in my mid-teens.’ Josie squeezed her eyes shut. ‘Drinking too much, when I shouldn’t have been drinking at all. A bit of shoplifting … of stationery, of all things. Going out till all hours and never letting my father know where I was.’

  ‘He must’ve been worried sick.’ Callan’s brow furrowed and not, Josie suspected, because he’d just picked up his stone-cold scone and noticed its lack of dairy spread.

  ‘Not so much. But then, that’s why I did it. I wanted him to take notice. To pay attention. But he was too wrapped up in his own sadness, in his own misery, he didn’t care.’

  ‘Until he was forced to.’

  Josie nodded and grimaced at the memory. ‘Exactly.’ She took a sip of her latte and relished the creaminess of the steamed milk and earthiness of the coffee. ‘It was the shoplifting that did it. He was called down to the shop, and … I don’t know … I guess it pulled him back into reality. For a few hours, anyway. It was the first time he’d ever properly told me off. There was finger-wagging, pacing back and forth, and a whole lot of “what were you thinking” shouting. Soon as he calmed down, he marched me down to our local café, a CV I’d been forced to write in hand, and asked about a job. Next thing you know I was doing dishes, then working on the counter, and the rest – as they say – is history.’

  Josie eyed Callan picking apart the scone, but not putting even a morsel of it in his mouth.

  ‘You could take it back, you know?’

  Callan shook his head, then placed a hunk in his mouth, and chewed. Chewed some more. After what felt like forever, he forced it down in a large swallow.

  He pushed the plate away. ‘Didn’t seem worth it. Complaining over a scone. Getting someone in trouble when, as you said, they probably don’t want to be here.’

  ‘Sometimes we need a bit of a push to sort ourselves out. Realise what’s important. Kind of like what you’re trying to do with me right now.’ Josie caught the waitress’ eye and waved her over. ‘Let’s give her a second chance and see what happens.’

  The girl slunk over, her expression devoid of contrition.

  ‘Yeah?’ She popped a hip out, her hand settling upon it.

  ‘Hi, thanks for coming over.’ Josie offered up her warmest smile. ‘My friend here asked for his scone to be warmed and buttered, but it’s cold and there’s no butter. Could you take it back and sort it, please?’

  ‘Really?’ The girl picked up the plate and eyed the scone. ‘Oh my …’ She pressed her palm to her head. Her eyes squeezed shut. ‘I’m sorry.’

  She looked up. Her wide, blue eyes swam with apology, and maybe even – when Josie looked closer – pain.

  ‘So sorry. It’s just my head’s aching. So’s my stomach. That time of the …’ She cut herself off. Stopped herself from over-sharing. ‘I’ll get you a fresh one, warmed and buttered.’ She made to turn away, before turning back around. ‘Would you mind not mentioning this to the lady behind the counter? I can squirrel away a fresh scone on the sly, but if she knows I’ve messed up she might lay me off – this is my third mistake today and I’ve only been on since eleven. And if she fires me I won’t be able to buy my family presents this Christmas.’

  ‘Your secret’s safe with us. We promise.’ Josie laid her hand over her heart and nodded.

  The girl smiled gratefully, then took the plate away, dumping the scone surreptitiously in the bin as the manager took another customer’s order, before returning with a warmed and buttered scone that was served complete with a smile and a ‘thank you’.

  Josie’s tummy grumbled as she took in the golden butter melting on the fluffy scone. ‘See. She just needed a chance to prove herself.’

  ‘Is that your way of telling me that you were right?’ Callan bit into the scone and breathed out an appreciative ‘mmm’.

  ‘My subtlety knows no bounds.’ Josie’s stomach rumbled again. Loudly.

  Callan grinned and pushed the plate towards her. ‘Here, take this half. I can’t have my resident criminal starving to death. Worse. I can’t see you get hangry. Lord knows what you might do – what acts of violence or thievery you might commit.’

  Josie groaned. ‘I should never have told you about my rebellious past.’ She took a bite of her scone and wished she’d had something to stuff in her mouth before the story of her teenage past had tumbled out. Callan might think it amusing now, but after he’d had a while to digest what she’d told him? He’d never look at her the same way, even though he’d promised not to judge her.

  ‘I’m glad you told me. It makes you more …’ Callan paused. His gaze went to the ceiling, as if its cream paint might give him the answer he was looking for.

  Josie’s hand fell upon her chest. She gulped loudly for effect. ‘It makes me easier to fire?’ Despite her dramatics, her words held no fear. She knew her place at Abigail’s was secure, and for the first time in all her working career, the knowledge that her job was safe – that she had a place to stay, if she chose to – didn’t set a jitter of nerves alight in her gut.

  Callan met her gaze. ‘It makes you more real.’

  Josie held her hand out. ‘Here. Prod it. I’m real.’

  Callan shook his head. ‘Not like that.’

  ‘I know.’ Josie grinned and pulled her hand back. ‘But I still don’t understand what you’re getting at. You didn’t think I was real?’

  Callan circled his coffee round in its saucer, his eyes on the beige foam that lined the half-full cup. ‘You just seemed too good to be true. Happy, bright, great with the customers. You’ve integrated yourself into the community like you’ve been here forever. Pushed me out of my comfort zone.’

  ‘With Margo’s help,’ Josie interjected. Heat washed over her cheeks and spread down her chest. Callan made her sound like a saint, when she was anything but. What he was seeing was the result of many moves, much change, and the need to morph from situat
ion to situation with ease. There was nothing perfect about her life, her decisions. Her.

  ‘Margo’s been trying to force me into the great wide world for months. It would never have happened without you. It’s more than that. Mia likes you. You’ve brought … joy back into the store.’

  ‘That’s just my baking. Not me.’ Josie shook her head in protest, then registered the set line of Callan’s jaw. A hint of impatience.

  She pushed her palm into her forehead. Here he was being kind to her and she was throwing it back in his face. ‘God, I’m so sorry. I’m an idiot. A rude one. What I should be saying is thank you. It’s not every day that a girl is called perfect.’

  ‘Almost perfect.’ Callan’s clenched jaw relaxed. ‘I know about your delinquent past now, remember?’

  Josie’s palm slid down her face to cup her chin. ‘I’m never living that down, am I?’

  ‘Never.’ Callan shook his head, the amusement in his eyes replaced by seriousness. ‘Josie, why did your mum leave?’

  Josie shrugged. She didn’t know what to say. Even after all these years she had no real answers to that question. The usual squall of anger, sadness, hurt and confusion eddied in her stomach. Threatened to rise. To consume.

  ‘Honestly? I don’t know. I mean, I have my suspicions, but that’s all they are. Suspicions. Maybe she was bored of the drudgery of being a mum, a wife. Maybe her feelings for Dad had changed, and she didn’t know how to face him. Both my grandparents, her parents, had passed away within a year of each other. Maybe that triggered something. Maybe she was going through something and escape seemed the only option?’

  Callan leaned forward in his chair, his forearms rested on the table. His attention was one hundred per cent hers.

  ‘What I do know is that she picked quite possibly the worst day to leave. Christmas Eve. And her leaving came out of nowhere.’ Josie picked up her teaspoon and turned it over and over, watching her blurred reflection appear then disappear as she flipped the spoon. ‘Dad had taken me to the cinema to give Mum a chance to do all those last-minute Christmas things, like wrap up the presents, make sure we had all we needed for Christmas Day. We had a nice time. Stuffing our faces with sweets and popcorn, then going out for a sneaky burger afterwards. Promising each other we’d eat dinner so that Mum wouldn’t know that we’d ruined our appetites.’ Josie set the spoon down and folded her arms across her chest, afraid if she let her walls down much more, her pain would spill out. Cause a scene. Embarrass both of them. ‘We arrived home and the house was quiet. In the weirdest of ways. Not the usual stillness of a house that was empty, but it felt … hollow. Like something was missing.’

  Josie closed her eyes, seeing the kitchen’s gleaming benches, the lack of dust balls in the corners of the sitting room and hallway. The lemony, chemical scent of surface spray filled the air. And the hook on the coat rack that would usually sport her mother’s ankle-length sunshine-orange woollen coat and yellow scarf was bare. Empty.

  ‘We went through the house, roamed from room to room, calling her name. Eventually, we figured she’d popped out to the shops and that she’d be back in her own good time. As the day wore on and became night, Dad became more concerned. He hovered at the window, checking the street every five minutes. Then he went to the neighbours, who knew nothing. It was when I started to complain that I was hungry that he found the note. In the fridge of all places. You can’t say my mother didn’t have a sense of humour. Leaving us in the cold, and letting us know about it by putting her goodbye note in the fridge.’ Josie’s harsh bark of laughter filled the space between them, and she hated how bitter she sounded. How bitter she felt. Even after all these years. ‘We tried to do Christmas that year. Dad doggedly followed through with his annual Christmas present treasure hunt because he knew how much it meant to me. He muddled through as best he could, trying to cook the turkey – which ended up burnt on the outside, raw in the middle. He grilled it instead of baked it. Dessert was ice cream from the freezer. Had the situation been different it would have been comical.’

  ‘Except there was nothing funny about the situation.’

  ‘Not one darn thing.’ Josie searched for signs of pity in Callan’s eyes but saw only empathy. Understanding. And was grateful for it. Any latent concerns she had about revealing her past disappeared. ‘Initially he went through these bouts of anger over the silliest things, like his T-shirts being inside out and his shoes not lined up straight. Over time he became a shrivelled version of himself as his sadness consumed him. Birthdays were acknowledged, but never celebrated. His parents – while they were still alive – would send a gift. But that stopped after my grandmother passed. And Christmas … Well, while every other family on our block celebrated, we commiserated, at worst. Pretended it was just any other day at best.’

  ‘Did your grandparents not realise what was happening? Did they not … shake your father out of it? Tell him to pull his socks up and pay attention to what was important? To those who were still there, who loved him? Needed him?’

  Josie took in Callan’s stricken face. He was such a good man. Such a good father. Not that her father wasn’t. They were just … different. Reacted differently to a similar situation, as people do. Callan dug in. Stuck around. Went over and above to make sure Mia’s life was as good as it could be after her mother died. Josie’s father became distant, a ghost of his self. Did what had to be done, but no more.

  ‘My grandparents never suspected a thing. When they visited we put our best faces on. Didn’t show them we were struggling. Besides, not everyone’s like you, Callan. People react in their own way. Do what they can to protect themselves. For some – like my father – that means keeping their distance, emotionally or physically. For others – like you – it means holding those they love tighter than ever.’

  ‘And which category do you fall into?’ Callan’s lips pursed.

  Guilt formed a knotted ball in Josie’s gut. ‘It’s always been easier for me to go from job to job. Village to village. City to city. Town to town. Keep things light and easy. Keep things simple, uncomplicated. The less ties you have the less you can lose, if you know what I mean?’

  ‘Does that mean you plan on leaving us?’ Callan finished the dregs of his coffee and set the cup down hard enough that the people at the next table turned to see what was causing the commotion. ‘What I mean is … will you be leaving Sunnycombe sooner rather than later?’

  Would she move on and start fresh once more? Or could she stay and experience a new kind of life? One where friendships flourished. Where stability brought happiness.

  She thought back to all the wonderful moments she’d experienced in the past few weeks … A small hand holding hers. A joke shared over a flour-dusted bench. Strong arms holding her tight, stopping her from falling, from hurting.

  Memories that warmed her. Gave her hope. Made her believe her life could be different. Be rich, and full. Like it had been once upon a time. Many years ago.

  Josie met Callan’s penetrating gaze. Her decision was made. Her answer would be a promise. To Callan. To Mia. To herself.

  ‘I do believe I’d like to stick around. At least until you all get sick of me.’

  Callan nodded. Short. Sharp. ‘Good, because I was going to ask if you’d like to join Mia and I – and probably most of the village – to watch the sunset tomorrow. Assuming there is a sunset. Weather being what it is at this time of year …’ He paused and his cheeks flushed an embarrassed shade of pink.

  ‘But you didn’t want to invite me if I was going to leave? Didn’t want Mia to become too attached? To be hurt when I left?’ Josie filled out the rest of his sentence, saving him from having to spell out the obvious and potentially hurt her feelings.

  ‘Yes. That.’

  ‘I understand. And I promise you have nothing to worry about. In all the places I’ve lived nowhere has sucked me in quite as much as Sunnycombe.’

  ‘“Sucked me in”’? Callan grinned. ‘Charming.’

  ‘We
ll “entranced me” sounded a bit heavy-handed.’ Josie matched his grin.

  ‘So you’ll come?’

  ‘Absolutely. I can’t wait. And thank you for inviting me.’

  ‘Thank Mia. It was her idea.’

  Disappointment hit Josie, hard, right in the solar plexus.

  Had she wanted Callan to be the one to invite her? Did some ridiculous part of her see him as more than just her boss? Her friend? See him as … dating material? More than that? Boyfriend material?

  Had her simmering attraction to him, kept at bay because of his situation, grown more than she’d realised?

  She surreptitiously glanced at Callan as he smiled up at the young waitress when she slid a plate with a piece of caramel slice, cut in half, onto their table. His eyes crinkled at the edges. His lips were slightly parted, and looked … far too kissable for Josie’s liking.

  Get a grip, she cautioned herself. Callan was not interested in dating anyone, let alone her. And if he should step into the dating fray, she was the last person she’d recommend he get involved with.

  At least, she was, up until very recently. Now? Maybe she was dating material, after all.

  ‘A small thank you.’ The waitress pressed her finger to her lips in the universal ‘keep it on the down low’ sign, then hurried to an empty table and began piling up the plates and cups.

  Callan picked up his half of the slice and held it up to Josie. ‘To being forced to change … for the better.’

  Josie lifted her square of slice and clinked it against his, her heart warming as Callan smiled at her. ‘To second chances.’

  Chapter 12

  Callan opened the picnic basket, for what felt like the hundredth time, and checked over the feast he’d put together. Raggedly cut ham and cheese sandwiches – Mia’s handiwork – were placed next to a couple of oranges and apples that he’d thrown in as an attempt to make it look like he fed Mia fruit. Which he tried to, repeatedly, but short of hiding it in his rock-hard muffins as suggested by many a mum on the internet – muffins she refused to eat anyway – he’d yet to convince her of the benefits of fruit. He’d popped in a couple of leftover white chocolate peppermint cupcakes from the day – Josie’s latest experiment as she prepared for the Christmas Cake-off – knowing that Mia would eat those if nothing else. At the last minute, he’d also bought a bottle of merlot, should Josie want a glass.